


Per Ardua Ad Astra

by lisakodysam



Series: Per Ardua Ad Astra [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Character Development, Departures from canon, Dissension, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friendship, Humour, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Personal relationships, Rivalry, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 128
Words: 770,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisakodysam/pseuds/lisakodysam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Through adversity to the stars.” A proud, prickly mage meets a proud, prickly mage-hating elf and, after a shaky start, they find they have more in common than they'd first realised. Together, they undertake a journey of acceptance, growth and understanding, but the road is long and strewn with pitfalls and obstacles.  A possessed, troubled healer and whispers of insurrection and war in Kirkwall only add to their woes, but the deep love Hawke and Fenris develop for each other will withstand the sorest of trials.</p><p>Won't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Own Personal Nemesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the Hawke in this story is a mage, I've gone off-canon and had Bethany survive instead of Carver. I never liked Carver and didn't 'get' him, so didn't feel I could do him justice.
> 
> I will also not be following the timeline of the game, which made absolutely no sense to me, so there will be very few mentions of how time passes in relation to certain events in the game. Some events may occur at different points in the story compared with in-game, or not at all.
> 
> Apologies for all the game dialogue in this first chapter. I try to avoid using it when I can, but felt it was necessary this once.
> 
> A further disclaimer: I am British, so weird spelling and British slang ahead. :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!

"It's empty."

"Waste of bloody time! Who put us up to this?"

"I don't care, so long as we get paid. Come on, let's see what that Anso has to say for himself."

Hawke exited the house, holding the door open for Varric, with Anders and Bethany following close behind. "I'm going for a slash," the group's leader announced, disappearing behind a barrel and hitching up his robe. 

"Hawke!" Varric hissed as several well-armed thugs slowly bled out of the shadows and emerged from around corners and behind crates, quickly surrounding the foursome.

"Shit!" cursed the mage, trying without success to stop his urine mid-flow, some of it spilling onto his leg.

"That's not the elf," said a woman who appeared to be leading the thugs.

"It doesn't matter," replied a man standing next to her as he drew his sword. "Captain says, kill all of them!"

"I've got piss down my robe now, thanks to you!" growled Hawke as he spun around, readying his staff. "Which one of _you_ is going to pay to have it cleaned, eh?"

"You've got more important things to worry about, mage!" Several of the thugs surged forward, only to immediately be thrown backwards as Hawke and his sister surrounded themselves in a protective field. Anders and Varric dropped back and started to pick off the thugs as they vainly attempted to engage the siblings, and any venturing too close to either Anders or Varric were punished with flame or frost.

Soon, the group of thugs was dispatched. Hawke, who was growing pretty tired of being attacked for no apparent reason, surveyed the bodies and spat on the ground. "Pitiful. Why do they even bother? Let's see what they've got and find that bloody dwarf, he's got a lot to answer for."

They split up and began to loot the corpses, all with the exception of Bethany, who'd refused to take from the dead ever since she and her family had left Lothering. Anders wasn't keen, either, but didn't want to appear unhelpful, and Hawke had proven a good friend to him in the short time they'd known each other. He crouched next to the nearest body and gingerly rifled through the man's pockets and backpack.

"Hawke," he called out, beckoning his fellow mage closer. Hawke stood up and walked to Anders's side, squatting next to him. "These were no ordinary street thugs, Hawke. Look at their armour and their swords. They bear the mark of the Imperium."

"Huh," snorted Hawke derisively. "You'd think they'd have been better prepared for mages, then. I really don't care where they're from, anyway. Let's just grab anything useful and get our money from Anso."

"I think that's about it, Hawke," Varric announced as he also joined them, turning a few coins over in his hands. "They weren't carrying much money, and their weapons are no good to any of us. I may be able to get a bit for their armour, though. I'll send a few boys from The Hanged Man down here to clean up."

"That's not much," said Hawke, straightening up and looking at the meagre amount of money in Varric's palm.

"It's enough for a couple of rounds," Anders answered with a shrug. "Not quite enough to get Hawke's robe cleaned, though."

"True enough, Blondie. I think we could all do with a pint, couldn't we?"

" _More_ than one," replied Hawke. "Come on, Beth," he called to his sister, and the foursome approached the steps leading out of the alienage.

As they began to ascend, a lone man, wearing similar armour to the men that had just accosted them, rounded the corner at the top of the steps.

"Oh, what _now_?" groaned Varric. Hawke's expression hardened.

Upon spotting Hawke and his companions, the man stopped in his tracks and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. "I don't know who you are, friend, but you've made a serious mistake coming here."

"Is that right?" Hawke thumbed over his shoulder. "I'll have to take your word for it. Your men are in no position to back you up. I'd say _you're_ the one who's made a serious mistake... friend."

The new arrival looked Hawke up and down before his eyes settled on the numerous corpses scattered around the alienage. "Lieutenant! I want everyone in the clearing, _now!"_

Receiving no answer, the man glanced over his shoulder. " _Lieutenant!_ " he barked.

An erratic shuffling could be heard from around the corner, and Hawke once again readied his staff as a second man appeared. It quickly became apparent, however, that he was gravely injured, and he fell to his knees in front of his captain, blood pouring through a hole in his cuirass. "C-Captain!"

"Your men are dead," sneered a deep, slightly nasal voice from behind the dying man.

A striking man stood before them: obviously an elf, but taller than most of his kin. He appeared to be in his late twenties, and yet his hair was whiter than Hawke's mother's, and it flopped over one of his large, moss-coloured eyes. Upon his back he carried a sword that was almost as long as he was tall, yet he moved down the steps with a cat-like elegance, and possessed a steady dignity. As he neared, Hawke and his group noticed strange markings upon his skin, and that he was barefoot.

The elf glanced at the captain as he reached the bottom of the steps before walking past him, fixing his eyes upon Hawke. "And your trap has failed," he said, addressing the captain with his back to him. "I suggest running back to your master while you can."

The captain's face twisted with rage and he reached out, roughly grabbing the elf's shoulder. "You're going nowhere, slave!"

Bethany gasped and covered her mouth with her hands as a murderous look fell across the elf's face, and the markings upon his skin were illuminated with a blue glow. He spun around and held a gauntlet-clad hand in front of the captain before plunging it through his chest, surpassing flesh, bone and sinew.

"Bloody _hell_!" Hawke exclaimed in horror and he, Anders and Varric took several steps back; Bethany had already run to the far side of the alienage.

"I am _not_ a slave," the elf said angrily, and the captain fell to the ground, blood pouring from the gaping hole in his breastplate. He then turned to face the others, holding both hands up in appeasement.

"I apologise," he said with a sigh. "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they'd be so numerous."

"Anso?" asked Hawke, taking another step back as the elf approached him. "What does he have to do with this? What do you mean by a 'distraction'?"

The elf halted, suddenly aware that the others were afraid of him. Realising he still needed their help, he took a deep breath and lowered his voice, not wishing to alienate them. "My name is Fenris. These men," he said, gesturing at the corpses, "were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister's lost property, namely myself. They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely."

"You're an escaped slave?" asked Anders, taking a cautious step forward. "This seems like a lot of trouble to go to for one slave, doesn't it? Is it something to do with what you just did to that man? Those markings?"

Fenris looked first at his arms and then at Anders, noticing from the corner of his eye that Hawke had folded his arms and assumed a hostile posture. "Yes, I imagine I must look strange to you. I did not receive these markings by choice. Even so, they have served me well. Without them, I would still be a slave."

Anders stepped closer to the elf, but not too close, and examined the markings. "So, you killed your master? Is that why they're after you?"

"Step back, Anders," warned Hawke. "We don't know what he's capable of." Anders did as advised, but continued his scrutiny of Fenris's markings, which he found fascinating.

Fenris's shoulders slumped and he sighed. "I assure you I have no intention of harming you. I did not kill my former master, I escaped his custody and he has followed me here. I heard he was residing in a mansion in Hightown, and needed help to distract his guards while I verified the claim."

"So everything Anso said was a lie?" asked Hawke.

"Not everything. Your employer was simply not who you believed. Perhaps the deception was unnecessary. If so, I am sorry. I have become too accustomed to hiding."

"Fine," muttered Hawke, whose usual good nature and sense of humour had deserted him following several unexpected attacks. "Do we get paid now?"

"I _will_ repay you, but I will need your help one last time. I must confront my former master before he flees."

"You must be joking!" Hawke laughed mockingly. "We were supposed to be recovering a bit of stolen property for a dwarf. Instead, we've been attacked by several groups of people, and now we find out we were being used as bait! I don't _like_ being used."

"Careful, Brother," warned Bethany, who had ventured a little closer. "You've seen what he can do."

"As I previously stated, I have no intention of harming any of you," Fenris assured her.

"Good, then let's get out of here," said Hawke, keeping a cautious distance as he walked past Fenris. "You know what? Keep your money. I've had just about enough for one night."

"Please," Fenris implored, his voice catching a little. "I… am not in the habit of asking for help, but I am doing so now."

"Hawke," said Varric, jerking his head to indicate his friend should join him. Hawke groaned and walked to Varric, casting Fenris a suspicious glance as he passed by. "Look, we need all the money we can get. The expedition, remember? He said he'll repay us."

"I know what you're saying, Varric, but I don't like myself, or my sister, being used as fodder."

"C'mon, Hawke! None of those jokers posed any real threat to us, did they?"

Hawke sighed and called Bethany and Anders. "What do you two think?"

"I admire him," Anders replied, nodding enthusiastically. "Think of what he must have gone through to get here from Tevinter. He deserves his freedom, and I want to help him."

"Beth?" asked Hawke.

She looked at Fenris, who stood alone at the far end of the square, examining his feet, no longer appearing as fearsome as when he'd first arrived. "I must admit, I was scared when he did that _thing_ , but… he's all on his own, isn't he? Think how _we_ felt when we first arrived here, Fletcher," she said to her brother, "and _we_ had each other. He looks so lonely. Life on the run can't be pleasant."

"It's _not_ ," Anders agreed. "We're all apostates, expect Varric, of course. We _know_ what it's like to be in fear of having our liberty taken from us. If you don't want to help him, Hawke, I'm going to."

"And we're not going into the Deep Roads with _this_ ," said Varric, once again showing Hawke the few silvers he'd collected from the bodies.

"Oh, all right," Hawke conceded reluctantly. "I don't trust him, though. Beth, you're taking the rear. I don't want you anywhere near him."

"Whatever you say, Brother," she agreed.

They slowly approached Fenris and Hawke stood in front of him, his arms folded. "We'll help you, but you'd better make it worth our while."

Fenris hung his head and exhaled, clearly relieved. "I will give you all the money I have, I swear it."

"Surely not _all_ of it?" Bethany asked, cocking her head to one side. "Keep a coin or two for yourself."

Fenris's features softened a little and he glanced up at Hawke, fixing him with impossibly beautiful green eyes. Hawke looked away briefly, feeling a flutter in his belly that was neither expected nor welcome. "I _am_ grateful," said the elf. "Please meet me in Hightown as soon as you are able. Danarius may already be making ready his escape now that his guards have been vanquished."

"We'll go now," replied Hawke. "After you."

"Of course," Fenris said with a nod. He turned and began to ascend the steps, the others following a short distance behind.

~o~O~o~

"So, who's Danarius? Is he your master?" Anders asked as they proceeded through Lowtown.

"My _former_ master," corrected Fenris, his voice hardening. "He has chased me from Minrathous to Kirkwall. He is relentless in his pursuit and will never leave me be, not as long as he draws breath."

"You intend to kill him, then?" guessed Anders.

"I intend to make him _suffer_ ," Fenris growled, his posture stiffening and his voice taking on a rasping quality. Hawke held his arm out in front of Bethany and pushed her further back. "I intend to make him beg for his life, on his hands and knees, like a dog. And, _yes_ , I intend to kill him, but slowly, and not before I have paid him back double for everything he has done to me."

Anders glanced at Hawke and Varric before turning back to Fenris. "Wow. He must have been a _real_ bastard. I must admit, sometimes I felt like shanking the knight-commander at the Circle Tower, but the blasted templars always got in my way," he joked.

Fenris stopped dead and looked up at Anders as he caught up. "You are… a mage?"

Anders chuckled. "Well, yes, I don't carry this staff for my health, you know." His smile faded. "Is there a problem with that?"

"That remains to be seen," Fenris answered with obvious distaste and continued walking, distancing himself slightly from Anders.

"We're not all as bad as we're made out to be, you know, Fenris," Bethany said softly.

Fenris stopped again and turned to face her. "You, as _well_?"

"Yes, my sister is a mage," Hawke cut in, standing in front of her, "as am _I_. If you have a problem with that, you'd better speak up _now_."

" _I'm_ not a mage, if that's any help," Varric offered in an attempt to defuse the tension.

"We're from Ferelden," said Anders. "We're nothing like the magisters."

"And how would _you_ know what the magisters are like?" Fenris snapped. "Have _you_ ever visited the Imperium? Have _you_ ever witnessed a magister sacrificing a child in a blood ritual for sport? Have _you_ seen their slaves dragged around on leashes like pets? No? Then do not presume to know what life in the Imperium is like!"

"I-I wasn't-"

"Don't you talk to Anders like that!" retorted Hawke. "If we mages are not good enough for you, then I'd be quite happy to stick to our original plan of getting oiled at the Hanged Man, and you can make your master bark like a dog all on your own! You either want our help, or you don't! From where I'm standing, your options are pretty limited!"

"Forgive me, I-I meant no offence," Fenris uttered quietly, shaking his head. "It is difficult for me, after being kept in bondage for so long by a mage."

"Let's get this done quickly, Hawke," Anders said angrily, no longer fascinated by Fenris's markings or his story. "I have a shithole in Darktown to get back to."

"We _all_ have shitholes to get back to," replied Hawke, casting Fenris a filthy look. "Get a move on, Fenris, we don't have all night."

Fenris nodded wearily and quickened his pace, staying well ahead of Hawke and his group, and they made their way to Hightown in silence.

~o~O~o~

As Hawke, Anders, Varric and Bethany left Danarius's mansion, Hawke shared out the money they'd found within between the four of them, keeping back Fenris's share.

They found him leaning against a wall with his eyes closed, seemingly unaware of their presence.

"We were wondering where you'd run off to," Varric said as he approached the elf.

Fenris opened his eyes and briefly glanced at the group before looking away. "It never ends," he said heavily. "I escaped a land of dark magic, only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now I find myself in the company of yet _more_ mages."

Varric groaned softly as his three companions tensed, Hawke and Anders in particular.

Fenris walked up to Hawke and stopped a few feet in front of him. "Tell me, then. What manner of mage are you? What is it you seek?"

"I'm the manner of mage who seeks getting paid, and getting shot of an ungrateful elf that uses me and my friends as a lure, and then insults us every opportunity he gets, that's what!"

"Yes, a 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss, you know!" added Anders, standing at Hawke's side.

"I imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologise, for nothing could be further from the truth." Fenris reached into a small pocket in his breeches and produced some coins. "I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised." He dropped the coins into Hawke's palm, taking care not to touch his hand.

Hawke's mouth fell open as he stared into his palm. "Twenty silver? Are you having us on or something?"

"I… that is all I have," Fenris mumbled uncertainly. "I am still not familiar with the currency here. Is that not a sufficient reward?"

"Hey," whispered Varric. "He's an escaped slave. I don't imagine his pockets are groaning with coin."

"And tonight hasn't been a complete waste of time," Bethany added. "The money we found in there will feed us for a week, plus we can save some for the expedition!"

Hawke shook his head, more eager than ever to get to the Hanged Man. "Here's your share," he said to Fenris, producing two sovereigns and some change.

"No!" Fenris exclaimed, taking a step back. "I want _nothing_ of his!"

"Well, at least have your twenty silver back," Bethany suggested. "You need to eat, as well."

"I-" Fenris began, not wishing to accept charity from a mage of all people, but he was forced to admit that he had no idea where his next meal was coming from.

"Here, then," Hawke said, placing the silvers back into the elf's palm. His hand briefly touched Fenris's, who gasped, quickly snatching his hand away.

Hawke shot a contemptuous glance at the elf and shook his head, his mouth set in a hard line. "Come on, Anders. We may be able to get a few rounds in before kicking-out time. Beth? You coming?"

"I feel tired, Brother, and should go home to check on Mother."

"All right. You get the drinks lined up, Anders, while I walk Beth home. I don't need to ask if you're coming, Varric?"

"I'll be along shortly," Varric replied, taking a step closer to Fenris.

Hawke glanced at Varric curiously before shrugging. "We're done here, then," he said to Fenris, stepping closer to him. "You'd better go and wash that hand. A _mage_ has just touched it," he growled and he, Anders and Bethany walked off, leaving Varric and Fenris behind.

~o~O~o~

"I don't _understand_ people like that elf," grumbled Hawke as he finished his fourth pint. Anders wandered over and placed Hawke's fifth in front of him before taking his own seat next to Varric. "First he's an arsehole," continued Hawke, slurring slightly, "then he's all apologies. Then he's an arsehole again, and then he apologises _again_. You're either an arsehole or you're not. Make your bloody mind up!" he ordered the table as he prodded it with a finger.

Anders and Varric chuckled and nodded their agreement.

"Reminds me a bit of Carver," Hawke went on, his face dropping a little. "Except Carver _never_ apologised. He was _always_ an arsehole. At least he was consistent, though, I'll give him that."

"You didn't get on with your brother, then?" Anders asked.

"We hated each other," Hawke replied, taking a deep gulp of his ale, staring at his mug for a moment before taking another.

"You miss him though, don't you?"

Hawke glanced up, his eyes half-closed as he tried in vain to focus on Anders. "Miss him? I feel like I have a gaping hole in my belly, just like that elf did to that bloke earlier."

"Oh, yes, the _bigot_ ," Anders groused, folding his arms.

"Don't be so hard on him, Blondie. Sounds like his master was a real prick. He's bound to be wary of mages. I'm sure if he got to know you all, he'd be fine."

"Why are _you_ sticking up for him, Varric?" Anders demanded. "I wonder if you'd feel the same if _you_ were a mage."

"Everyone needs an arsehole in their life," slurred Hawke, having completely missed the discussion between the other two. "Everyone needs a nemesis to keep them on their toes. Who's _your_ arsehole, Anders? Or is there more than one? Is there a list?"

Anders laughed and nodded his head. "A list, eh? Now there's an idea!"

"How about you, Vazzers?" asked Hawke.

"I _told_ you not to call me that," scolded Varric. "You don't call Blondie some dumb name, do you?"

"Oh, and 'Blondie' _isn't_ dumb?" Anders retorted. "My hair isn't even blond! It's red!"

"I don't _need_ to call Anders anything else," Hawke proclaimed, once again prodding the table with his finger for emphasis. "His name is _perfect_. If his name was Andrew, then I'd call him Anders. It's a sign of affection, Vazzers."

"Ugh," Varric grunted with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Keep your affection!"

"So, who's _your_ arsehole, Vazzers?" Hawke asked again, oblivious to Varric's irritation.

"I like my own just fine," he answered. "Although, my own brother can be a bit of an ass, but… nah. I don't hate anyone. Hating takes up too much time and energy, and I've seen it consume people. It's much easier to like or be indifferent to someone."

"You're too good to be true," accused Hawke, waving his prodding finger at Varric. " _You_ can't be my arsehole, you're too bloody nice."

"Glad I am to hear it," Varric muttered and he turned to Anders, lowering his voice. "I think he's had enough."

"Let's finish this round, and then we'll see him home," Anders whispered back.

Hawke suddenly burst out laughing, startling the other two. "Ha! I could be my _own_ arsehole! What do you think of _that_ , then, Mr. Answer-For-Everything?" he demanded of Varric.

"You can't be your own arsehole!" Anders exclaimed, also laughing. "You'd be forever arguing with yourself! What about that elf? He's certainly made it onto the list."

"No!" Hawke said impatiently, rolling his eyes. "Haven't you been listening to the rules? Your own personal arsehole needs to be someone who is always around to disagree with everything you do! Just like my brother was. I'm lost without him... lost, I tell you." He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand and fell silent, resting his head on his hand and closing his eyes.

"Well, you may get your wish, if you're in the market for an asshole," announced Varric. "The elf's meeting us here, tomorrow morning."

"He's _what_?" Anders asked sharply.

One of Hawke's eyes flew open. "Uh?"

"Well, think about it, Hawke, he's pretty nifty with a sword, and that _hand thing_ he does could be useful to us. We're planning on going up Sundermount tomorrow, aren't we? There are tons of bandits holed up there. We're gonna need as much help as we can get. Besides, I kind of feel sorry for the guy, and so does Sunshine."

Hawke removed his head from his hand and sat up as straight as he could manage. "Well, _Sunshine_ is obviously a much nicer person than I am," he remarked crabbily, gesticulating with floppy arms. "Did you _see_ the way he reacted when I touched his hand? He obviously hates mages. It'll never work."

"Look, I talked to him," said Varric. "I told him you were a good bunch of people. He actually seems like a pretty decent guy. Sure, he has issues, but don't we all?"

"Ha! _You_ don't."

"I'm not sure this is a good idea, Hawke," Anders opined with a doubtful shake of his head.

"Just give the guy a chance!" Varric urged. "Let's call it a trial run. If he turns out to be too much of an asshole, then we turn him loose. We do _need_ someone like him, though, Hawke, you said as much yourself. Someone who can take the heat off of us while you wave your arms around and do your sparkly thing. The only other choice we have right now is _Aveline_ ," he said pointedly.

"That harpy? Forget it!" Hawke squawked, his hand slicing through the air. "Ugh, she's so bloody moral all the time!"

"Then it's settled," Varric said simply. Anders and Hawke both sank back in their chairs and groaned, too tired to argue. "So, we're going up the mountain to take that necklace thing back to the elves. Anything else, Hawke?"

"Wait," Hawke replied. "We still need to get our reward from that bloke at the chantry who calls himself a prince."

Anders chuckled. "Oh, yes! That should be good for a laugh!"

"I bet you fifty silvers _he's_ a nutter as well," Hawke said to Varric.

"I'm not taking that bet, Hawke, I have a feeling I'd lose. Who _haven't_ we met so far who isn't a little touched in the head?"

"Right," Hawke agreed, nodding blearily. "So, here's the plan. Anders, you'll probably want to give the chantry a miss, so Varric and I will go there first thing, then we'll meet up here. I'm not bringing Beth along, though, just in case that elf tries anything."

"Aw, so I don't get to see my little ray of sunshine tomorrow, then?" moaned Varric.

"No you don't," Hawke answered with mock severity. "Just you keep those lumpen dwarven hands away from my sister."

"You wound me," Varric said, feigning hurt, placing one hand over his heart. "My intentions towards your sister are nothing but honourable."

Hawke rose unsteadily to his feet. "Hm. I suppose you _could_ pop in for a cup of tea when we're done, if only to stop _her_ complaining that she hasn't seen _you_."

"She complains when she doesn't see me?" Varric asked brightly, also rising to his feet, followed by Anders.

"Oh, now you're putting ideas into his head," Anders laughed, grabbing Hawke's arm as he swayed a little. "Come on, I'll see you home."

"I'll see you _both_ home," offered Varric. "You two need your beauty sleep. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow."


	2. Another Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Would anyone else like their boots shined?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22/11/2012: I've started a major re-edit of this story, from the beginning. It's taken 18 months to reach chapter 88, which is the latest chapter at the time of writing this, and during that time I've learned an awful lot. Newcomers to this story may notice that some chapters contain incorrect punctuation, particularly over-usage of semi-colons - I'm working to rectify this and ask that you bear with me. :)

Hawke was in a brighter mood the following morning, and he and Varric entered the Hanged Man five sovereigns richer following their visit to the chantry.

Anders, who was seated at a table near the door, beckoned them over. As they joined him, Hawke noticed Fenris sitting alone at a table at the far end of the lounge, but did not acknowledge him.

"So, how did your meeting with the nutter go?" Anders asked lightly.

Hawke frowned. "Well… turns out he really _is_ a prince, or at least he _believes_ he is. He's bloody rich, anyway - that armour didn't come from Shady Sam's, that's for sure. Custom-made, that was."

" _And_ we have five sovs to play with," added Varric.

"Five?" exclaimed Anders. "Blimey! Does he have any more work for us... ? Hawke? _Hawke?_ "

"Snap out of it!" Varric clapped his hands in front of Hawke's face.

"He had the most _amazing_ blue eyes," Hawke said dreamily before pulling a face. "He _was_ going a bit thin on top, though. That was a bit off-putting."

As Varric self-consciously touched his own hairline, Hawke shot him a sly glance. "Personally, I like something to grab hold of. Gives better purchase. Know what I mean, Varric?"

"Will you _stop_?" protested a squirming Varric, although he was glad to see Hawke so jovial - such episodes did not usually last long for the troubled young man.

"Well, you _will_ walk around with that chest of yours on display for all to see. I'm not made of stone, you know," Hawke teased, his hand snaking towards Varric's open coat.

Varric shot up out of his chair and headed to the bar, leaving a sniggering Hawke and Anders behind. Hawke reached into his pocket and produced the five sovereigns he'd collected from the man with the amazing blue eyes, laying them on the table.

"Varric and I discussed this on our way back, but we'll only do it if you agree."

"Oh, yes?"

"Well, as we all did quite well last night, I thought we could put all of this in the expedition kitty, but as you helped us with the Flint Company mercenaries, you're more than welcome to take your share."

"No, that's fine, Hawke. I have enough to keep me going for a while."

"You're sure? Do you need anything for the clinic?"

"Not at the moment."

"Well, let me know if you do, or if ever you run short of your own funds. The money in the kitty _is_ for the expedition, but none of us will be any good for it if we starve to death in the meantime."

"I will, Hawke. Thanks." Anders's face dropped as he looked behind Hawke to see Varric and Fenris approaching. "It was _such_ a nice morning," he said drily.

Hawke glanced around and immediately turned back to face Anders, his shoulders tensing a little.

"Allow me to introduce you to my friends," announced Varric. "This is Blondie…" Anders nodded curtly and did not correct Varric. "…And this is Hawke. Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Fenris."

Hawke turned a little and looked Fenris up and down. "And this is Varric, although he prefers to be called 'Vazzers'.

Varric tutted and glared at Hawke momentarily before inviting Fenris to take a seat.

"I will remain standing," Fenris announced, feeling neither comfortable nor welcome.

"Of course he'll remain standing," sniped Anders. "He's too good to sit with _mages_ , isn't he?" His eyes locked with Fenris's and, for an uncomfortable moment, they stared each other down.

"Well! Isn't this pleasant?" Varric laughed nervously and leaned against the wall, uncertain whether to stand with Fenris or sit with the mages. "Today, we're travelling to Sundermount to take back this trinket thingy to the elves…"

"Sundermount? That is where the Dalish reside," Fenris stated. "I encountered some of them on my way here. They do not welcome outsiders."

"I heard that, too," replied Varric. "Perhaps they'd be a little more welcoming, with you being an elf and everything?"

" _Hardly_. They would see me as a city elf, no better than the shemlen they despise so."

"Can't _wait_ ," Anders said sarcastically, resting his head on his hand and pouting.

"Why should the Dalish be any different?" grumbled Hawke. "Pretty much everyone we've met on our travels has either tried to skewer us or has told us to piss off back to Ferelden."

"Hmm," Varric mumbled. "We _do_ seem to attract a lot of trouble. This is where you come in, Elf," he said to Fenris. "We need someone who can distract the scumbags while the magic boys here do their stuff. Of course, you're free to join in and do some skewering of your own."

Fenris nodded once. "I will do my best."

Hawke glanced at him and eased back in his chair. "If you pull your weight and protect us, you'll get an equal share of any spoils or money we find. Anders, Varric and I look out for each other, and we'll expect you to do the same."

"Understood."

"Let's get going, then," said Hawke.

~o~O~o~

Predictably, the group ran into trouble as soon as they'd set foot outside Kirkwall. A well-organised group of bandits had blocked their path and demanded money from them.

"You people never learn, do you?" sneered Hawke, readying his staff, while Varric and Anders had already dropped back into defensive positions.

Fenris approached the leader of the bandits and stood in front of him, looking up at the man, who was a good foot taller than him. "Let us pass," he demanded in a quiet voice laced with menace.

The bandits fell about laughing, and a noxious smile crept along their leader's lips as he unsheathed his sword. "Good. I like uppity knife-ears - they make great servants. My boots could do with a shine, elf, and then you'll oil my boys' leathers. Get to it!"

Varric's face lit up as Fenris's markings glowed, and he thrust his hand into the leader's chest, who immediately sank to his knees, shrieking in agony. Several expletives issued from his men as they backed away, some of them dropping their weapons to the ground.

"I _said_ …" snarled Fenris, "…let us _pass_."

"Y-yes! S-sorry… _please_! It _hurts_!" wailed the bandit leader as urine pooled between his knees.

Fenris released him, his eyes flitting between the remainder of the bandits. "Would anyone _else_ like their boots shined?"

"Let's get out of here!" cried the leader, hastily scrambling to his feet.

"Turn out your pockets, first!" commanded Hawke, much to Varric's approval.

The bandits hesitated for a moment, not wishing to relinquish their spoils, until Fenris took a step closer to them, his markings still glowing. Quickly, they began rifling through their pockets and packs, and threw several coins, trinkets and daggers to the ground.

"Now, fuck off out of here!" Hawke commanded. "If we ever run into you again, my friend here will not be so merciful!"

Needing no further prompting, the bandits fled for the hills.

"Nice work, Elf!" Varric exclaimed as he began to collect the bandits' spoils. "What did I tell you, Hawke?"

Hawke cautiously approached Fenris, who was bent double, hands braced on his knees, his breathing laboured. "Are you… all right?" he asked.

Fenris straightened up and backed away a step as Hawke neared. Hawke immediately ceased his approach and kept his distance.

"I am," Fenris answered succinctly.

"How do you do that?" asked Hawke. "What _is_ that you have on your skin?"

Fenris held his arms out and examined them, quietly sighing. "It is lyrium. It was burned into my flesh by my former master."

" _Lyrium?"_ Anders exclaimed in dismay. "Burned into your skin? I-I've never heard of such a thing!"

Hawke looked at Fenris with quiet awe. "So it allows you to… pass through solid objects?"

"It does."

"Then why do you need a sword? You could just do that thing with your hand to anyone who threatened you, couldn't you?"

Fenris sighed and rested his arms at his sides. "It is… not easy. It causes me… discomfort."

"The markings are painful, then?"

Fenris shifted slightly, his eyes on the path ahead. "Perhaps we should move on, lest the bandits are foolish enough to engage us once again."

Hawke shrugged. "All right, I was just curious. Let's pick up the rest of this stuff and get going."

The foursome began to gather their booty, and Fenris wandered over to a large rock. Some coins had rolled into a crevice, and he knelt to retrieve them, but could not quite reach.

"Having trouble, Elf?" asked Varric as the others joined Fenris.

"My arms are too short," Fenris complained, eliciting a chuckle from Hawke. Did the elf have a sense of humour?

"Anders, you have the longest reach, you try," suggested Hawke.

"Righty-ho," answered Anders, moving next to the rock.

Fenris began to stand, placing his hands against the rock for support, and then he froze, falling back to his knees, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open. Hawke shot a confused glance at Anders, who shrugged in response.

"Fenris?" asked Hawke.

The elf gave no answer and his breathing quickened, his armoured fingers clawing at the rock.

"What's wrong with you?" Hawke demanded, placing a hand on Fenris's shoulder.

" _Noli Me Tangere_!" snarled the elf, leaping to his feet and wheeling round to face Hawke, his markings flaring and his face contorted into an expression bordering on feral.

"Hey! Just take it easy, sport!" Varric urged, running over.

Hawke quickly backed away, looking at Fenris in horror and the elf closed his eyes, the glow of his markings quickly waning.

"You bloody lunatic!" yelled Anders. "He was only trying to help you!"

"I-I did not mean… I am sorry…"

"Save it!" snapped Hawke, his anger fueled by fear. "What did I say?" he demanded of Varric. "Nice one minute, an arsehole the next! I can't bloody keep up!"

" _Aveline_ , remember?" Varric reminded him.

"Fuck that! Aveline may be a bitch, but at least she's never tried to kill me," Hawke groused as he stalked up the hillside, closely followed by Anders.

"Now, come on, Hawke, he didn't try to-"

" _You_ wanted him to come along so much, Varric, _you_ keep an eye on him," ordered Hawke as he and Anders disappeared around a corner.

With a groan, Varric glanced at Fenris, who stood examining his upturned palms and shaking his head. "You okay there, tiger?"

Fenris slowly looked up, unfathomable depths of hurt and fear in his eyes. "I… did not mean… I… could not help myself," he uttered softly, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

"Look," said Varric, taking a step nearer to the elf. "I can see you have some… stuff to work through, but just try to keep a lid on the, uh, anger problem, huh? That thing you do with your hands is great, seriously great, when dealing with bandits and the like, but when it's turned on us, it's kinda… terrifying, you know?"

"Yes, I know," replied Fenris. "I should apologise to him."

"No," Varric answered quickly. "I'll talk to him. I know just how to get round Hawke. Listen - Hawke and Blondie are young and hot-headed. Hawke's quick to anger, but it doesn't last long. You just spooked him, is all. I'll sweeten him up. Just try not to make a habit of it, okay? Hawke's kind of in charge, here, and he says who works with us, and who doesn't. Stay on his good side, and you won't find a better friend, trust me. He's a little… reactive, but…" Varric cleared his throat, conscious of not saying too much. "Besides, we _need_ you, and I'm guessing you could do with some coin. We need you, and you need us."

Fenris nodded and stepped a little closer to Varric. "You are wise, and speak the truth. I will endeavour to… contain myself."

"That's the spirit!" chirped Varric, going to clap Fenris on the shoulder but thinking better of it. "I like you, you know!"

"You-you _do_?"

"Sure! I have a feeling things will be very interesting with you around. Come on - let's have a slow walk up, give those two some time to cool off."

~o~O~o~

Anders and Hawke were deep in conversation when they reached the outskirts of the Dalish settlement. Hawke's previous anger had quickly abated, as it usually did. Anders's, however, had not.

"I feel kind of bad, Anders. I think I might have hurt him when I grabbed his shoulder like that. He hinted that the markings are painful… or rather, I asked him, and he changed the subject."

"That's no excuse for him to turn on you like that!" Anders argued. "Did you see the look on his face? He wasn't in control of himself at all!"

"I think I startled him," Hawke reasoned. "He doesn't seem to like being touched."

"Being touched by _mages,_ you mean."

"We don't know that, do we? Who knows what his life was like as a slave? He might have been beaten or Maker knows what. It's probably traumatised him, or something."

"Don't get feeling sorry for him, Hawke! He's not right in the head. He'll be trouble, mark my words."

Hawke frowned and shook his head. "I think we should give him one more chance. You saw how he dealt with those bandits."

"Yes, and he very nearly dealt with _you_ in the same way! And what was all that about when he was kneeling down in front of the rock? He just freaked out."

Hawke stopped walking and sighed, running his hand through his mop of curly brown hair. "I just wish I hadn't lost my temper like that."

"You had good reason to!"

"No… I never used to be like this. I just fly off the handle at any little thing these days. It's since we left Lothering… since…"

Anders slapped Hawke's back and let his hand rest there. "I know."

"Halt, shemlen, and state your business!" Six Dalish elves seemed to appear from nowhere and surrounded the two mages, who immediately halted.

"Um, we're here to see your leader, or master, or whatever you call him," said Anders, nervously glancing around at the elves, four of whom had their bows trained on him and Hawke.

"Keeper," Hawke corrected. "We'd like to see your keeper, please."

"And what business does the likes of _you_ have with the keeper?"

Hawke's nostrils flared as sudden irritation sprang up inside him. "An ill-mannered Dalish elf. How very novel!" he spat, folding his arms. "Never you mind what we want him for, just go and fetch him!"

"We will not fetch _her_ , shemlen, until you explain your presence here!"

Hawke closed his eyes, sick to the back teeth of being attacked and talked down to since his arrival in Kirkwall just over a year earlier, sick of not being back in Lothering, and sick of everything not being the way it used to be.

"Forget it," he said flatly, turning to leave. "I'll go and sell this amulet at the market. I should have done that in the first place, and saved myself a journey."

"Wait!" a female Dalish called to him before turning to face one of her companions. "Perhaps this is the one the keeper spoke of."

"Halt, shemlen!" her male companion commanded.

"I'm not a fucking horse, you know!" barked Hawke as he turned around, still rattled by the incident with Fenris. "I went to a lot of trouble to bring this amulet to you, because I promised someone I would. _I_ was raised properly and I _keep_ my promises. I asked you nicely if I could see your keeper, and you look down your nose at me and keep telling me to halt? Who do you think you are?"

"Hawke…" Anders touched his arm. Hawke rubbed his eyes and grunted.

"You will forgive us if we are less than welcoming," said the male elf, "but your kind has given us plenty of reasons to be wary."

"So that's _my_ fault, is it?" demanded Hawke. "Now, do you want this sodding amulet, or not?"

"The keeper will want to see you," answered the elf with hauteur. "Come with me."

Hawke scowled and shook his head at Anders, who mirrored the gesture as they entered the camp. "A dwarf and an elf will also be arriving shortly," Hawke told the Dalish elf. "If they receive the same reception as we did, I'll stomp on this bloody thing."

"Go to the entrance," the male elf instructed one of his kin. "And bring the dwarf and the elf to the keeper as soon as they arrive."

~o~O~o~

Having received a much more favourable reception than Hawke or Anders had, Varric and Fenris met up with the two mages at the foot of Sundermount. Fenris stood away from the others, feeling ashamed of his earlier actions, but Hawke no longer appeared hostile toward him - rather, his ire was directed at the Dalish.

"Well, it seems that merely bringing the amulet back wasn't enough," he wearily told them. "We've got to go up the mountain – yes, _up_ it – find one of the clan, do some kind of weird ritual and _then_ we have to take the clan member _with_ us."

"Take them with us?" asked Varric. "Why? Is that part of the ritual, too?"

"No, apparently they want to leave, and we're to deliver them safely to the alienage in Kirkwall. And do we get anything for this? Not a sausage. The only currency these people seem to deal in is scorn, disdain and rudeness. The sooner we get this done, and get out of here, the better."

"Do we have to do this at all, Hawke?" Varric asked. "It seems an awful lot of trouble for no reward."

"Yes, I have to do it," Hawke replied with a sigh. "The witch did save us, after all."

"The _witch_?" Fenris interjected.

"…As I was _saying_ , the witch saved my family and I promised to see this through for her. I've never broken a promise in my life - my father drummed that into me when I was very young."

Fenris, remembering Varric's advice, decided against any further comments concerning witches. "Your father sounds an honourable man."

"He was."

"Oh… I see. In that case, you have my condolences."

Hawke's brows knitted together as he glanced at Fenris, utterly confounded by the elf's unpredictable responses, not realising that his own erratic behaviour was just as baffling to the elf. He gave a brief nod before turning to the others.

"You don't have to come with me. We're not going to make any money out of this, after all. If you all want to get back and do other things, I won't blame you."

Anders shrugged. "Well, we're here now, and I'm not needed at the clinic until later."

"And I'm not leaving the two of you running unchecked around the Free Marches," teased Varric. "Come on."

"How about you, Fenris?" asked Hawke, hearing a huff from Anders.

"I will accompany you, if you wish it."

"All right," answered Hawke, who was already making his way up the mountain path.

Anders watched him go and then, checking that Fenris wasn't standing too close, sidled closer to Varric. "Hawke's pretty wound up," he said in a quiet aside.

"Yeah, I noticed. I'll talk to him, Blondie, as soon as we get a quiet moment."

Anders nodded. "Thanks. Is he… all right? I mean, I know I haven't known him for long, but, well, he's been good to me, and he just seems all over the place."

"We haven't had a heart-to-heart or anything like that, but his tongue loosens up when he's had a few. From what I can gather, he's lost his pa _and_ his brother and, as he's now the head of his family, it really bites him that all he can provide for his mother and sister is a fleapit in Lowtown that doesn't even belong to him. He told me his family were well-respected back home. Here, though, they're nothing. I also get the impression he blames himself for his brother's death."

"Hmm. Yes, I understand what it's like to leave your old life behind. People you cared..." He cleared his throat. "Kirkwall was a bit of a shock to me, as well."

"You've never mentioned your old life, Blondie," Varric said with a curious look in his eyes.

"Neither have you."

"Touché," the dwarf chuckled, and looked behind him. "You coming?" he called to Fenris, who had fallen back, not wishing to intrude on a private conversation.

Anders, irritated that he hadn't had the chance to express his concerns about the elf to Varric, walked ahead and caught up with Hawke.

Not far up the trail, Anders and Hawke ran into the Dalish elf the keeper had mentioned. By the time Varric and Fenris had reached them, the two mages, intrigued to discover that the elf was also a mage, were enjoying a friendly chat with her.

"Oh! These are the friends you mentioned?" asked the elf, who had introduced herself as Merrill.

"Yes, this is Varric, and… Fenris," Hawke said in introduction, gesturing to the other two men.

Varric swept an arm around his waist and bowed while Fenris, having spotted her staff, folded his arms and stared at her. "Alius magus," he muttered under his breath.

"Some of us here _do_ speak Tevene, you know," Anders bit out.

"Oh, I do, too!" Merrill sang with an innocent smile. "But I didn't hear what he said."

"Never mind," replied Anders caustically. "Nothing _intelligent_ , anyway."

"Well, I _don't_ speak Tevene, but I think I got the gist," Hawke commented with a stern look at Fenris. "If you're going to make sour comments, at least have the courtesy to make them in the common tongue."

Fenris arched an eyebrow, but gave no reply.

"Nice to see another elf around here," Merrill said to Fenris. "Which clan are _you_ from, then?"

"I am from no _clan_ ," Fenris answered shortly.

"B-but…your tattoos…"

"These are not tattoos!" hissed Fenris as Varric clapped a hand over his eyes, groaning. "Did _your_ tattoos hurt when they were applied?"

"Yes! They bloody well stung! Made my eyes water, they did!"

"They _stung_ , did they? Did the stinging sensation cause you to pass out for three days, awakening only to find you had no memory of your former life? Did they do _that_?"

"No, of course not!" she laughed with a delicate wave of her hand. "Don't be daft!"

Fenris's mouth fell open, and his eyebrow shot up even higher while Anders burst out laughing. Varric shot an amused glance at Hawke, who was studying Fenris carefully, his eyes narrowed.

"Shall we get going, then?" suggested Merrill in a breezy tone. "It's not wise to make Asha'bellanar wait, you know."

"Who is Asha'bellanar?" demanded Fenris, his tone suspicious.

"A _witch_ ," Anders replied, holding Fenris's gaze for a moment before he turned and joined Hawke and Merrill. Hawke paused for a moment, his eyes still on Fenris. He then joined the other mages, with Fenris following not far behind.

Varric took the rear and shook his head as he watched the other four. "Yes, it's going to be _very_ interesting around here," he said softly to himself, and shook his head again.


	3. Full of Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are gracious," said Fenris.
> 
> "No, I'm not. I'm an arsehole."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say a huge thank-you to all of you reading the story, and especially to those who've left kudos or comments. They really do inspire and encourage me!
> 
> And thank-you again to Carrie for having a look through the chapter and for her encouragement. :-)

Merrill led her new friends, as she called them, through a system of caves that allowed them to circumvent the impassable eastern face of Sundermount. Finding their way through was not a problem, as the three mages cast various spells upon themselves and Varric which surrounded them in a soft, ethereal light, allowing them to navigate the dark caverns safely. Fenris declined to have a spell put on him, which resulted in another huff from Anders, but nothing further had been said.

After clearing a path through the various wild animals that resided in the caves, the group stopped for a brief rest before continuing their ascent.

Anders and Merrill were getting along famously and they chatted like old friends, while Fenris sat on the ground and examined his bare feet in the pale light that emanated from his new companions. While the others were occupied, Varric took the opportunity to take Hawke aside.

"How's it hanging, Hawke?" he asked pleasantly.

"To the left, as always," Hawke deadpanned, his eyes dropping to his groin.

Varric rolled his eyes. "Remind me never to ask you anything, ever again."

Hawke exhaled and smoothed down his robe. "I'm all right now. Sorry for popping off at you like that."

"Meh," Varric mumbled with a shrug. "I guess I'd have reacted in the same way. He's pretty scary, huh?" They looked at Fenris, who'd crossed one leg over the other and was busy picking debris and tiny stones off the soles of one of his feet. "Hawke?"

"Hm? Oh, well, yes… he did frighten me, I'll admit that, but I think _I_ frightened _him_ more. He doesn't really look that scary now, does he?" He sighed, turned away from Fenris, and looked down at the dwarf. "You're right, Varric - we _do_ need someone like him. I just think I'd better keep Beth away for now, at least until I know what sets him off. She hasn't had it easy since… well, you know, and now she has to take care of Mother, who's never been the same after losing Carver." He meshed his fingers together on top of his head. "I know I've been an irritable shit, but it's only because I want this expedition so badly. It kills me to see Mother and Beth wearing second-hand clothing and sleeping on rotten floorboards. I just… I want better for them, you know? All I care about is the expedition, and we can't get that money together fast enough for my liking."

"Hey, we have eighteen sovs in the kitty already, Hawke, with that five from your handsome prince. That's not bad going at all. We'll get there, we'll just have to wade through some crap on the way."

"I can do that," said Hawke.

"It'll be worth it, just wait and see. Your ma and sister will live in a palace, and will wear the finest dresses money can buy."

"You'd like to see that, wouldn't you?" asked Hawke with a grin.

"A palace? Sure I would."

"I _meant_ my sister in a pretty dress."

"Well, that would be nice, too," said Varric, returning Hawke's smile. "For her, of course."

Hawke held his hand out and Varric gave it a firm shake. "You're a good friend, Varric. I _would_ hug you, but I think you'd prefer I yelled at you, instead."

"I'd rather you stabbed me, actually," Varric quipped, and Hawke's laughter echoed around the cavern, prompting Fenris to look up. "I'm gonna go see what Blondie and his little friend are up to, before they start canoodling and embarrassing us all."

Hawke slapped his friend's shoulder and watched as he walked away, becoming aware of Fenris in his peripheral vision. He took a deep breath and slowly walked over to him. "Fenris? May I speak with you?"

Fenris nodded, brushed his feet off, and pushed himself up, all the time watching Hawke warily.

"Look, I'm sorry if I startled you back there."

"No," Fenris cut in. "It is I who should apologise."

"Oh." The two men examined the ground for a moment, and Hawke fiddled with the ties on his robe. "Well… let's call it even then, shall we?"

"You are gracious," said Fenris.

"No, I'm not. I'm an arsehole."

Fenris's brow creased and his nose wrinkled slightly in what Hawke suspected was the beginning of a smile. "Is that not what you called me?"

"It is, isn't it?" Hawke admitted with a rueful snort. "That's the pot calling the kettle black, as we say here."

One side of Fenris's mouth turned upward and a halting laugh rumbled through his chest. "Yes, that is said in the Imperium, also."

"Did I hurt you?" asked Hawke in concern. "If so, I really am sorry."

Fenris turned aside, his posture stiffening. "No, it is not that. I… well, as you said, you startled me, but that did not justify or excuse my reaction."

"I expect you've had to rely on that… ability of yours since you escaped?" Hawke speculated. "It must be hard to just switch it off."

Fenris looked at the ground and then briefly glanced at Hawke before averting his eyes. "Perhaps."

"Anyway, I'm glad we cleared that up," Hawke said briskly, sensing that Fenris was uncomfortable with discussing his markings. He extended his hand and Fenris stared at it for a moment, seeming unsure of what to do. "Well, let's get a move on." Hawke retracted his hand, and walked towards the others. "Ready?" he asked them.

"Yes, we won't be far from the summit once we leave the caves," Merrill piped up. "Should be an hour or so."

"Lead the way then," Hawke invited.

"Oh! You want _me_ to lead?" she asked in surprise.

"Well _we_ don't know the way, do we?" Anders asked good-humouredly.

"True. Very true," agreed Merrill. "That _is_ why I'm here, isn't it? Right, this way, then." She walked ahead before stopping abruptly. "Oh… that was the way we came in, wasn't it? Silly me." She then proceeded in the right direction, with Anders's laughter following her.

A little way on, Anders dropped back, beckoning Hawke closer.

"Everything all right?" asked Hawke.

Anders ventured a quick glance at Fenris, who was walking ahead, out of earshot. "Please don't tell me you just apologised to him."

"We _both_ apologised," Hawke explained, holding his hands up to stop Anders's protestation. "Look, I know you're not keen on him, but I thought it was better to clear the air, rather than have a bad atmosphere hanging over us all. I'm trying to be nice. I know I've been a bit… prickly, lately."

"Only with people who've deserved it. I just… his reaction to what you did was completely out of line. I consider you a friend, Hawke, and… oh, it doesn't matter."

Hawke stopped and turned to Anders. "No, say what's on your mind."

Anders sighed. "It's hard enough for us mages as it is, without working with someone who clearly despises us. He could go to the templars, for all we know. They'd have a field day - you, me, your sister, and now Merrill, all banged up in the Gallows?"

"I can't see him doing that. I get the feeling he doesn't want to draw attention to himself."

"Well _I'm_ not taking any chances. I'm keeping an eye on him. I don't trust him."

"You do that, friend," replied Hawke and Anders ventured a faint smile, his posture relaxing. "So… you and Merrill. Getting along like a house on fire, aren't you?"

Anders shrugged a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. "She's cute, and I think we have the same sense of humour. Yes, I think I'll get on with her."

"And?" Hawke prompted.

"And, what? Maker, Hawke, we've only just met!"

"I'm just wondering if I need to be fitted out for a morning suit, that's all?"

"Oh, piss off!" Anders began to walk ahead.

Hawke quickly caught up and very obviously stared at Anders's face. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were blushing."

"What?" Anders touched one of his cheeks. "It's the light in here."

"What light, you fool? We're in a bloody cave."

"This discussion is over," Anders declared, walking quickly ahead, almost breaking into a run, with Hawke hot on his tail.

~o~O~o~

Hawke was still badgering Anders when they exited the cave and stepped out onto the winding trail that led up the southern face of the mountain. From their vantage point they could see far across the Waking Sea, although they were too high up to hear the ocean, or anything else for that matter, save the wind that wailed mournfully around the lonely peak.

Hawke moved away from the group and halted, squinting as he looked to the south. Fenris, not wishing to be too close to Anders _or_ Merrill, loitered nearby in Hawke's line of sight.

"I was just..." Hawke laughed self-consciously and let out a wistful sigh. "I was wondering if I could see Ferelden from here. That's my home. Or, rather, it was."

Fenris cautiously sidled closer, also looking out to sea. "The rock formation in the distance..."

Hawke shook his head. "It's just a rock. It _might_ be part of West Hill or Highever, but I don't know." A look of sadness befell him.

"How do you know for certain?" Fenris queried. "Do you know precisely how many leagues lie between here and Ferelden? For all you know it _could_ be your home."

"I doubt it." Hawke glanced at Fenris and shrugged. "But you know what? I think I'll choose to believe that rock _is_ Ferelden. Then it won't seem so far away."

They stood together for a short while, both entertaining their own thoughts as the sea lulled them into daydreams, the raucous laughter coming from Varric, Anders and Merrill lost on them.

"The silence is beautiful," Fenris remarked quietly after a moment.

"No it's not, it's blooming boring," Merrill said from behind them, much to Anders's amusement. The two daydreamers were instantly snapped out of their reverie, an audible groan heard from one of them. "Does anyone know any good jokes?" Merrill went on blithely. "I know a few, but they're all sort of _elfy_. Might go over your heads a bit."

"Tell me anyway," said Anders as the two of them walked ahead, followed by Varric, who offered to tell them a few of his own. Fenris sighed and began to follow them.

"It _was_ beautiful, while it lasted," Hawke said to him.

Fenris looked up at him, a hesitant, almost shy smile pulling at his lips. "I am glad you agree. Surprised, but glad, nonetheless."

"I'm full of surprises," replied Hawke with a grin. "As are you."

Before Fenris could respond, a loud exclamation could be heard from up ahead. "What's _that_?" they heard Anders ask.

Fenris and Hawke quickened their pace and, as they caught up to the others, they were astonished to find that the path forward was blocked by a magical field, the likes of which neither Anders nor Hawke had seen before.

"Oh, right. I forgot about that," Merrill muttered with a shifty glance at the others. "I-I know how to get us through, just-just give me a minute."

She stepped closer to the shimmering barrier and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When Hawke spotted her slipping a small dagger from her belt, he understood why she'd been so nervous, and watched the others closely for a reaction.

"No! What are you doing?" Anders cried as she plunged the blade into her left forearm and raised both of her arms into the air, a second field of energy surrounding her. Anders covered his face with his hands and turned his back on her.

"Blood magic? Why am I not surprised?" Fenris groaned, his reaction much more measured than that of Anders's - clearly, he'd encountered maleficarum before.

"And who asked _you_?" Anders blustered, quickly walking to Fenris's side.

"Look, that's enough," Hawke interrupted, placing himself between them. "The way's clear, now. Let's just get this over and done with."

"Uh, fellas?" called Varric. "She needs a little help, here."

Merrill was standing next to Varric with her hand clamped over her forearm, which was bleeding heavily. "I don't know how to heal," she admitted with a hint of panic.

Anders shook his head in disbelief. "Then what the bloody hell did you do that for?"

"I had to get us through, didn't I?"

"We could have discussed it! There _are_ two other mages here, you know!"

"No, that was the only way."

"I thought you were all right!" griped Anders, pointing a finger at her. "How could you be so… so stupid?"

"I _am_ all right!" Merrill insisted. "I'm still the same person I was five minutes ago, you know!"

"No." Anders shook his head, his expression hard. "You're not the same person at all."

Hawke walked to Merrill's side and examined her arm. "Why don't _I_ heal her arm, Anders, before she bleeds to death?"

"Do what you like," he huffed.

Ignoring the sulking Anders, Hawke tended to Merrill. "Hold your arm up above your head," he instructed her. _"No_ , Merrill. I mean the one that's _bleeding."_

"Oh, yes, of course," she blathered, shooting an anxious glance at Anders.

"You do know this won't heal properly, don't you?" asked Hawke, noticing several scars criss-crossing her forearms.

"I know. I appreciate whatever you can do."

Hawke completed his healing spell, which stemmed the bleeding, but a nasty gash still remained. "That's the best I can do, I'm sorry." He looked around in vain for something to use as a sling and finally removed his belt, using it to secure Merrill's injured arm across her chest. "Keep that arm out of action for the rest of the day. You don't want it to start bleeding again."

"Thank you very much," she said sincerely.

"Anders, will you keep an eye on her?" Hawke requested. "She's lost quite a bit of blood."

"I'd rather _you_ did," Anders replied, walking away from the group.

Hawke gave Merrill a strained smile and quickly caught up to Anders, stopping in front of him. _"You_ are supposed to be our main healer. That's why we agreed for you to stay with us after you gave us the maps, and it's also why you get a share of our money."

"But she's a blood mage!"

"So?"

 _"So?"_ Anders exclaimed. "How can you be so casual about it? That girl looked a demon in the eye and made a deal with it! Do we really want to be associating with people like that?"

"So you don't see any parallels between that and the deal _you_ made with a spirit, then?"

"That's not the same thing at all, Hawke! When I took him into my body, it was to help him, not to gain power or anything like that!"

"Hah," sneered Fenris. "So you are _also_ an abomination."

Anders's eyes blazed and he charged over to Fenris, stopping inches in front of him. "Call me that again! Go on, I dare you!"

Merrill made an outraged exclamation and placed her free hand on her hip. "Wait… did he just imply that _I'm_ an abomination?"

 _"He_ didn't _imply_ anything," Fenris answered, his tone biting. "He came right out and said it!"

"Everybody shut up, _now!"_ commanded Hawke, striking the ground with his staff, the resulting tremor almost throwing the slightly-built Merrill and Fenris off their feet. As the shockwave subsided, Hawke's four companions watched and waited for him to speak. "We are _not_ here to judge Merrill. We _are_ here to bring this amulet back, which I'd like to do as soon as possible. Then we can all go our separate ways." He moved beside Merrill and took another look at her arm. "Merrill and I are going up the mountain. The rest of you can either come with us, or you can stay here and bicker like small children until night falls. I couldn't care less. Come on, Merrill."

Without a backward glance, he led the petite blood mage up the mountain path. Varric raised his eyebrows and quickly followed, leaving a simmering Anders and a righteous Fenris glaring at one another. Finally, Anders broke eye contact with the elf and the two of them caught up to Hawke and the others, walking several feet apart.

~o~O~o~

After finding a witch inside the amulet, or at least a _piece_ of a witch, Hawke stood in the Dalish camp at the foot of the mountain and scratched his head, sighing. On any other day, he would have deemed such an occurrence bizarre, but since meeting Varric and Anders most of his days had required at least a little suspension of disbelief.

Following a final appeal from Marethari for Merrill to stay, which was refused, Hawke reluctantly agreed to escort Merrill to the alienage, where accommodation had been arranged for her in advance.

"Don't suppose anyone wants to come with us?" he asked his by-now rather dour companions.

"I will have no part in aiding a maleficar," Fenris declared and, without another word, he turned and departed the camp.

Anders, annoyed that Fenris had stolen the very words from his mouth and, not wishing to appear as though he _agreed_ with him, made an excuse. "Sorry, I need to get back to the clinic."

"But I thought you weren't needed there until later?" Hawke reminded him.

"It's later now," he replied as he walked away from them. Merrill stared after him and hung her head as he, too, departed the camp.

"Varric?"

"I'll walk with you as far as the Hanged Man, Hawke. I have some business to take care of."

"Good!" said Hawke with false chirpiness, looking down at Merrill. "See? Not everyone hates us!"

"Oh, yes, that's... good," she replied, not even trying to feign enthusiasm.

Merrill was very quiet during the trip back to Kirkwall and started to look distinctly nervous as they walked through Lowtown.

"I guess this is where I say goodbye," Varric announced as they arrived at the Hanged Man.

"Hang on, Varric," said Hawke, "I need to split that money we got from the bandits before I get it mixed up with my own." He scrabbled through his pockets and produced a handful of coins, which he began to sift through. "I'll catch Anders later and give him his share. I wonder where Fenris is staying? He didn't stop for his cut."

"He's holed up at that mansion in Hightown."

"What? You mean his former master's house?" Hawke asked in disbelief, and Varric nodded. "The one full of dead shades and demons?"

"The very same, Hawke. I know... creepy, right?"

Hawke sighed loudly. "Great. Just the place to end my day." He continued to count the money in his hand. "Right, between the four of us…" He glanced at Varric and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Shall we…?" he asked with a brief look at Merrill. Varric nodded in understanding. "Between the five of us, then…here, Merrill," Hawke said, holding a few coins out to her. "We earned a bit of money today. This is your cut."

 _"My_ cut? But I didn't do anything!" she protested, staring at the coins.

"You're going to need money," advised Hawke, dropping the coins into her tiny hand. "Let's call it… three sovereigns."

Varric raised an eyebrow, suspecting Hawke had given Merrill his own share of one sovereign, fifty silver. "I think you'll find that's four-and-a-half, Hawke."

"Yes, you're right," replied Hawke with a warm smile at the dwarf before handing over Merrill's, his own _and_ Varric's share. "Four-and-a-half. There you go."

"Oh! Trying to swindle me, were you?" Merrill teased.

"You've got me there!" joked Hawke, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Well, I'd better go," said Varric, turning to Merrill. "Listen, Daisy - stop by sometime, I'll set up a tab for you."

"My name's not Daisy, it's Merrill. Oh. That's a nickname, isn't it? But… I've never been in a pub before. I've heard stories…"

"Varric lives here," Hawke reassured her. "And if he's not around, I usually will be. Tell you what, why don't I see you to the alienage, then later on my sister and I will call for you, and I'll show you around my second home."

"You have a sister?" Merrill chirped excitedly. "Does she look like you?"

"Thankfully, no," answered Hawke with a smile. _"She_ got the looks. So, how about it, Varric? We'll meet you later? Unless you have other plans, of course."

"Never too busy to see my friend, Hawke."

 _"Or_ his sister." Hawke and Varric shared a laugh before Varric entered the pub, letting the door swing closed behind him.

"See you later, then!" Merrill called after him.

"Come on then," Hawke encouraged. "We're not too far from the alienage."

"Oh, all right, then," she replied, glancing around and taking in all of the new sights, sounds and smells as they walked. "I, um… I wanted to thank you for sticking up for me, you know, earlier on?"

"Well, I wasn't really…" he began, and then sighed. "Those other two were being unreasonable, I thought."

She glanced up at him and quietly cleared her throat. "Do you… do you think that Anders will, uh… well, are you friends with him?"

Hawke grimaced a little, realising the meaning behind her words. "I daresay you'll see him at the Hanged Man. He's a regular," he said evasively.

"But do you think he'll reconsider… you know?" she asked with a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. Anders is pretty set against blood magic."

"Oh." She hung her head and fell quiet.

"Where did you learn blood magic, anyway?" he asked quietly, glancing around to ensure passers-by could not hear.

"A spirit came to me one night while I was asleep," she explained. Hawke nodded--most mages had had a similar experience at some point in their lives. "He was so kind and friendly, and told me he could show me things that would benefit my clan..."

Hawke shook his head at Merrill's naivety, but continued to listen.

"... When I told them what I'd done, though… they just turned on me. They didn't understand. I only wanted to do it to help them, but…" She sighed and they continued through Lowtown in silence for a few moments. "So… how did _you_ learn it, then?" she asked as they neared the slums.

"How did I learn what?"

"Blood magic, of course!"

Hawke stopped in his tracks and frowned at Merrill. "What do you mean?"

"I-I just assumed… you're the only one who hasn't wanted to lynch me when they found out. So… are you?"

"I'm sorry, you're mistaken," Hawke said brusquely, quickening his pace.

Merrill struggled to catch up with him and gently touched his arm, quickly retracting her hand and looking up at him nervously. "I haven't offended you, have I? I-I'm not exactly beating friends off with a stick at the moment."

"No, it's fine," Hawke answered blankly with a sigh as they entered the alienage. They walked down the steps together and Hawke remembered his first meeting with Fenris, noting with relief that the slavers' bodies had been removed. "Ah, there's our contact," he said, noticing a female elf standing across the square. He took Merrill to her and introduced them. After ensuring Merrill did indeed have accommodation, he left with the promise that he and Bethany would call for her later, hoping that the two women would become friends--the only other woman Bethany had to talk to was their mother, and Merrill had no friends at all now she'd left her clan.

Making his way back through Lowtown, he once again stopped outside the Hanged Man and placed his hands in his pockets to see how much money he had, producing approximately one sovereign, fifty silver. Fenris's cut.

He stared at the coins for a moment, almost tempted to slip inside for a quick pint, but the money he held in his hand didn't belong to him.

He once again pocketed the coins and began to walk towards Hightown, and the mansion at which Fenris was staying, wondering what kind of reception he'd receive.


	4. So Much For A Quiet Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Every man?" Gamlen asked with a look of horror. "Oh, Maker… you're not… one of _them,_ are you?"
> 
> "One of them, Uncle? Whatever do you mean?" Hawke asked with mock innocence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you to Carrie for looking over this chapter for me, and to everyone who is reading or has left kudos or comments :-)

After knocking several times at the door of Danarius's mansion and receiving no answer, Hawke headed back through the courtyard, bleating to himself that he'd walked all that way for nothing, when he paused, fancying he could hear faint music.

He concentrated, eventually tracing the sound to one of the upper-floor windows. He looked up and listened for a few minutes, his foot tapping in time with the jaunty tune.

With a curious smile on his face, he walked back to the door and knocked again; still the music continued, and still no answer came. He warily turned the handle to the door, finding it was unlocked. Craning his head around the door, he looked around. Thankfully, the shades and other creatures they'd killed the night before had been destroyed, or at least removed, by Fenris.

"Hello? Fenris?"

The music paused momentarily before resuming.

"Fenris! Are you there?"

The music finally stopped, and nothing else could be heard.

"It's Hawke. I'm sorry to disturb you. I did knock…the door was open."

After a moment, Fenris appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs. "Hawke… I was not expecting… um… is something amiss?"

"Oh, no, I just wanted to bring you your share of the day's takings," he said from the doorway. "It's thanks to you we made any money at all."

"Oh, well, come in." Fenris left the landing, disappearing through a door at the rear.

Hawke closed the door and made his way up the stairs, glancing around the huge, empty mansion. "In here," Fenris called from the centre room leading off the landing, the door of which had been left ajar.

Hawke entered the large room, in which Fenris had made a bed for himself upon a small settee in one corner. Several pieces of broken wooden furniture lay scattered around the room, presumably destroyed for use as firewood. A good-sized fire blazed from the hearth, and Hawke could make out one or two table legs within the flames. Fenris sat upon a small bench next to the fire with a half-full bottle of wine in his hand, and gestured for Hawke to sit in the armchair opposite.

"I have no glasses," explained Fenris as Hawke took a seat, before passing the wine bottle to him.

"They're a waste of glass, if you ask me," answered Hawke, taking a slug from the bottle and returning it to Fenris. "Thanks, that's pretty decent stuff. You're… rather fond of it yourself, aren't you?" he asked, his eyes wandering to the two empty bottles on the floor next to Fenris.

Fenris shrugged and took several deep gulps of wine before setting the bottle down.

"Hey! _That's_ what I could hear!" Hawke exclaimed with a huge grin on his face, having spotted a beautifully-crafted lute propped up against the bench where Fenris sat. "My grandfather used to play one of those… may I?"

"By all means," said Fenris, passing the instrument to him. Hawke ran his hand along its curved back and strummed a few of the strings, producing a jarringly dissonant chord.

"You're pretty good," he complimented Fenris, who smiled lopsidedly in reply. "How long have you been playing for?"

"I…" Fenris' eyes darted to his left as he tried to formulate a convincing answer in his mind. "Long enough," he eventually answered.

Hawke, remembering Fenris's admission to Merrill that he had no memory of his former life, wondered if Fenris could actually remember having learned at all. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy."

"No… you're not," answered Fenris, taking the lute off Hawke and carefully leaning it against the wall. "Do _you_ play?"

"Uh, I can play the spoons," Hawke offered, cringing a little.

"The spoons?"

"Yes, and oh! I can produce a few decent notes with a jug, as well, but I'm particularly proud of my work with the spoons."

Fenris frowned heavily and looked at Hawke with an expression of confusion and mild amusement, his head tilted to one side. "That is a form of musical expression with which I have yet to become acquainted."

"Oh, you haven't _lived_ until you've seen me play the spoons!" Hawke boasted. "You'll have to stop by at the Hanged Man one of the nights. Maybe it's not your kind of thing, though." He paused, noticing that Fenris's expression had changed to one of outright bewilderment.

"You are a very strange man," he told Hawke.

"You know, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me since I arrived in Kirkwall!" joked Hawke. Fenris laughed softly, shaking his head, and passed the wine bottle back to Hawke, who took another swig from it. "No, it really _is_ the nicest thing anyone's said." He reached into his pocket and produced a few coins. "Here, Fenris, this is your share of the bandits' loot." He dropped the coins onto Fenris's outstretched palm, taking great care not to touch him. "There will be more, once Varric has sold the other stuff we got from them."

"Thank you for bringing this to me," Fenris said, slipping the money into his own pocket.

"I wasn't sure if we'd see you again. You sort of buggered off once we got back to camp."

Fenris nodded, but offered no explanation.

Hawke got to his feet. "Well, I wanted to let you know that if you'd like, you'd be welcome to work with us again. Varric and I meet up every morning at the Hanged Man, and there's nearly always something needing taking care of. If you ever fancy tagging along and earning a few more coins, just show up one of the mornings."

"Will the others be there?" Fenris asked.

"The other mages, you mean?" Hawke glanced down at Fenris, who smiled thinly in response. "Anders is a friend of mine, and he's always with us when he's not at the clinic. As for Merrill, I don't know if she'll be working with us, but she'll probably be around, as she doesn't really have anyone else. Then there's my sister and I. So, I'd say that if you have a problem with mages, you may want to reconsider working with us, as there will usually be at least two of us around."

Fenris considered this for a moment and looked up at Hawke. "You seem different to the others… as does your sister."

"Different? How?"

"I don't know, you seem less…" Unable to find the right word, he shrugged and smiled ruefully. "Forgive me. Perhaps I speak on a subject of which I have little knowledge." He rose to his feet and sighed. "My experiences with mages thus far have not been pleasant ones and I tend to look for faults in other mages that perhaps are not there."

"Then come and work with us," offered Hawke, "and let us prove you wrong."

"A challenge? Perhaps I will take you up on it. We shall see."

"Well, like I said, I'll be at the Hanged Man in the morning. Hope to see you there."

"If I _do_ work with you," Fenris said quickly, "my opinions may not coincide with yours, or those of your friends."

Hawke shrugged. "It'd be a pretty boring world if everyone agreed on everything, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, indeed it would. Thank you again for this," replied Fenris, patting the pocket which contained the coins.

Hawke nodded and left the room, heading down the stairs, Fenris following him to see him out. Halfway down, Hawke stopped and turned to him. "You know, you really shouldn't leave the front door unlocked."

"We broke in here, remember?" Fenris reminded him. "I can find no key."

"Oh yes, of course," mumbled Hawke. "Tell you what, I'll ask Varric to take a look at the lock for you. He's good with things like that. For tonight, though, I'd recommend you at least push a chair against the door."

"For what purpose? There is nothing of value here."

"Well, your _safety_ is of value, for one thing. What if your master--sorry, former master--was to return?"

Fenris's features darkened at the mention of Danarius. "He _will_ return eventually, but not just yet. He is regrouping and formulating new strategies. It is the way it has been for the past three years."

"You've been on the run for three years?"

Fenris nodded slowly, his eyes betraying his bone-weariness. "He will never stop hunting me. He no longer wants me as his slave--he wants me dead, and to strip the flesh from my corpse to get his precious investment back," Fenris growled, his hands fisting at his sides. "Sometimes I just wish that… no, I should not burden you with this. I apologise."

"It's all right," said Hawke. "I don't mind."

Fenris cleared his throat and proceeded to the main door, opening it for the mage. "Thank you again." He passed a bottle of wine to Hawke that he'd brought down with him. "Take one of these, there are plenty."

Hawke took the bottle and nodded in gratitude, turning to Fenris one last time. "Remember, the Hanged Man tomorrow morning. See you there."

As the door closed behind him, Hawke was both amused and relieved to hear the sound of furniture being moved around inside, and a soft thud against the door as something was propped up against it. He thought again of Fenris's assertion that Danarius would strip the flesh from the elf's body and glanced up at the windows of the mansion. Satisfied they were all securely closed, he finally left the estate, accompanied by a feeling of vague unease.

~o~O~o~

Hawke pushed open the door to Gamlen's house--well, Gamlen's hovel, as he called it--and was immediately met with a crushing hug from Bethany.

"Brother! I'm so glad you're home!"

Hawke returned the embrace and lowered his mouth to her ear. "Everything all right?" he whispered.

She sighed and also lowered her voice. "Mother has been very… weepy today, and Gamlen… well, he's been Gamlen."

Hawke slung an arm around his younger sister's shoulders and led her to the small dining table, which had already been laid. "I'm sorry, Beth. I had reasons for not taking you with me today. Don't worry, though, I'm taking you out for a drink after supper. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

"Oh?"

"Yes, we met a Dalish elf on our travels and she's staying at the alienage. I think the two of you might get along. We'll call on her later."

"Oh, I look forward to that!" Bethany said excitedly, glad for the chance to be away from the miserable atmosphere in the house.

Hawke cleared his throat and once again lowered his voice. "She's a, um, a blood mage. You wouldn't believe it though, to look at her."

"Really?" whispered Bethany as they took their seats at the table. "And what did the others have to say about that?"

"They weren't over-keen, put it that way. Anders completely overreacted, in my opinion."

"Anders? But I thought that he of all people would have understood?"

Hawke sat back and folded his arms. "Well, Anders doesn't believe Justice is a demon, as I do, so obviously he's better than a weak, feeble-minded blood mage, isn't he?"

"I wonder how he'd react if he knew?" she mused.

"He doesn't need to know. I'm never going to use it again, so what would be the point? Anyway, he didn't feel it necessary to tell me he was host to a powerful spirit upon our first meeting, did he? It didn't occur to him, because that's just who he is."

"That's true, Brother. How did Varric react?"

Hawke laughed. "Does Varric ever react to anything? If he had an opinion, he certainly didn't express it. I think he's got the right idea."

"So…" Bethany fiddled with her fingers and glanced sidelong at her brother.

"Yeeeeeessss?"

She broke into giggles and nudged Hawke with her elbow. "Will, um... who will be going for a drink tonight?"

Hawke shook his head, feigning impatience. "Why don't you just ask a straight question, Beth?"

"I just did! Now answer me."

"Well, as we're going to the Hanged Man, where Varric _lives_ , I'm sure he'll put in an appearance at some point…" He watched as a faraway look came into Bethany's eyes. "…The Maker said he'd pop in for a game of quoits as well, and I daresay he'll bring his missus along. We may have to call the law if Maferath shows up again, though... he and the Maker were slung in the cells after that punch-up they had last week. Blimey, Andraste got around a bit, didn't she?"

"Mmm? Oh, yes, lovely," Bethany mumbled with a sweet smile.

As Hawke laughed, the front door flew open and a distinctly grim-looking Gamlen charged in. "Uncle!" called Hawke, holding his arms out in greeting, knowing how much that would irritate the cantankerous old shit.

"Don't you start, boy! I've had a bad enough day as it is!" groused Gamlen, flopping down into a chair opposite the siblings. "Leandra! Isn't supper ready yet?" he yelled at the kitchen door.

"I'll go and give her a hand," said Bethany.

"No, I'll go," Hawke offered, and pushed away from the table, heading to the kitchen.

After a few minutes, Hawke brought in a huge pot with a ladle poking out of the top, and Leandra followed, carrying a freshly-baked loaf of bread on a tray. As they placed them onto the table, Bethany helpfully went to the kitchen and brought in a slab of butter and cheese, and some cutlery.

"Feel free to help out, Uncle," Hawke said acidly.

Gamlen folded his arms and snorted. "When I'm staying in _your_ house, boy, and you're providing _me_ with a roof over my head, _then_ you can tell me what to do."

Hawke placed his palms onto the table and leaned in toward his uncle. "And when you've found the estate of ours that you misplaced, _then_ you can start talking down to me. You owe us, Uncle, and until you pay us back, this _is_ my house, and the food you're eating was paid for with _my_ money. Remember that."

"Just like his father," spat Gamlen. "No respect for his elders at all!"

"Please," Leandra implored. "Let us have a pleasant family meal, just this once."

"Sorry, Mother," Hawke said, straightening up and squeezing her hand. Gamlen said nothing.

Hawke began to ladle his mother's chunky stew into two bowls, while Bethany broke off some bread for herself and passed the loaf to Leandra. "Ladies first," said Hawke, passing his mother and sister a bowl each before filling his own. He then threw the ladle back into the pot, leaving a grumbling Gamlen to serve himself.

"I've just been to see Fenris," he told Bethany as he sat down. "Did you know he's staying at that old mansion?"

"Fenris?" asked Leandra. "Another new friend, dear?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd call him a friend, but an acquaintance, certainly. He's good in a scrap, and hopefully he'll be working with us regularly."

"He's very handsome," Bethany commented with a grin at her brother.

"Can't say I've noticed," he replied casually, taking a bite of bread. "What?" he asked as his sister gave him a sideways glance. He chewed his bread and swallowed it. "Beth, you really have to stop trying to fix me up with every man we come across, you know."

"Every _man_?" Gamlen asked with a look of horror. "Oh, Maker… you're not… one of _them_ , are you?"

"One of them, Uncle? Whatever do you mean?" Hawke asked with mock innocence.

"I don't understand youngsters these days," Gamlen complained, his expression sour. "What's wrong with finding a nice girl, settling down and having children, eh? No, your lot all have to be _different_ , don't you?"

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, Uncle," Hawke counselled with a lascivious waggle of brows, and Gamlen shot him a withering glare. "Anyway, I think that _your_ lot only moan and complain so much because it wasn't acceptable when you were younger, and you feel you've missed out."

"Oh, do me a favour!" Gamlen threw down his napkin and pushed himself up. "Excuse me, Leandra, but I've lost my appetite." He stomped into the adjoining room and closed the door.

"Oh, good! More for me." Hawke spooned Gamlen's leftovers into his own bowl. "Mother," he whispered, and Leandra leaned forward. "Tomorrow, one of my friends at the docks is getting me some fish, 'on the side'. How about I bring it home before Gamlen gets in, and you make some of your buttery mash and parsley sauce to go with it? We haven't had that since we left Lothering."

"Oh, yes!" Bethany agreed.

"But what will Gamlen have?" asked Leandra.

"There'll be leftover stew, won't there?"

Leandra smiled and shook her head. "You're such a scallywag, Fletcher, just like your father was. All right, I'll see what vegetables I can rustle up to go with it. I have some peas and courgettes, I think." Her smile faded and she stared at the table for a moment. "Carver used to love that dish," she said quietly, and Hawke and Bethany glanced at one another.

"Well, I'll eat Carver's share, then," declared Hawke, forcing a jovial expression. "In his memory, of course."

"I'm sure he'd love you for that, Brother," Bethany chuckled, but there was a hollow ring to it.

"Perhaps I should dump it over my head, instead, Sister. I think Carver would have much preferred that."

"I think you could be right," she answered, and she and Leandra began quietly eating their stew as the conversation lulled.

"I'm stepping out for a gulp of air," declared Hawke. "Excuse me, Mother." He rose and made his way to the back door, pushed it open and stepped out into the small yard at the rear of the property. He moved a few chickens aside with his foot and sat down on the ground, leaning against a wall, examining the bottle of wine that Fenris had gifted him for a moment before pulling the cork out with his teeth.

His head fell back and he looked up at the sky. Although he could not see it from where he was, the sun had begun to set; the few wisps of cloud that floated overhead were lit from below with a red-gold glow, and he watched for several moments, hoping to see something in those clouds. A shape, a sign, a message. Anything.

Disappointed when nothing appeared, he sighed and raised the bottle up to the clouds. "To you, Brother," he toasted and drank long from the bottle, only stopping when it began to spill out of his mouth and trickle down his neck. Wiping himself on his robe, he stared at the bottle, which was now just over half-full. "Bet you're having a good laugh at me now, aren't you, you bastard?" he asked, looking up at the rapidly-darkening sky.

He drank some more from the bottle and wiped his mouth, sighing. Pushing himself to his feet, he took one final look up at the sky. "Look after him, Father," he said softly, and drained the remainder of the bottle.

~o~O~o~

Bethany and Hawke did not have far to go to the alienage. It was less than a ten-minute walk away from Gamlen's, and they took a leisurely stroll there, Hawke doing his best to hide the light-headedness he felt after consuming Fenris's wine.

Hawke liked the look of the alienage at this time of night - several small candles had been lit at the base of the Vhenadhal, and each of the small homes around the square had lit lanterns hanging outside their doors. Several elves milled about, some in conversation, some eating their supper in the street with their neighbours, while a few others quietly watched the sunset over the harbour. Hawke marvelled that such beauty and warmth could be found in a place where poverty, squalor and disease were rife.

"Oh, there's Merrill now." Hawke pointed at the mage as she stood outside her modest dwelling, talking to another elven woman, who appeared to be upset.

"Oh, Hawke!" Merrill exclaimed as they drew nearer. "This lady needs our help! her son's gone missing-"

"I really think this is a matter for the city guard," said Hawke, not wishing to be drawn into another long-winded mission with little to no reward at the end. "Look, I'll go and fetch someone."

Merrill's tiny hand grabbed Hawke's arm and he stopped as she positioned herself in front of him. "He's an apostate," she whispered. Having got Hawke's attention, she elaborated. "He was beginning to have trouble… controlling his powers and his mother called the templars, believing he would be safest in the Circle, but he's run off."

The lady burst into tears and Merrill walked to her side, rubbing her back and whispering words of comfort.

"Please, tell me everything you can," Hawke asked the lady, whose name was Arianni. After taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, she told Hawke the full story while Bethany and Merrill introduced themselves to each other.

Hawke placed a hand over his mouth and gave Bethany a grave glance. "We need to find him, quick. He could be..." Bethany nodded in understanding.

"I didn't know what else to do!" Arianni sobbed. "I thought I was doing the right thing but now I don't know where he's gone and… oh!" She broke down again.

"Listen Merrill," said Hawke. "You stay with Arianni. Beth, I'll take you to the Hanged Man, and you and Varric can go and see if Fenris will join us, while I fetch Anders. The more of us there are, the better our chances will be." He turned to Arianni. "I will look for the boy's father and, failing that, we'll talk to the templars." He lowered his voice and muttered under his breath, "although Varric and Fenris can do that. Come on, Beth."

Arianni, too distraught to offer thanks, was led inside by Merrill as Hawke and Bethany departed the alienage.

"So much for a quiet drink at the Hanged Man, eh, Beth?" moaned Hawke.

"Oh, I don't know. After the day I've had at home, I welcome a bit of adventure," Bethany replied with a smile.

"You love all this, don't you?"

"Of course, Brother!" She slipped her arm around his. "Are you sure you want to leave me alone with Varric, Fletcher? Shouldn't you be chaperoning us?"

"What for? I'd trust Varric with my life." Bethany grinned and placed a peck on her brother's cheek. "Question is, Beth, can I trust _you_?"

"Oh, shut up!" she laughed, and they made their way to the Hanged Man in light spirits.


	5. I Give Them An Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders's mouth fell open. "The best course of action? Those bastards will make him tranquil first and ask questions later!"
> 
> "That would be prudent," said Fenris.

Anders and Hawke were first to arrive back at the Hanged Man, and Hawke bought them both a pint while they waited for Varric, Bethany and possibly Fenris to return. Hawke could tell that Anders was not pleased at the thought of the elf joining them on their latest escapade, and decided to have it out with his friend.

"Like it or not, Fenris is going to be working with us from now on. Well, at least I think he will. I did ask him and he didn't seem opposed to the idea. Are we going to have problems?"

"Why are you asking me, Hawke? You're bringing along someone who hates mages to help look for an apostate who is quite possibly possessed? If there are going to be any problems, they'll come from him, not me."

Hawke leaned forward and fixed his eyes on Anders. "I think there's room for give-and-take on both sides. I'll be speaking to Fenris, as well."

"Oh, so it's only _partly_ my fault that, because his master was a mage, then every other mage in Thedas must be just as cruel and evil? That's perfectly reasonable, isn't it?"

Hawke sank back in his chair with a groan and supped at his pint before setting his tankard on the table. "Merrill," he said simply.

" _Merrill_? What about her?" Anders asked, clearly confused.

"You're telling me your reaction to her was 'perfectly reasonable'?"

"She's a bl-!" he glanced around and lowered his voice. "She's a blood mage, in case you'd forgotten!"

"And what's wrong with that?"

Anders nearly choked on his pint. "Are you insane? Did you hear about what happened at the Circle in Ferelden?"

"Yes, I did. The mages were led by one blood mage, who _was_ insane, and his followers were a mixture of the gullible and the witless. Blood magic had nothing to do with that. All right, granted, they were able to summon demons and turn people into abominations, but any mage is capable of staging a coup or losing their marbles."

"So you're saying it's all right that they summoned demons and such like?"

"No, Anders, I'm not saying that at all. I'm just saying that there are good and bad in all walks of life. Could you really see Merrill doing something like that? She's scared of her own shadow."

Anders shook his head vigorously. "It's still not right," he insisted. "Blood magic is used at the pleasure of a demon, a demon that the mage has actually conversed with and offered something in return for that knowledge. We may not be able to see the demon, but it's always there."

"Anders… don't you think you're being a bit hypocritical?" asked Hawke with a furrowed brow. "I've seen you do things that you couldn't possibly do without Justice. Sometimes he uses magic through you that I've never seen before, and which certainly wouldn't be sanctioned by the Chantry. What's the difference between that and blood magic?"

"Justice is not a demon! That's the difference, Hawke!" Anders pointed out, his eyes hardening at Hawke's unconvinced expression.

"Well, I've met benevolent spirits of the Fade before, and they certainly wouldn't have done what he did to those templars at the chantry when we went to rescue Karl."

"They deserved it!" spat Anders.

"Deserved to be turned inside out? What for? Doing their jobs?" demanded Hawke.

Anders didn't even try to hide his astonishment. "I can't believe that you of all people are defending the Templars! If they'd succeeded, I would now be tranquil and you and your sister would be locked up in the Gallows!"

"I know that, Anders, and I know _they_ attacked _us_. I'm not arguing with you there, but Justice reduced them to piles of bloody, quivering goo! Are you telling me they deserved that for doing their duty?"

"Look," said Anders impatiently, "obviously you didn't see what went on at the Circle Tower, but…"

"Precisely. I didn't. That event has coloured your perception of blood magic, Anders, just as Fenris's enslavement has coloured his perception of mages."

Anders rolled his eyes and folded his arms tightly. "Now I see. I was wondering why you'd brought this up out of the blue."

"Aren't I right, though? You have your prejudices, as does Fenris, and all because of a single person or event. I'm not necessarily advocating blood magic, but what I'm trying to say is that not all blood mages are evil incarnate, and I will be having a similar discussion with Fenris to convince him that _you_ are not evil incarnate just because you're host to a spirit."

Anders finished his pint off and regarded Hawke sceptically as he continued.

"There are enough mages running around Kirkwall giving the rest of us a bad name, Anders. Let us be the ones who set an example to others. Show Fenris, and everyone else, that we're good people who just happen to have unique abilities."

"All right, Hawke, I'll give it a try," Anders agreed with a sigh, "but what if the elf doesn't agree?"

"Then that's up to him, isn't it? If he wants to let bitterness rule him, that's his choice and nothing to do with _us_." He offered his hand to Anders. "We mages must stick together."

Anders shook Hawke's hand and smiled thinly. "Agreed. I'll do my part, for you, but if he's unreasonable, or keeps calling me an abomination-"

"Then at least you can say you tried."

Anders nodded and stood up, a lop-sided grin on his face. "You should have been a politician. Another?" he offered, pointing to the bar.

"Not for me, thanks. I had a bit of wine earlier on. Well, a lot, actually."

Anders wandered over to the bar to order his second pint, and Hawke watched the entrance to the pub carefully. Varric and Bethany should be arriving soon, and hopefully Fenris would also be with them. The thought of Fenris being stuck on his own in that creepy mansion was as disturbing to Hawke as the thought of Anders living in the rat-infested shit pit that was Darktown. He hoped, albeit somewhat optimistically, that Anders and Fenris would become friends, and resolved to do his best to make that happen. He'd voiced his plans to Bethany, but her response had not filled him with hope.

"I give them an hour," she'd commented.

No sooner had Anders joined him back at the table, than Varric and Bethany arrived with Fenris in tow. Hawke stood and invited them all to sit, pulling out the chair next to Anders for the elf. Fenris looked uncomfortable for a moment before taking a seat, not wishing to appear rude. Hawke called for some wine to be brought over and took his own seat.

"Thank you for coming, Fenris. I appreciate it was short notice, but something urgent has come up." Fenris nodded once and Hawke leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "We've been asked to locate a young boy who's gone missing. Normally I wouldn't get involved in anything like this, but, well, these are special circumstances."

"The dwarf explained these… circumstances," Fenris began and Anders shifted in his seat, but took a deep breath and kept quiet. "It is my understanding that the boy may be possessed. If that is so, he must be neutralised immediately."

" _Neutralised_?" Anders cut in. "What do you-!"

"Our main priority is to locate the boy and ascertain his status," Hawke interposed. "Only then can we decide what is to be done."

"There is only one thing _to_ be done," insisted Fenris. "This must be brought to the attention of the Templar Order. It is _they_ who should decide the best course of action, not us."

Anders's mouth fell open. "The best course of action? Those bastards will make him tranquil first and ask questions later!"

"That _would_ be prudent," said Fenris.

Anders swivelled round to face Fenris, his face red, but was silenced when Hawke grabbed his arm. "There are special reasons for not involving the Templars," said Hawke, keeping a tight grip on Anders's sleeve. "The boy would run a mile from them, but might respond better to fellow mages."

"Fellow _apostates_ , you mean," Fenris commented with a challenging look at Hawke.

"That's right," he answered, holding Fenris's gaze. "Are you in, or not?"

"I insisted upon being 'in' as soon as I was apprised of the situation. At least with me here, any actions you take might not be completely one-sided, and tempered with common sense."

"Good," answered Hawke, speaking quickly to pre-empt an outburst from Anders. "This is what needs to be done. Anders and I managed to speak to the boy's father before he closed shop for the night. He told us that a former templar named Samson would have information. I need the two of you…" He glanced at Fenris and Varric. "…to speak to him and learn what you can. He sounds a bit shady though, so watch yourselves."

"You will not be accompanying us?" asked Fenris.

"As you so adroitly pointed out, we're apostates," Anders said, rolling his eyes. "Why would we make ourselves known to a templar, former or otherwise?"

"And from what I hear," Varric added, "this guy would sell his own mother for a pinch of lyrium dust, so we can't be too careful, can we, Sunshine?" he asked with a glance at Bethany, who shook her head in response.

"The Templars have already tried to lay a trap for Anders," she explained. "They're crafty and we don't trust any of them."

Fenris nodded but looked puzzled. "If they are after you," he said to Anders, "why do they not simply capture you, and be done with it?"

"We don't think any of the templars who were after me in the first place survived," Anders answered.

Fenris sat upright in his chair. "You… killed them?"

"We had no choice," Hawke defended. "They were ready and waiting for us and had used one of Anders's friends as a lure."

"They'd made him tranquil for no reason whatsoever other than to lure us there!" Anders added heatedly.

Fenris raised a slightly sceptical eyebrow. "Your so-called friend aided the templars, then?"

Anders shot to his feet and Hawke followed. "Anders…"

"He had no choice but to aid them!" Anders hissed through gritted teeth. "They took a decent man and turned him into one of their puppets!"

"Fenris, whatever your feelings are about mages," Hawke added, "the templars broke the law by making him tranquil. He was no blood mage, no abomination. He was a harrowed mage who happened to be friends with Anders."

"So, you released him once the templars were defeated?" asked Fenris.

Anders pulled out a small knife from inside his coat and pointed it at Fenris. "No. I killed him. With _this_ knife."

"You _killed_ your _friend_?" Fenris asked in horror.

"He begged me to!" protested Anders, his voice trembling. "I would rather be dead than be made tranquil! I don't expect _you_ to understand that, elf!" The knife clattered noisily on the table as Anders threw it down and stormed out of the pub.

"He's still upset about it," Bethany whispered.

"Clearly," Fenris said pithily.

Hawke cleared his throat. "Excuse me."

He found Anders outside, leaning against a wall with his arms folded. Hawke stopped a few feet away and leaned on the wall beside him. For a few moments, neither spoke.

"So much for 'Anders being nice to Fenris', eh?" Anders said with a slightly bitter laugh.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Hawke. "You _could_ have thrown the knife at _him_ , but instead you threw it at the table. There's hope, yet!"

Anders turned to him and half-smiled. "Always the optimist, eh, Hawke?" His smile faded and he moved a little closer to Hawke. "Are you sure about this? Sending him to talk to an ex-templar? He could turn us all in, you know."

"He could, couldn't he?" answered Hawke with a crafty smile.

"Is this why you're bringing him along with us? To test him?"

"I can't work with someone I don't trust, Anders. I trust Varric and I _sort_ of trust you," he joked, and Anders laughed. "This ex-templar's a complete wreck by the sound of it. He's the best chance we have to prove that Fenris won't betray us. After we've spoken to the templar, we can have him tracked to see if he tries anything, though I doubt he'll even notice. I just want you to know that, although I do want Fenris to work with us, I'm not ignoring your concerns."

"Thanks, Hawke. I'm glad you listen to at least some of the things I say."

"Some," Hawke replied with a wink at his friend. "Fuck me, Anders, my head hurts," he said, clutching his forehead. "You know, you should make friends with Fenris for his wine, if nothing else. He gave me a bottle earlier. Nearly took my bloody head off, it did."

Anders shook his head, clucking his tongue. "It usually _does_ if you drink it all in one go, Hawke."

"I take exception to that remark."

"Well, you can still form cogent sentences. You're not too far gone, yet."

A lull took the conversation once again, and Hawke sighed before glancing at Anders. "You know something? You were right. Those templars deserved everything they got. Maybe Justice was a bit heavy-handed, but…"

"Eh? I thought you said they were only doing their duty?"

"They weren't though, were they? Not really. They abused their position and turned an innocent mage tranquil. I'm sorry, Anders - I forgot about poor Karl, and how much he meant to you."

A soft smile graced Anders's face, and he sighed. "Yes, poor Karl. He was a good friend."

"You know what we need?" asked Hawke. "A good night out. How about tomorrow we dig into our funds a little and treat ourselves?"

" _Treat_ ourselves?" Anders asked in amusement. "I take it you're not planning on a night at the Hanged Man, then?"

"Absolutely not," Hawke replied with a knowing wink.

"You're on!" Anders agreed.

At that moment, Varric exited the pub and made a beeline for the two mages. "There you both are. Listen, I just heard something that may interest the two of you. There could be money in it, as well."

"I'm all ears," said Hawke.

"Well, apparently some templar recruits have been going missing, about half a dozen so far. The Templars are at a loss to explain it."

Hawke and Anders exchanged a puzzled glance. "Why would _we_ care about disappearing templars, Varric?" asked Anders. "The fewer of them around, the better!"

Varric lowered his voice. "It's a poorly-kept secret in Kirkwall that certain templars know of certain apostates who do certain _things_ for them. I've known a couple of mages over the years who've done work for the templars, and the Chantry has deep pockets."

Hawke shook his head. "If you're suggesting that we work against mages…"

"How are you working against mages, here? You could do a service for the templars, they pay you, and they keep you 'in mind' for another time. What that means in real terms is that they might stop knocking on Blondie's door, and that the two of you and Sunshine could relax a little."

"He has a point, Anders," Hawke agreed. "What do you think?"

Anders folded his arms. "I have no problem taking money from the Chantry, but I won't go against my own kind to do so."

"Neither will I," insisted Hawke.

"Great!" Varric chirped. "How about this - after we've spoken to that Samson guy, I take the elf across to the Gallows, see what we can find out, and the three of you follow up on the missing kid. Whad'ya say?"

"Sounds like a fine plan," Hawke said, shaking Varric's hand.

~o~O~o~

The three mages stayed at the Hanged Man while Varric and Fenris went to see Samson, returning a short time later.

Varric leaned casually against a table, cleaning his nails with a dagger as he related the details of the meeting. "Our boy's looking for a way out of the Free Marches, but didn't have enough coin to book passage. That templar put him in touch with some people who may be able to smuggle him out for free."

"I have heard of such operations before," Fenris added with a scowl. "The victims are promised safe passage to a destination of their choosing and are then sold into slavery. There can be no further delay in locating the boy."

"Oh, I'm heartened to see you take such an interest in his welfare all of a sudden!" sniped Anders. "Aren't you forgetting something? He's an abomination and must be _neutralised_."

"All right! That's enough out of you two!" ordered Hawke. "Whatever the reasons, we need to find him _fast_. Any leads, Varric?"

"Yeah. There's an abandoned warehouse at the docks which is being used as a staging area."

"The docks?" Hawke asked dubiously. "That's nowhere _near_ the Gallows, is it?"

Varric shrugged. "It could be a load of horsecrap for all I know. I think the guy would have told us anything for some lyrium."

Anders laughed. "Hey! You should have offered to let him lick Fenris!"

Fenris's top lip curled in disgust and he positioned himself directly in front of Anders. "Any who attempt such a thing will expire before they hit the ground, _Mage_."

"Anyway, we're headed for the docks as well, Hawke," chortled Varric. "Don't worry, we'll protect you from the _bad templar men_."

"Kiss my hairy arse, dwarf," Hawke said in reply, and they set off for the docks in good spirits, all except Fenris, who shook his head, softly cursing under his breath as they left.

~o~O~o~

While Hawke and his magi companions investigated the warehouse, Fenris and Varric took the boat to the Gallows, which looked even more ominous than usual, its silhouette thrown into sharp relief against the golds and violets of the setting sun behind it.

"So, this is where the mages reside," remarked Fenris once they'd disembarked. "Well, _most_ of them, anyway."

"Yeah, not very homely, is it? Could do with a splash of colour here and there," offered Varric.

"It is the best place for them."

Varric frowned. "Come on, elf, that's a little harsh, don't you think?"

Fenris shook his head gravely. "You would agree, had you seen the things I have."

"This isn't the Imperium, buddy," Varric stated, "and the mages here are not magisters."

"But there are apostates, blood mages, here," Fenris argued. "The one who travels with you, the one you call 'Blondie', is possessed!"

"Blondie? Possessed? Don't make me laugh!" snorted Varric. "He's a little mixed up, sure, but that kid's as soft as putty." He glanced around. "Just don't mention the _Templars_ to him, that's all."

As if on cue, two templars approached them and blocked their path. "What's your business at the Gallows, dwarf, elf?" asked one of them.

"Well, human, human," replied Varric, looking them up and down, "we're here to trade with some of your tranquil merchants."

"At this hour?"

"Oh, I'm sorry! Have they all gone to beddy-byes?"

The templar on the left folded his arms. "All right, smart mouth. Be quick, though, and don't get distracting the recruits. I've seen you here before. You could talk the hind legs off a donkey."

Varric flashed his most charming smile and bowed with a flourish. "I believe the word is _ass_ , messere."

Fenris turned away and started coughing.

"Go on through, then," said the frowning templar, who was unsure whether he'd just been insulted or not.

"Come on, elf. Hey, are you ok?" asked Varric

"I am, dwarf," he answered and, as he turned to join Varric, his lips quivered slightly.

"So, that's how elves laugh, huh?"

" _Laugh_? As you mock an authority figure? Certainly not."

"So, he has a sense of humour, after all!" Varric paused as they approached one of the stalls and turned to Fenris, his expression more serious. "Listen, elf. Hawke, Blondie and Sunshine? They're friends of mine. You seem like a good guy and all, but I need to know now if you intend to rat them out to the Templars."

Fenris looked at Varric thoughtfully. "I assume by 'ratting them out' you mean will I inform the Templars of their status as apostates?"

"That's exactly what I mean." Varric's voice was steady, but his expression was hard.

Fenris sighed before shaking his head. "It is not my place."

"Good answer, elf," said Varric and, without thinking, he slapped Fenris's back. Fenris stiffened and stopped for a moment, then continued walking.

"Sorry, did I startle you?"

"No. It's... fine."

Varric grinned to himself and, looking around to ensure none of the other templars were watching, he approached a small group of recruits who stood chatting in a corner.

~o~O~o~

Later that evening, the five met up yet again at the Hanged Man as previously arranged, and exchanged information.

Hawke produced a slip of paper he'd found at the warehouse and placed it on their table. "I'm afraid your suspicions were correct, Fenris." He pushed the document toward the elf, who glanced at it briefly.

"So I see," said Fenris, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Hawke's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he took the document back. "Well, um, as it says on here, money has changed hands for 'cargo', namely one elven youth. As Fenris predicted, the boy has been sold into slavery." He ran his finger down to the bottom of the document. "This bill of sale originated from a den in Darktown - that's our next stop."

"We found this, as well," said Bethany, producing a handwritten letter. "We came across a poor girl who was being attacked by some men. She turned into an abomination and we were forced to kill her."

" _Poor girl_?" Fenris commented derisively. "She turns into an abomination and attacks you, and you feel pity for her?"

"Why, yes," Bethany answered. "She was obviously desperate to resort to that."

"The letter is addressed to her father," Hawke cut in as Fenris gaped in bewilderment. "A templar at the Gallows named Thrask."

Fenris shook his head and laughed mockingly. "It gets better and better! A man who is charged with protecting the public conceals the fact his own daughter is one of the creatures he is meant to hunt down! The hypocrisy is staggering."

Anders leaned across the table and bristled. "What in the Maker's name is wrong with you? We've got to tell the poor man his daughter is dead! Don't you care about that?"

Hawke's eyes narrowed as he looked at Fenris. "Well, obviously we won't be asking _you_ to deliver the news. Varric, can I leave that to you?"

"Sure thing, Hawke," Varric replied, pocketing the letter with a sigh.

"What did you learn about the templar recruits?" Hawke asked.

A small smirk crossed Varric's lips. "Well, almost every one of them is a regular patron at the Blooming Rose..."

Hawke and Anders exchanged a glance and sniggered.

"…I see you boys are already familiar with _that_ particular establishment," Varric noted.

"What's the Blooming Rose?" Bethany asked innocently.

"A club of sorts, dear lady," Varric answered. "Not the kind of place for you to visit."

"That's right," Hawke concurred sternly.

"Hmph. I _see_ ," Fenris commented as Bethany's brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Anyway," continued Varric, "the latest recruit to go missing is a young kid named Keran. Apparently even the knight-captain has had no joy getting any information, but we might have more luck, being as none of us are templars. I guess I won't need to ask for volunteers?" he asked drily.

"Actually, Anders and I were sort of planning to visit… _Hightown_ tomorrow night," Hawke said helpfully, his eyes moving to the exit. "It's a bit of a bind, but we _could_ bring our plans forward, you know, to help the poor templars out."

" _Anything_ to help the poor templars!" Anders chirped, already rising from his seat.

" _Disgraceful_ ," Fenris spat, tightly crossing his arms.

"I know, but what can you do?" laughed Hawke as he followed Anders out. "You're welcome to join us, Fenris - my treat!"

Fenris didn't need to reply - his expression spoke a thousand words, each of them biting.

"So, I guess _we'll_ check out Darktown, then?" Varric called after them.

"Oh, would you?" asked Hawke as Anders grabbed his arm and yanked him through the doorway. "…Thank you!"

~o~O~o~

Fenris, his spirits buoyed after slaughtering several slavers in Darktown, waited outside the Blooming Rose with Varric and Bethany after finding no sign of Hawke or Anders at the Hanged Man.

"What's taking them so long in there?" Bethany asked impatiently.

"They are obviously conducting a _thorough_ investigation," said Fenris sourly.

"Hold up, I'll go get them," Varric offered and entered the building, leaving Fenris and Bethany to share an awkward silence.

"Excuse me, miss," said a gruff voice from behind them, and Bethany stepped aside to let the man pass.

"Uncle!" she exclaimed.

"Bethany!" spluttered Gamlen, his eyes almost bulging out of his head. "I, errrr… what-what brings you here?"

"We're waiting for Fletcher and Anders. What are _you_ doing here?"

"I, um, I just fancied a walk, that's all."

"At _midnight_?" Fenris sneered, arching an eyebrow.

"Y-yes, well, there are fewer people about," Gamlen claimed.

"You _are_ a strange one, Uncle," Bethany commented as the doors to the Blooming Rose flew open, and a giggling Anders and Hawke spilled out.

"Like fucking _udders_ they were, Varric!" Anders slurred noisily, making a 'squeezing' gesture with his hands. "I gave them a good milk- _Bethany_!" Anders's face dropped as he spotted Hawke's sister. "I-I… I'm sorry, Bethany."

"Uncle!" Hawke blundered over to Gamlen and swallowed him in a hug. Gamlen pushed him away and wrinkled his nose.

"You're _drunk_!" he accused. "Whatever would your mother say?"

"Well, I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear that her family are out on the town together," Hawke said pointedly. "At the same _place_."

"As I explained to your sister, I was out for a stroll."

Anders and Hawke fell about laughing at his preposterous claim.

"And I suppose _you_ were in there just for a friendly drink?" snapped Gamlen.

"Me, Uncle? No, I went in there for a quick fuck."

"Brother, really!" Bethany huffed, her face reddening.

"Come on, Hawke, there are ladies present," Varric scolded.

"Yes, I'm sorry, Sister," said Hawke with an pleading look at Bethany, who rolled her eyes. "Well, Uncle Gamlen, don't let us keep you from your… stroll."

Gamlen cleared his throat and straightened his posture, his eyes flitting towards the door. "Yes, well… don't you have somewhere to be?"

"No."

"Fine," growled Gamlen as he stomped away.

"Oh, Uncle?" Hawke called after him. "The next time you go for a stroll, I highly recommend Angus as a _walking companion_. He's very… _flexible_."

"And he'll go as far as you like! On your _stroll_ , that is," Anders joined in. Gamlen shot them one final withering glance before heading for Lowtown.

"Okay, fellas," Varric said to the still-laughing pair. "What did you find out about the missing templars?"

In unison, their faces fell and they stopped laughing. "Erm, about that…" Hawke began, scratching his head. "We were _going_ to, but the funniest thing happened…"

"You didn't even ask, did you?" Fenris bit out. "I've heard enough. _I_ shall find out." He pushed past Hawke and entered the brothel, letting the door slam behind him.

"I blame myself," Varric said quietly. "I should never have let the two of you loose in there! I'm going to have to confiscate your money, next time."

"Sorry, Papa," Hawke said ruefully, and he and Anders once again started sniggering.

"Are either of you in any state to help rescue that kid? We know where he is now, and the elf insists that we go as soon as possible."

"Of course!" Anders said indignantly. "I feel like walking on air!"

"And I'll go anywhere with you, dear friend." Hawke wrapped an arm around Varric's shoulders, who groaned in defeat. "Just don't ask me to sit down for a while, that's all."

After several minutes, the door to the Blooming Rose was flung open, and Fenris stalked out. "Darktown," he said bluntly.

"What about Darktown?" asked Hawke.

"That is where we need to go."

"And who told you that?"

"A whore. She attempted to use a mind control technique on me. She was unsuccessful," he said with a cold smile.

"What?" asked Anders, his eyes darting between Fenris and Hawke.

"She _was_ a blood mage," Fenris explained haughtily. "But no more."

"You killed her?" Anders demanded, reluctant to praise the elf for his actions.

Varric grabbed Anders by the arm and began to pull him away. "Perhaps we'd better make skedaddle plans, Blondie, before somebody _finds_ her?"

"You _killed_ her?" Hawke asked Fenris in dismay, suddenly feeling quite sober.

"I did, before she killed me," Fenris answered calmly as he walked away.

"Did she even _try_ to kill you?" Hawke accused.

" _Yes_ ," answered Fenris in a scathing tone. "I do not simply go around murdering mages, despite what you and your friends may think."

"Nobody's suggesting that, Fenris," said Bethany.

"I am," Anders chipped in, too inebriated to really know what he was outraged about. "Did you even _know_ she was a blood mage before you-"

"Enough pissing around! Let's go!" Varric ordered.

Hawke stood still for a moment with his head in his hands. Bethany placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "I don't think those two are ever going to get on, Brother. It was a nice thought, though."

Hawke uncovered his face and took one of Bethany's hands in his. "An hour? More like five minutes. Don't ever change, Sister. Your optimism may be blind, but it's the only kind we have."

"I promise," she said with a smile, which quickly faded as she glanced down at her hand. "Fletcher… you _did_ wash your hands before you left, didn't you?"

"I don't remember," he said in a sly tone. "I _have_ had a few, you know."

"Fletcher!" She tried to extricate her hand from his, but he tightened his grip.

"My hand appears to be stuck to yours, Sister. For some reason."

"You're a _terrible_ man!" she squealed, and tried to pull away by running ahead, but Hawke jogged alongside her, both of them laughing, and Bethany squirming, as they caught up to the others.


	6. Fenris Makes a New Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's wrong, Brother?"
> 
> Hawke watched the others and made sure they were out of earshot. "Justice knows."
> 
> "You mean…?"
> 
> Hawke nodded, his expression grim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mary for helping with a philosophical problem. :-)
> 
> Thank you also to everyone following the story and for your kind words and kudos.

Having determined that the young apostate, Feynriel, was being held at a location outside of Kirkwall, a fuzzy-headed Hawke and his eclectic group of companions decided to investigate the missing templars en route, and made their way to Darktown.

Unfortunately, though, this did not turn out to be the short detour they'd hoped for. As they neared the location provided by Idunna, the blood mage that Fenris had killed at the Blooming Rose, they were attacked by several undead creatures and abominations, the appearance of which had caused a panic among the residents of the Undercity.

As the charming Varric helped settle the stricken folk of Darktown, an agitated Fenris paced back and forth as he and the others waited for the dwarf to return.

"Is this what it means to work alongside mages?" he muttered to no one in particular, although he had the mages' full attention. "When we scoured Danarius's mansion, we were beset by abominations and inhabitants of the Fade. And now, as we investigate a flimsy account of missing templars, once again these… these creatures seem to be drawn to us!"

He turned to face Anders, Hawke and Bethany. "Do you people attract them? Are they made flesh by your connection to their realm?"

"Of course they're attracted to us," Hawke said matter-of-factly, folding his arms. "We're mages. We, however, did not summon them. The creatures that appeared in Danarius's mansion were summoned by him or one of his lackeys. As for the creatures here…"

" _More_ blood mages are here, then," Fenris said heavily.

"Danarius is a blood mage?" asked Bethany.

"Yes," Fenris growled, and then softened his voice, not wishing to be impolite to a lady, mage or not. "The most powerful magisters all practise blood magic. It is in their interests to do so, for those who do not acquire such power are usually short-lived."

"You must have seen some terrible things," Anders commented, and Bethany and Hawke exchanged an incredulous glance.

Surprised by his statement, Fenris looked at Anders warily and considered his answer. "I have witnessed horrors you cannot possibly imagine, nor would I ever wish you to, any of you." He shook his head and stared at the ground. "I have no doubt that many mages have good intentions, but blood magic is a cancer that consumes them from the inside out and leaves nothing but an empty shell, waiting to be inhabited by the demon they bargained with."

"Couldn't agree with you more," Anders stated. "If that woman at the Blooming Rose really _was_ a blood mage, then you did us all a favour. I, uh… I _might_ have overreacted a bit to that. I do that sometimes, so I've been told," he admitted with a quick glance at Hawke.

A small smile crept along Bethany's face, but Hawke shifted his weight and fiddled with his belt distractedly. Detecting his discomfort, she took a step forward, addressing Anders and Fenris. "It's nice to see the two of you finally agreeing on something."

"Well, make the most of it, Bethany," replied Anders, grinning. "It won't last long."

"Undoubtedly," Fenris agreed, his expression neutral.

"Here's Varric," said Hawke, glad of the opportunity to change the subject.

"Panic's over, folks," announced the dwarf. "I told them all to stay back and that we'd take care of the skeletons and... things." He grinned up at Bethany. "Several of the men shook my hand, and one lady even gave me a kiss," he boasted, stroking his left cheek.

"Did she really?" asked Bethany, leaning down a little. "Well, here's a matching one for you." She placed a chaste peck on his right cheek and straightened up. Varric chuckled to himself and flushed slightly.

"Sister," Hawke teased in a stern tone. "Kindly conduct yourself in a manner befitting a lady."

"Oh, like the manner in which you and Anders conducted yourselves in Hightown?"

"She's got you there, fellas," Varric pointed out, and Hawke rolled his eyes before winking at Bethany.

"Only _we're_ not ladies," Anders quipped. "Although _Angus_ may disagree on that in your case, wouldn't you say, Hawke?"

"I'm sure I don't know _what_ you mean, Anders."

"Let us not tarry," Fenris cut in. "We must seek out these blood mages without further delay."

"After you, my good elf," invited Varric, and the other four followed the warrior down to the lower levels.

On the way, Hawke and Bethany dropped back a little. "Do you get the feeling that things are going a little too well?" Hawke asked his sister, frowning.

"How do you mean, Brother?"

"Well, Anders and Fenris actually _agreed_ on something, you snogged Varric…"

"I did not _snog_ him!"

"Huh. Makes me wonder. If you're prepared to do that in _public_ , then what do you get up to when I'm not around?"

" _Hightown_ ," Bethany said pointedly.

Hawke cast a sour glance toward her. "You get _one_ more use of that word tonight, and then we're even!"

"One more? I'll remember that," she laughed. "Although I reserve the right to use it infinite times in front of Uncle Gamlen."

"On that, dear sister, you have my blessing."

"Hawke!" Varric frantically called from up ahead, and Hawke's head snapped up in time to see Varric place himself between Anders, who stood in a doorway with his back to them, and Fenris, who had stopped dead and was reaching for his sword.

"What's going on?" asked Hawke as he ran to join them.

"It's Blondie!" Varric hissed, pointing at Anders, who remained facing away from them in the doorway, his hands braced against the walls. "He's doing that… _glowing_ thing he did in the chantry!"

"His demon has shown itself," snarled Fenris, assuming an attack stance in readiness.

"Put that away!" Hawke commanded in a harsh whisper, pushing Fenris's sword down.

"And leave myself defenceless against a demon?"

"That is a spirit of justice," Hawke explained quietly, so Anders could not hear. "If you attack it, it will consider it _just_ to defend itself, and believe me, Fenris, you're much better looking with your skin on the right way round!"

"He's right, Elf," Varric counselled. "Seriously, do as he says."

"He _won't_ attack you without provocation," Hawke promised. " _Please_ ," he urged, gritting his teeth.

As Fenris and Hawke stared each other down, Varric cautiously walked closer to Anders. Bethany stayed back.

"Fenris, I'm asking you to trust me," Hawke said in a grave tone.

"I hardly know you," replied Fenris. "Am I to take the word of-"

"Just do as I say," implored Hawke, grabbing Fenris's arms. The elf froze, his eyes bulging and his breathing quickening.

"I'm sorry," said Hawke, immediately releasing Fenris from his grip. "I didn't mean to…"

Fenris gulped and took a step back, his eyes still locked with Hawke's, the colour having drained from his face.

"Brother!" Bethany urged, pointing behind Hawke. He turned and startled as he came face-to-face with Justice, who stood behind him.

"I will not harm you," Justice assured Fenris in a booming voice. "Save your weapon for the minions of the Void that await us up ahead."

"Put it _away_ ," Hawke repeated and this time, Fenris complied. Feeling humiliated by his show of vulnerability, however, his expression hardened and he cast a deadly glance at Justice.

"I am watching you, spirit," he warned.

"Do what you will," replied Justice, apparently unconcerned. "Come," he ordered, walking back to the doorway. "Foul creatures of the Fade are abroad. We must purge this realm of their loathsome influence."

"Sounds just dandy, Justice," Varric remarked drily, raising his eyebrows at the others as they followed the spirit through the doorway and onto a landing with some steps leading down to yet another level of Darktown. Several makeshift beds and meagre belongings lay strewn about, having been hastily abandoned by the panicked residents.

"See there," commanded Justice, pointing downward as they stopped on the landing. His companions moved forward, keeping a cautious distance from the spirit, and looked down.

"What in the Maker's name is _that_?" exclaimed Hawke, his mouth hanging open.

On the level below them, a young man hung suspended in mid-air, his body curled into the foetal position. A fine mist curled upward from the ground in a spiral, surrounding the young man; it moved very slowly and occasionally flickered with unnatural light.

"A vessel, awaiting inhabitation," explained Justice. "Perhaps we are not too late," he mused thoughtfully.

"Is he alive?" asked Bethany.

"He lives," Justice answered and began to descend the steps, leaving the others to share uncertain glances. Fenris pushed ahead, positioning himself between Justice and the others as they followed the spirit down. Justice noticed this and looked at Fenris approvingly. "With me, brave Elf," he said, stalking ahead. "We are of a kind, you and I."

Fenris stopped dead. "We are nothing alike, spirit!"

Justice slowed and turned his head to face the elf. "You are a warrior who seeks to protect the weak, are you not? You would protect your dear ones?"

"They are not my _dear ones_ ," Fenris said with a scowl, noticing from the corner of his eye that Hawke was trying to get his attention, "although I _will_ protect them, yes, from _all_ manner of unnatural creatures." His gaze lingered on Justice for a moment before moving to Hawke.

"Maker's sake, Fenris, just agree with him!" Hawke communicated, sotto voce.

Fenris's scowl deepened but he remained silent and caught up to Justice, who stood examining the trapped young man.

"Fletcher," Bethany whispered to her brother as they arrived next to Fenris, "do you think that man is a templar? With Justice here…"

"Shit!" Remembering his first encounter with Justice at the chantry, sudden panic gripped Hawke. "Keep my sister safe," he ordered Varric.

"Brother! I'm not some-"

"Don't _argue_ with me, Sister." Bethany knew from his tone and hard look that there would be no reasoning with him.

"Come on, Sunshine, better do as big bro says," said Varric, who discreetly removed Bianca from his back and touched Bethany's arm, gently guiding her to a safe distance. She sighed and reluctantly acquiesced.

"What manner of magic is this?" Fenris asked Hawke as he joined him.

Hawke shook his head. "I've no idea. I've never seen anything like this before."

"Have you not?" asked Justice. "That is surprising."

"Why… why would it surprise you?" Hawke stammered, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable indeed under Justice's piercing gaze.

Without answering, Justice turned back to the magical field that surrounded the young man and closed his eyes, outstretching an arm. Fenris looked at Hawke briefly, pondering the spirit's words, but his attention was soon diverted as the field dissipated, and Hawke ran forward as the young man fell to the ground with a thud.

"Are you all right?" He knelt down and shook the young man - who groaned and rolled over onto his back - by the shoulders. His eyes snapped open, and he clutched at Hawke's arms in a panic.

"Mother! The lights!" he babbled.

"Shhh… it's all right, you're safe, now," Hawke said in a soothing voice, his eyes roaming over the handsome young man's bare chest. He then blinked and took a deep breath, scolding himself for having such thoughts.

He offered the lad a hand up, and helped him to his feet. "Are you Keran?" he asked.

"Keran… yes, that's my name," he mumbled, bewildered. "Oh, thank the Maker! I thought he had abandoned me!"

"Just calm down," said Hawke. "What happened to you?"

"I-I don't know what they did to me… there were demons… my head…" He clutched his head, swaying, and Hawke grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

"Clearly, he has succumbed," surmised Fenris.

"No," Justice countered, striding forward toward the terrified-looking recruit. Keran backed away, almost stumbling over in his haste. "He is not possessed."

"We are to take your word? How do we know you speak the truth?" Fenris demanded.

"I have stated as such. That is sufficient," Justice replied, dismissing Fenris's concerns. He then walked behind Keran and peered down a tunnel leading off the main chamber. "They approach. Elf, I require your immediate assistance." He then turned to Hawke. "You as well, Mage. It is safe for you, but the female must be protected from their influence."

Justice's grave tone prompted Fenris to unsheathe his sword but Hawke hesitated, feeling a surge of heat though his gut at Justice's words. Did he _know?_ How? He blinked several times and readied his staff, but his mind was elsewhere as four mages entered the chamber. Their leader, a woman wearing garish make-up, gasped upon spotting them and held her hand up for her companions to halt. Her eyes wandered over to the terrified Keran and she glowered at his liberators.

"Tarohne, I assume?" asked Hawke, her name having been supplied by Idunna.

"You dare disturb our vessel? He was almost ready!"

Justice stepped forward and Tarohne immediately took a step back, uncertainty in her eyes. "The vessel was never yours to claim, witch. How many more innocents have you beguiled?"

"Beguiled?" muttered Bethany under her breath. "Looking like _that_?" Varric chuckled and shook his head.

"Innocents? That," Tarohne said, pointing at Keran, "is a templar, one who would keep me and my fellows in bondage!"

Hawke discreetly placed himself between the mages and Keran, watching for Justice's reaction.

"It matters not," Justice stated. "You have unjustly immured this man and kept him from his duties."

"His duties?" Tarohne screeched with a maniacal laugh. "His only duty from now on will be to sew chaos and discord among his peers - a demon among the Templar ranks will be catastrophic! Soon, the order will crumble, and my kind will walk freely among the great and good of Thedas!"

Fenris stepped next to Justice and held his sword ready. "She is obviously insane. Let us slay her and be done with it."

"No!" commanded Justice. "It would be unjust to slay her, as she has slain no one. Stay your hand, Elf."

"It would be _unjust_?" Fenris asked in disbelief. "Who cares for what is just? These are blood mages who have attempted to infiltrate demons into the Templar ranks! They must be stopped!"

"They _will_ be stopped," promised Justice, turning back to Tarohne. "You will yield and surrender yourselves to the Templars, as is just and right, as you intended to bring harm upon their Order."

Hawke's mouth gaped in astonishment and even Fenris, who approved of such an action, frowned, confused.

Tarohne threw her head back and cackled. "Good! The demons like spirit!" She and her minions readied their staves and advanced on Justice and Fenris, who gritted his teeth and readied his own weapon.

"Silence, witch," Justice uttered, and Hawke and Bethany felt a temporary disturbance in the Fade as radiant pools of light surrounded Tarohne and her companions, slowing their movements until they finally stopped, frozen like statues.

"Templar," Justice barked at Keran, who had retreated to the far side of the chamber. "Clothe yourself and summon your masters. Apprise them of what has occurred here."

Keran stayed where he was and looked nervously at Hawke.

"It's all right, Keran. Return to the Gallows and report to the knight-captain," Hawke gently encouraged.

"Cullen knows me," Varric said, approaching them with Bethany at his side. "I helped him out with Wilmod. Tell him Varric's friends have found the culprits."

"I-I…" Keran looked around for his clothes, finding them in a crumpled heap in a corner. He quickly began to dress. Once fully clothed, he tentatively walked nearer to Hawke, his eyes fixed on Justice. "What-what _are_ you?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"He saved your life, Keran," Hawke told him, "and quite probably your job. I don't think you need to mention him in your report, do you?"

"No… I won't, I promise. Th-thank you."

"Are you going to be all right?" Hawke asked.

"Yes, I'll go right away. Will-will your spell last until we return?" he asked Justice.

"It will last until it is undone by one of your brethren," Justice answered. "Have a care when doing so."

Keran nodded rapidly and quickly made his way toward the steps leading up. "Goodbye, and thank you again."

"Take care, Keran," Hawke said, watching the recruit as he departed.

"All right, pervert. You can stop ogling the templar, now."

Hawke gasped and spun round. "Anders? Is that you? You're back?"

Anders frowned a little and nodded.

"Are you all right? Do you remember anything?"

Anders glanced at the frozen blood mages. "Yes, I think so… it's coming back to me, now."

"Anders, I'm confused. I thought Justice hated the Templars? After what happened in the chantry…"

"No, Hawke, you're wrong. Justice hates injustice. What happened at the chantry was unjust, and what happened here was unjust."

"But what he did to those templars…"

"They tried to kill us, Hawke. I heard you warning Fenris not to attack him, so I think you know that already. The blood mages didn't attack us, or rather they didn't get a chance to. It would have been unjust to attack them without cause."

"You heard me speaking to Fenris?"

Anders sighed. "Yes… I was aware of everything that was going on, I just couldn't interact."

"You have no control over the spirit?" asked Fenris, his eyes narrowing.

"Well, no… he obviously deemed it necessary to appear. He must have sensed the blood mages."

"He can _sense_ blood mages?" asked Hawke, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"Of course," explained Anders. "Each blood mage has a connection to a demon in the Fade. As a spirit, Justice resides partially in the Fade, and is aware of their presence." He stepped closer to Hawke. "Look, I've told you, he's a good spirit, and not a demon. I know he's capable of causing huge destruction, but that's because his powers are amplified through me. You may consider what happened at the chantry excessive, but it _was_ just - you said so yourself, Hawke."

Hawke nodded distractedly, his eyes darting to Bethany, who held his gaze for a second before averting her eyes.

"He likes _you_ , Fenris," Anders said to the elf.

"He… _likes_ me?"

"He thinks you're brave, and have strength of conviction." Fenris's nostrils flared in disgust, but he held his tongue.

"Should be interesting, having a third party in on their arguments," quipped Varric. "Well, it's getting late. Can this Feynriel kid wait until tomorrow?"

"No," Fenris and Anders replied in unison.

"I was afraid of that," the dwarf grumbled, his shoulders slumping.

"Why don't you and Bethany call it a night?" Hawke suggested as his sister yawned. "If you walk her home, I'll give you the rest of the night off," he said with a wink.

"My hero!" laughed Varric. "You have a deal. Sunshine, may I escort you home?"

Bethany yawned again. "Yes please, Varric. Will you three be all right without us?"

"Hey, with Justice around, I doubt Blondie needs _any_ of us. Come on," he said to Bethany, hooking his arm.

"Beth, I'd like to speak to you for a moment before you go," said Hawke quietly.

Varric nodded. "Any other takers?" he asked Fenris and Anders, offering his arm.

"No thank you," Fenris answered flatly, and Anders shook his head and laughed. The three of them walked ahead, giving Hawke and Bethany some privacy.

"What's wrong, Brother?"

Hawke watched the others and made sure they were out of earshot. "Justice knows."

"You mean…?"

Hawke nodded, his expression grim.

"Are you sure, Fletcher? How do you know?"

"Anders said Justice could sense blood mages, and Justice dropped a few hints of his own. It's bloody lucky that Fenris didn't pick up on them."

Bethany looked puzzled. "But… Anders doesn't seem to know, does he?"

"No, and that's what I don't understand. It's obvious that Justice can share his thoughts with Anders, or rather Anders can read them in some way - Anders knew that Justice admired Fenris, for example. So why hasn't he told Anders about me? Why would he keep that to himself?"

"Perhaps he feels it's not his place? That it would be unjust to reveal your secret? Perhaps he knows that you haven't used it for years and maybe he approves of that?"

Hawke shook his head. "I don't know, Sister. I don't think I like the idea of Justice knowing and not Anders. I don't want Justice letting it slip at some inopportune moment."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"I'm going to have to tell him," Hawke said in a heavy tone.

The two of them continued on in silence for a few minutes.

"Shit," grumbled Hawke after a while. "I told you things were going too well, didn't I? There were even glimpses of Anders and Fenris getting on a bit. Now, I might lose Anders as friend." He shook his head.

"Take heart, dear brother," said Bethany, slipping her arm around his. "I believe Anders to be a good man. He might be shocked at first, but if he's a true friend, he'll understand. You just have to explain that although you are a blood mage, you turned your back on it several years ago."

"Oh, Bethany, don't you see? The very thing that caused Anders and Fenris to agree in the first place was that Fenris _killed_ a blood mage. He's not going to take it well."

Bethany squeezed her brother's arm and, having no answer for him, the two of them walked on in silence.


	7. The Problem With Feynriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are a fool. This is unwise and irresponsible.”
> 
> “You’re not the first person to call me a fool, and you won’t be the last.”

“What’s wrong with you two?” Anders asked Fenris and Hawke in an annoyingly chirpy voice. “You’d think someone had died!”

Hawke groaned and rubbed his right eye, which twitched, while Fenris, stifling a yawn, ignored them. “We’re tired, Anders,” whined Hawke with a churlish scowl. “You’re far too jaunty for this time of day, or night, or whatever it is. Stop it immediately or my staff is going to have an argument with your arse, and believe me, the staff will win.”

Anders and Fenris’s insistence that they waste no time in seeking out Feynriel had resulted in almost a three-hour journey from Darktown to the Wounded Coast, where they’d learned the boy was being held.

“But just look at that sunrise over Sundermount!”

“Exactly, _sunrise_ ,” Hawke grumbled. “I should be in bloody bed!”

“Justice thinks it’s beautiful,” Anders said, stopping to admire the sight, drawing in a deep lungful of the slightly-damp morning air.

“Does he?” asked Hawke, intrigued. Fenris huffed and continued on.

Anders rolled his eyes and he and Hawke caught up to the elf. “Justice appreciates the things the rest of us take for granted. Like that,” he said, pointing to a small shrub at the side of the path.

“He likes plants?” Hawke asked.

“No…” Anders squatted down and pointed to a spider’s web among the branches that glistened with beads of dew. “…That. Isn’t it wonderful?”

In spite of the way he felt, Hawke couldn't help but smile at the look of wonder on Anders’s face. “I suppose it is.”

“We waste time,” snapped Fenris from up ahead. “If the boy has been transported to Tevinter to begin his life of servitude already, will your spirit find _that_ beautiful?”

“All right, Mardy-arse!” Anders retorted, straightening up. “We’re coming!”

“Look on the bright side, Anders - he’s no longer referring to Justice as a demon,” Hawke said quietly.

“True!” Anders and Hawke resumed their trek behind Fenris, who had insisted on scouting ahead. “Hawke,” whispered Anders. “You’ve been very quiet since we left Darktown, and don’t tell me it’s because you’re tired. Is everything all right?”

Hawke felt his heart sink and he groaned. “No… everything’s not all right. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?” Anders asked, only half-joking.

“Trouble? No!” Hawke scratched his thin beard and sighed. “Although _I_ might be.”

“Spit it out then, Hawke. It doesn't do to dwell on these things.”

“Not here,” Hawke mumbled, not meeting Anders’s eyes. “Not in front of Fenris.”

“Fair enough,” replied Anders, secretly pleased that Hawke was willing to confide in him over the elf. “Maybe when we get back, then? When we've had some sleep.”

“ _Definitely_ when we've had some sleep.” Hawke pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, defeat evident in his sagging shoulders.

“Come on, Hawke,” Anders consoled, slipping an arm around his friend’s back and giving his arm a squeeze. “It can’t be that bad, surely?”

“Oh, Anders…”

“Actually, I think I already know,” Anders said in a grave tone, removing his arm from around Hawke.

Hawke halted and looked at him anxiously. “You do?”

Anders grasped his chin and nodded sagely. “Well, you’re only human, Hawke. If you’re going to admit to me that you've finally given in to the craving, then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you - you’re just not my type. Although I suppose I _could_ manage a pity shag... just the once, mind, and I'm bottoming.”

Hawke’s entire body shook, his nervous energy expended in an explosive burst of laughter. “Oh, all right, then. But there's no way you're bottoming! How about service top?”

“No bloody chance - you can forget it!” Anders chuckled, although his laughter didn't quite reach his eyes as he watched Hawke with concern. He sighed. “Whatever it is, my friend, we’ll work something out, yes?”

Hawke didn't answer and stared straight ahead, his eyes glazing over as his fleeting amusement waned. “Fenris,” he said a moment later with a nod of his head.

The elf was crouched behind a large rock further up the path, where he beckoned to the mages. They quickly made their way over to him, stooping, and ducked behind the rock.

“What is it?” Hawke asked.

“Over there.”

Hawke peered over the rock, looking to the shore, and immediately ducked behind it again. “There’s a ship,” he said to Anders. “Looks like they’re loading cargo.”

“ _Living_ cargo,” Fenris clarified.

Hawke looked over the top of the rock again and watched for a moment. “You’re right,” he whispered. “There are… half a dozen, all elves. Their hands are bound. They’re being led onto the ship.”

“More preceded them,” explained Fenris, frustration in his voice. “There are far too many for us to engage, and we may risk harming the abductees if we try.”

“Have you counted the slavers?” asked Hawke.

Fenris nodded. “By my reckoning there are at least twenty crew members, but there could be more on board.” He shook his head. “We must aid them, but we will be of no help if we are slaughtered in the attempt.”

“We could do with Justice’s help,” Hawke suggested.

Anders shook his head. “Justice is dormant. Either he doesn’t believe an injustice is being committed here, or-”

“How can you say that?” interrupted Fenris, his green eyes cold with fury. “Innocents are being abducted against their will! Or does his brand of so-called justice only apply to humans?”

Anders’s eyes flashed and his expression hardened. “As I was going to say before you interrupted me, he may also be exhausted! It takes a lot out of him to manifest himself, you know! He can’t just appear when someone snaps their fingers!”

“I’m sorry, Anders, I didn’t mean to suggest that Justice is at our beck and call,” said Hawke.

Ignoring him, Anders continued berating Fenris. “And don’t you accuse him of favouring one race over another! Justice acts for all!”

“This is getting us nowhere!” hissed Hawke. “I have an idea. Fenris, keep counting.” He got onto all fours and started to crawl behind the rock face, heading closer to the ship.

“Where are you going?” asked Fenris.

Hawke glanced over his shoulder and grinned at the elf. “I’m going to give our slavers a little something to occupy them - they look bored, to me.”

Anders smiled and bounced on his haunches as he squatted next to Fenris, excited to see what Hawke was going to do.

Once Hawke was satisfied he was in range, he paused for a few moments, watching the movements of the crew. Some of them appeared to be standing guard, but instead of paying attention as they should, they chatted among themselves, clearly not expecting any interference so early in the morning, and at such a remote location.

Taking a deep breath, Hawke slowly stood up and held his staff aloft, opening the Fade and calling flame into existence. In one fluid motion he thrust his staff forward, sending a huge fireball hurtling toward the ship’s hull; it connected and the resulting explosion rocked the vessel.

Hawke threw himself down to the ground and glimpsed Fenris and a snickering Anders peering cautiously over the edge. He crawled back to them and crouched next to Fenris.

“They all just gawked for a second, and then their leader started barking orders at them!” Anders laughed.

Even Fenris looked amused. “Ha! See as they scurry about like ants!”

Hawke grinned, glad for a moment of levity. His eyes lingered on Fenris for a moment, noting how much younger the elf looked when he smiled; his eyes shone and the care he wore so heavily on his brow seemed to lift, softening his features. Fenris’s eyes quickly flitted to Hawke’s, having noticed his scrutiny, and Hawke immediately diverted his gaze back to the ship, feeling something stab at his gut.

“They’re bringing the slaves off the ship,” Anders announced, oblivious to the exchange.

“Of course they are,” replied Fenris. “They are too valuable to be left to perish.”

The three men watched as the ship’s crew fought to extinguish the blaze. After the initial panic, the crew organised themselves and seemed to be winning the battle.

“Looks like we’ll need another one, Hawke,” said Anders.

“No… wait,” Fenris whispered, his features animated. “Look there! One of the slaves has freed himself from his bonds!”

As Fenris pointed him out, sure enough, one of the male elves had loosened the rope around his wrists and let it fall onto the sand; he then moved to the elf in front of him, whispered something, and began to untie his bonds. The men who had been assigned to watch them were far too engrossed with the burning ship to notice.

“Looks like we might have some allies,” said Hawke, waggling his eyebrows.

“Look! They’re all untying each other!” Anders fell silent and held his breath for a moment as the elves discreetly aided each other, his eyes darting anxiously between them and their slaver guards. “Don’t turn around… don’t turn around.”

As the blaze was finally put out, one of them did turn around toward the elves. Immediately, the slaves’ hands went behind their backs and some of them shuffled, kicking sand over the ropes they’d let fall to the ground.

“What are you waiting for?” Anders whispered impatiently. “Batter them!”

“They await an opening,” Fenris answered him.

Hawke shot a glance at the elf. “Well, why don’t we give them one?”

Fenris returned Hawke’s look and the edges of his mouth quirked slightly. “What have you in mind?”

“Well, I think that Anders and I should give those poor men something else to occupy themselves?” he suggested.

Anders grinned delightedly and crouched down on all fours, following Hawke as he crawled toward the shore once again. “Be ready, Fenris,” Hawke quietly instructed the elf.

“I am always ready.” Fenris hefted his sword from his back and followed the mages, moving as silently and elegantly as a cat.

Once at the bottom, Hawke held his hand aloft, signalling for Fenris to halt, and beckoned Anders nearer. “Ready?”

“Ready, Hawke,” Anders answered with a grim smile.

Hawke brazenly stepped out from the cover of the rocks and, placing two fingers in his mouth, issued a high-pitched whistle. Several of the slavers spun round at the sound, and Anders laughed at the look of outrage on their faces as Hawke cheekily waved to them. Before the stunned slavers had had time to react, Hawke and Anders were already casting, and two further fireballs slammed into the ship.

Panic ensued and the slavers, not quite sure whether to attack the intruders or save their ship, scattered in disarray. The enslaved elves took immediate advantage and surged forward, some of them grabbing a fistful of sand and throwing it in their captors’ faces. They still had the disadvantage of being unarmed, however, but Hawke immediately saw to that, placing a strong flame enchantment on the slavers’ weapons, causing the men to shriek in pain and drop their swords and daggers.

A blue blur passed the two mages as they cast from a distance, and Anders gawked in astonishment. “That’s… Fenris! Look at him go!”

The glowing elf darted between the slavers, the shrill whistle of arcing metal piercing the morning air as several heads were cleaved from their shoulders in quick succession. Hawke watched, entranced, for a moment until something else caught his eye - a blond lad, no older than eighteen, had become surrounded by four of his captors. Hawke pointed his staff toward them but didn’t have time to act - the lad placed his hand over his eyes and the slavers were immediately sent hurtling several feet backwards.

“I think that’s our boy, Anders.”

As Fenris and the elves, with the aid of the young mage, seemed to be handling things on the ground, Anders and Hawke ran toward the burning ship and scrambled up the gangplank, where they remained, picking off those who remained on board and adding another couple of fireballs for good measure. When they were certain no one else remained on board they jumped into the water - as the boat, which was of poor make, was by now almost consumed by flames - and swam to shore.

Once on dry land, they shared a grin at the sight that greeted them - the surviving slavers were now restrained with the same rope that had previously bound the elves. Several of the liberated elves approached the mages, offering their hands to shake, and their sincere thanks. Fenris stood far apart from them, however, and waved off any attempt at a handshake. Hawke noted this, having previously thought that Fenris only recoiled at _his_ – a mage’s - touch. As they neared the warrior, Hawke’s face fell. Fenris was bathed in sweat and his normally-bronzed skin had taken on an ashen hue. His breathing appeared laboured and he occasionally winced.

Hawke quietly walked up to Fenris, leaving Anders to revel in the plaudits of the freed slaves and to taunt their captors.

“Fenris, are you feeling all right?” he ventured cautiously.

A flash of irritation crossed the elf’s face and he closed his eyes, pushing one of his palms out toward Hawke. Hawke stopped and watched Fenris anxiously, once again feeling a pang deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you need healing?”

“No,” Fenris answered abruptly, panting, his head snapping up. “I do not need, or want, your magic.” Noticing Hawke’s crestfallen expression, he hung his head and sighed. “It-it would not do any good, anyway. I just… I need a moment.”

“Take as long as you need,” said Hawke softly, inexplicably stung by the elf's words. He returned, frowning, to where Anders stood with the laughing elves and the scowling slavers. Anders had given some of the elves directions to the camps in Darktown, promising them a meal, if not plush accommodation, while others decided to take their chances elsewhere, and they slowly departed, but not before Hawke had called the young mage over to him.

“You’re Feynriel, aren’t you?”

“How-how do you know that? Who _are_ you?” the boy demanded, his arrogant bearing and hands on hips doing nothing to disguise the fact he was terrified.

“Your mother sent us to look for you. She’s very concerned about you.”

“Huh!” snorted Feynriel. “That cow wants to turn me over to the Templars! I suppose that’s what she’s sent you to do?”

Something dangerous flashed in Hawke’s brown eyes and he stalked forward, causing Feynriel to backpedal. “If I’d spoken about my mother in that way when I was your age, I’d have got the belt, and deservedly so!”

“Easy, Hawke,” said Anders. “He’s clearly frightened.”

"One day, that mother of his won't be around, and he may appreciate her more then!"

Anders remained silent, suspecting that Carver was once again on Hawke's mind.

Unwisely, Feynriel did not back down. “ _And_ you set fire to the ship, and just came charging down! You could have hurt us!”

“You ungrateful wretch!” Hawke stormed, cuffing the boy about the head. “I ought to teach you some manners!”

As Feynriel cowered, Anders stepped in between them, and Hawke glowered at the ingrate before turning away. “It’s all right, you’re free to go,” Anders told the boy.

“Wait…” Hawke turned back. “I didn’t say anything about him being free to go.”

“What?” asked Anders, surprised. “Wasn’t this the whole point? To find him and make sure he’s safe?”

“The point was that his mother, who had kept him a secret up until now, suddenly decided he needed to go to the Templars,” Hawke argued. “There must be a good reason for that.”

“I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, Hawke!”

“Feynriel,” Hawke said. “Why does your mother want you to go to the Circle?”

His pride wounded at being slapped about the head, Feynriel pouted. “I don’t see why I have to tell you anything!”

“If you _don’t_ tell me,” threatened Hawke, tired of this cheeky whelp’s attitude, “I’ll take you to the Gallows right now!”

“You’re bluffing!”

Hawke grabbed Feynriel’s arm and pushed him forward. “We’ll see about that.”

“Hawke!” Anders protested.

“All right! I’ll tell you! Just let go of me, you bloody ruffian!” Feynriel shrugged off Hawke’s hand and stepped away from him.

“Talk,” Hawke growled.

Feynriel took a further step back as Fenris approached and stood a few feet away from Hawke. “I-I’ve been having dreams,” admitted the boy.

Anders nodded. “It’s all right, all mages have the occasional dream. You were offered something by a demon? That kind of dream?”

Feynriel nodded.

“All mages have these dreams?” Fenris demanded. “You are tempted by demons on a regular basis?”

“Not regularly, no,” replied Hawke. “Just once in a while. It’s not the dreams that are a problem - so long as the mage resists any offer made, the demons give up and go after someone else,” he explained, his words feeling hollow as they left his mouth.

“I-I know that,” Feynriel said. “The problem is, I’m having these dreams every night, several times a night.”

Hawke’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s not right at all.”

“And that’s not all,” Feynriel continued, genuine fear in his eyes. “I hear them whispering to me… when I’m awake.”

“What?” Hawke shot a horrified glance at Anders, whose expression remained impassive.

“He must be delivered to the Templars immediately,” insisted Fenris with a disgusted look at the youngster.

“No!” argued Anders. “This is not his fault! We should be helping him, not abandoning him!”

“Bloody hell,” Hawke muttered under his breath, his head pounding from lack of sleep. The last thing he needed was these two arguing, and he had no wish to act as mediator.

“It is only a matter of time before the boy succumbs to the demons' influence!” Fenris argued with passion. “He must be contained! He is a danger to himself, as well as others!”

Anders folded his arms and huffed. “So, we've just fought to liberate these elves, and you want to go and bang him up in a prison? That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“It is the only sensible or sane choice! You profess to detest blood mages, yet you would allow this plaything for the demons to wander around, unchecked?”

“I’m not a blood mage!” Feynriel cried.

“Not _yet_ ,” warned Fenris. “It is but a matter of time.”

“Hawke?” Anders asked. “Don’t you have anything to say? Care to back me up, here?”

Hawke rubbed his eyes and groaned. “He’s not going to the Circle."

“I should have known another mage would back up his reckless plan!” Fenris accused.

“But we can’t release him, either,” Hawke finished tersely, waiting for the inevitable retort from Anders. He wasn’t disappointed.

“So what do _you_ suggest we do, Hawke? We can’t return him to his mother - she’ll call the Templars again, and when they find out about him, they’ll make him tranquil!”

“That is the only viable solution!” Fenris barked.

“Don’t _I_ get a say in this?” Feynriel moaned.

“No!” snapped Hawke, highly irritated with the whole business. “Everyone just shut up for a minute! I’m trying to think!” He paced along the sand, rubbing his temples in an attempt to hold back the pressure that pushed against his skull. “Wait… what about the Dalish?”

“The Dalish?” asked Anders, his brow wrinkling.

“Yes… Keeper Marethari is obviously a powerful mage, Merrill’s a mage… I’ve heard that all Dalish know a little magic. Maybe they can help him?”

Fenris shook his head in dismissal. “The girl is a blood mage. For all we know, this...‘keeper’ could also practise forbidden magic. He must go to the Templars.”

“He is not going to the Circle!” Hawke insisted.

“Yes, that could work,” Anders mused. “That’s a good idea, Hawke. They know old magic, and it’s said they have a stronger connection to the Fade than other mages. I think they could help him.”

“And if they cannot?” Fenris questioned. “If he wreaks his demonic influence upon their clan, then what? Will you take responsibility for that?” he asked Hawke.

“He’s _going_ to the Dalish,” Hawke asserted, his eyes locked with the elf’s.

“You are a fool. This is unwise and irresponsible.”

“You’re not the first person to call me a fool, and you won’t be the last.”

Anders sighed as he watched the two of them but was relieved that Hawke had backed him up. “Come on, Feynriel, let’s get you to the Dalish camp.”

Hawke shook his head, feeling invisible hammers pound at it with every movement. “No, I need to rest, first. My head is killing me. I need to shut my eyes for a couple of hours.”

“Have you tried healing yourself?” Anders asked.

“I did earlier, and it made no difference.”

“You wish to sleep?” asked Fenris. “And where will you do that?”

“Here, on the sand, for all I care. You lot can carry on, if you like.”

“I’ll take him,” Anders volunteered, stripping out of his wet robe and folding it up before pulling his damp shirt and breeches away from his skin. “I don’t feel too bad. What are we going to do with this lot?” he asked, pointing to the slavers.

“The city guard will be coming for you,” Hawke told them with a glance at the rapidly-disintegrating ship. “I’m going to have to talk to bloody _Aveline_. Great,” he muttered as he walked away. “Thanks, Anders,” he called out.

“Wait,” said Fenris. “You would trust him to deliver the boy to the Dalish? He will release him the moment our backs are turned!”

Hawke wheeled round. “I've had just about enough of you, Fenris!”

“So, I am here merely as a lapdog, one that will fawn and agree with everything you say, as it wags its tail?” Fenris asked with venom in his words.

“Go with them, if you’re so concerned!” barked Hawke, stomping away. "I'm getting some fucking sleep!"

“He is _not_ coming with us!” Anders insisted as he led the boy away.

Fenris stood, alone, as the mages went their separate ways. He felt heat creep along his skin and glanced at his arms, where his markings flickered in response to his burgeoning frustration. Irritated by the chatter and moaning among the incapacitated slavers, he felt anger flare within him and turned sharply towards them.

“ _Be silent, or I will silence you!_ ” he snarled, his markings flaring violently.

Instantaneously, an eerie silence fell over the beach as the terrified criminals ceased their noise.

Fenris growled under his breath and reluctantly began to follow Hawke.

He eventually found the mage sitting behind a sand dune, his knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes closed. He'd also removed his wet robe, which was stretched across the sand next to his boots, and wore only trousers. As Fenris approached and sat on the sand a distance away, Hawke’s eyes opened.

“Come to tell me again what a fool I am?”

“What purpose would that serve? We both know it to be true,” said Fenris, placing his sword at his side and bending one leg to examine his foot.

Too tired to argue or care, Hawke sighed and closed his eyes.

Sometime later, his eyes opened. Looking up at the sky, he noted that the sun had climbed a little higher, and guessed that it was mid-morning. A small fire had been lit between them - Fenris had apparently found some dried branches or shrubbery of some kind - and Hawke shivered, moving closer to it, feeling grateful for the elf's thoughtfulness. He then shook his head, certain that Fenris would not really care if an apostate caught cold. He glanced at his robe and boots, which had been moved nearer to the fire and appeared to be almost dry.

Fenris was asleep and leaned against the opposite side of the dune, approximately twenty feet away. His head was slumped against his chest, forming a tiny double chin, and his body twitched occasionally.

Hawke watched him for a little while, feeling guilty for being so snappy earlier on. Of course Fenris wasn’t going to agree with him - he’d even warned Hawke of that. Hawke cursed himself for being such an irritable shit at times, and wearily pushed himself to his feet.

“Master… please…”

Hawke froze and glanced at Fenris, whose face wore an expression of anguish, fear.

“Please… not tonight.”

Hawke’s breath caught and he carefully sat back down on the sand, watching and listening intently.

“No! Please, Danarius! I’ll do anything you want! Please, not that!”

Hawke placed a hand over his mouth as a tear trickled down Fenris’s cheek and his body trembled, his lyrium markings flaring into life.

“Please…” Fenris sobbed, and Hawke jumped to his feet, desperate to wake him but he stopped, fearful of Fenris’s reaction if he did. He stood helplessly as the elf continued to plead with the master he could see only in his dreams.

“Fenris,” he called. “Wake up!”

“I cannot do this anymore!” Fenris yelled and his eyes snapped open to find Hawke standing over him.


	8. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anders," Hawke said quietly. "Do you think I haven't thought about that? I have no intention of reaching my fiftieth birthday."

Hawke held his hands up in front of him as a startled Fenris sat up quickly, and then froze, ferocity in his eyes as he pinned Hawke in place with a look.

"Sorry," Hawke mumbled. "You were… you were calling out in your sleep. I was just…"

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, Fenris's gaze eventually moving down to the sand. "You… heard me?"

"Oh, uh, not much," lied Hawke, his mind still reeling at Fenris's utterances and what they might mean. He turned his back on the warrior and walked back to where he'd slept, picking up his robe and boots on the way.

Fenris, realising that one of his cheeks was damp, quickly rubbed at it and pushed himself to his feet, not once taking his eyes off Hawke. Upon hearing the mage's ragged exhalation, his body stiffened. "What _exactly_ did you hear?" he asked, his voice brittle and cold.

Hawke sighed as he put on his boots. "You weren't making much sense," he said with his back to the elf. "It was all gibberish. Don't worry, I've been told _I_ talk crap when I'm asleep, as well. _And_ awake, come to think of it," he joked, although he felt far from jovial.

Silence hung in the cool morning air, punctuated occasionally by the distant screech of gulls and the swell of the sea as it crashed against the rocks. Hawke stood and half-turned toward Fenris. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm ready to go home and have a proper sleep. Oh, and thanks for making the fire," he said as he slipped his robe over his head.

"I dislike being lied to, Hawke."

"Eh? What do you mean?" he mumbled with feigned nonchalance as panic scalded his insides. He wiped his sweaty palms against his robe and brushed it down. "Bloody sand," he moaned.

"Tell me the truth," demanded Fenris, who had not budged one inch from his original position. "What did you hear?" he asked curtly.

 _What am I supposed to do_? wondered Hawke, his mind racing. _Tell him the truth and make him feel ashamed and uncomfortable, or lie? I'm obviously not very good at_ _that_. He turned to face the tense elf. It was obvious Hawke had broken into a sweat, and his belly fluttered as he spoke.

"I… I heard you mention Danarius," he mumbled, unable to meet Fenris's penetrating gaze.

He saw Fenris pick up his sword and slip it through the strap on the back of his chest plate. "I am ready to depart," he said quietly, and began to walk away from Hawke.

"Fenris…" The elf stopped but did not turn around. "Are you…"

"I do not wish to discuss it."

"All right," Hawke said, relieved and yet still anxious. He walked after Fenris, keeping a short distance away but making sure the elf could see him. "Would you like a drink?" he offered, placing his hand on his water skin.

"No, thank you."

It would be a long trip back to Kirkwall. Hawke did not relish both himself and Fenris feeling uncomfortable for the duration of the journey, and decided to give Fenris the opportunity to be alone, if that was what he wanted. "Would you like some company on the way back?" he offered, trying to keep his tone light. "I have to go to Hightown myself, to see Aveline."

Fenris continued to walk ahead of Hawke, the tension in his posture still evident. "I will make my own way back," he said firmly but without anger, and hastened his pace.

Hawke dropped back and eventually stopped, uncorking his waterskin and draining it. Once Fenris was out of sight, he slowly continued, first ensuring that the slavers were still secured.

~o~O~o~

Upon reaching Kirkwall, and deciding he couldn't face Aveline without a bracer, Hawke trudged into the Hanged Man and, not seeing anyone familiar in there, made his way to the bar. "Cooked breakfast, please, and a mug of tea," he said to Corff.

"Sorry, Hawke, we stopped serving breakfast two hours ago," the bartender informed him.

"Eh? What time is it, then?" mumbled Hawke blearily.

"It's after lunch."

"Crap."

"We have stew," Corff offered apologetically.

"Stew _again_? Is that all you ever serve in here?"

Corff shrugged and laughed. "We don't get much call for anything else."

Hawke huffed and rubbed his eyes. "Well, how about a bit of bread and cheese? Pickles? Anything like that?"

"Aye, I think I can stretch to that," answered Corff. "You want tea or ale with that?"

"Ale. Thanks, mate. Varric around?"

"Over here, Hawke!" Varric called from the other side of the bar.

"Of course you're here!" Hawke said wryly and made his way round to the other side of the bar, where he found Varric chatting to a tall, dark-skinned woman with pendulous breasts, barely contained by her skimpy outfit, which bordered on indecent.

Hawke raised a stern eyebrow as he approached, and Varric laughed. "Always the protective big bro, I see." He gestured to the woman. "Hawke, this is Isabela. She may have some business opportunities for us, if you're interested."

Hawke glanced at her and nodded curtly before turning back to Varric, leaving a nonplussed Isabela to wonder why he hadn't immediately gawked at her breasts, as most men did.

Sensing that Hawke wasn't in a sociable mood, Varric took Isabela to one side. "We'll talk again later, okay?"

"I'll be around," she replied, and sauntered past Hawke, who completely ignored her.

"Maker's breath, Hawke!" exclaimed Varric as he stepped closer. "You look like death warmed over!"

Hawke managed a thin smile. "Yes, but you should see the other guy," he quipped humourlessly.

"Have a seat," invited Varric, taking a chair at the nearest table. "Blondie's here," he told Hawke as they sat down. "He told me all about what happened with the slavers. Nice work! Although you _could_ have plundered the ship _before_ you set fire to it - that's a schoolboy error right there, Hawke. Just imagine what could have been on board!"

"I know, I was lost without my favourite dwarf," Hawke said with a grin as a serving girl brought over a plate of bread, cheese and piccalilli with two apples and a tankard of ale. Hawke nodded in thanks.

"Your favourite out of me and Bartrand," replied Varric, placing his hands over his heart. "I'm deeply touched."

"So you should be," answered Hawke. "Did Bethany get home all right?"

"Sure did."

"Thanks. You said Anders was here?" Hawke asked, cramming a chunk of bread into his mouth.

"Yeah." Varric nodded toward the rear of the pub. "He was gonna go back and sleep at that rathole, but I told him he could crash on my bed. Do all mages snore like that?" He reached over and pinched one of Hawke's apples, and polished it on his coat before taking a bite. "So… you kinda look like you lost a sovereign and found a copper, Hawke."

Hawke shrugged and took a gulp of ale, setting his tankard down. "Just a few things on my mind. I'm sure I'll feel better after a kip."

Varric took another bite of his apple and observed as Hawke picked at his food. Hawke knew that Varric was watching him, and that he was waiting for him to speak up. He sighed and sat back in his chair.

"Varric… what would you do if I told you I was a blood mage?" he asked quietly.

"Me, Hawke? I wouldn't do anything. Should I?"

Hawke shook his head. "See, I knew you'd say something like that."

"So, are you?" asked Varric. Hawke stared at his plate and nodded. "Does Blondie know?"

"No," Hawke said heavily, resting his chin on his hand and pushing the food around his plate. "I need to tell him, though. I wouldn't want him finding out by accident."

"And the elf?"

Hawke smiled grimly and looked up at Varric. "I like my head where it is, thank you very much." His eyes returned to his plate and he fell quiet, wondering where, and how, Fenris was.

"Is that all, Hawke?"

"Is that _all_?" Hawke repeated, once again glancing up at Varric. "Did you see the way Anders changed toward Merrill once he found out about her?"

"No, I meant 'is that all you have on your mind', but don't worry about Blondie. He'll come round. Besides, he's known you for a lot longer than Daisy, and he's gotten to know the real you beneath the evil death powers and all that."

Hawke shook his head and laughed. "Always know how to cheer me up, don't you?"

"Always!" Varric leaned forward a little and grabbed a piece of cheese from Hawke's plate. "You want me to talk to him?" he asked casually.

"Oh, no, Varric. I appreciate the offer, but… this needs to come from me." He glanced anxiously in the direction of Varric's room, his gut twisting at the thought of Anders's reaction. He sighed and pushed his plate toward Varric, having lost his appetite. "Here. I've got to go and see Aveline, now. Won't that be fun?"

Hawke _hated_ Aveline. He hated her deep, harsh voice; he hated the fact she was taller than him. He hated her stupid freckles and bright orange hair, and constant righteousness and moralising. He hated the very idea of her. Besides his mother and sister, Hawke had no experience of women at all, and had no idea how they worked. He found women who tried to be men particularly confounding.

If he was honest with himself, though, the real reason he hated her so was that _she_ had not been quick enough to save Carver, either. She'd made such a big show of being brave and protective when her husband had been injured, and yet when the ogre had appeared, she'd hesitated just as Hawke had. The only person who hadn't quailed had been Carver. He'd pushed his mother and sister aside and had charged in without a thought for himself. Stupid, brave Carver!

He also hated Aveline's husband for getting injured, thus diverting all the attention from Carver as his brother had lain dead in his mother's arms. What had Wesley done to deserve such care? Oh, yes, he'd _courageously_ told his own wife to _kill_ him. What a hero! And Aveline had done so without a second thought, without shedding a single tear. What was wrong with her? Did she have no heart?

The truth was, Hawke hated Aveline, and blamed her, as much as he hated and blamed himself. Every time he laid eyes upon her, he was instantly back in Lothering, the sound of Bethany's sobs ringing in his ears, his mother, drenched in Carver's blood, rocking her broken son against her bosom. His mother _blaming_ him. He couldn't hate his mother so Aveline was just as good a substitute as anyone. He _needed_ to hate someone. Carver's death had been so senseless and could easily have been prevented. At least having someone else to blame made some sense out of it, or so he told himself.

"Hawke?"

"What?"

"I was saying that I have some things to take care of in Hightown, and _I_ need to see Aveline as well. Why don't you let me tell her?"

Hawke eyed Varric with scepticism. "Do you _really_ have to go to Hightown? Isn't that quite a walk for those little legs of yours?"

Varric chuckled. "I was as tall as you when I was younger, Hawke - it's the trips up and down those damned steps that've worn my legs away to stumps. Anyway, it'll give me plenty of time to think up a good story." He stood up, having polished off the last of Hawke's meal. "Stay here and wait for Blondie. I'll take care of Carrot-Features."

"Does _she_ know you call her that?" Hawke asked with a quiet snort.

"Not a chance," muttered Varric out of the side of his mouth. "I like _my_ head where it is as well, thank you very much." He hoisted Bianca onto his back.

"You're too good to me, Varric," Hawke said softly.

"Ach," said Varric with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Oh! Before I forget, this was hand-delivered to me this morning." He produced an official-looking letter from his pocket and handed it to Hawke.

Hawke looked at the letter warily as he took it. "You want _me_ to read this?"

"It's for you," Varric told him. "Well, us."

Puzzled, Hawke frowned as he unfolded the letter and began to read.

_Messere Varric Tethras,_

_I commend you and your companions' actions in returning Ser Keran to us and for remanding the blood mages securely until my men and I were able to reach them. They are now safely contained at the Gallows._

_I extend an invitation to you and Messere Hawke to come and see me at the Gallows when you are able, to receive your reward, and perhaps to discuss future ways in which we may work together. I apologise that I am unable to visit you in person as most of my time is taken up here._

_I am aware of Messere Hawke's status and would ask that he wear civilian attire and to come unarmed, or at least without his staff, so as not to draw attention to himself while here. I will personally guarantee his safety if he follows these recommendations._

_Thank you once again, and I look forward to receiving you._

_Knight-Captain Cullen._

"What did I tell you?" asked Varric as Hawke read the letter again. "We do a favour for the Templars, they 'employ' us to do things on the side. And that reward he mentioned will be _big_. Or, if it isn't, we can remind him that we averted a crisis within the Templar Order. A recruit possessed by a demon would have been a massive embarrassment for them."

"Can we trust him?" Hawke asked.

"I think so. He seems a pretty decent guy, and he knows you'll be pinched the instant you walk in there dressed like a mage, so he's recommended that you don't. I've acquired a 'nose' for people over the years, Hawke, and I think he's all right."

Hawke nodded thoughtfully. "All right, then. Actually, I'd quite like to see the Gallows."

"Don't get too excited, Hawke, it's not the cheeriest of places. There's no rush, anyway. I guess all you young 'uns will want to catch up on your sleep today. How about tomorrow?"

"That's fine." Hawke stood up and shook Varric's hand. "You're a good dwarf, Varric. I don't care what the rest of them say," he joked.

"Stop it! You'll get me all misty-eyed," Varric joked back, wiping a non-existent tear from his eye. "I've gotta look after my favourite investor, haven't I?"

"Your favourite out of me and Bartrand. I'm deeply touched," Hawke said drily.

"So you should be." Varric released his hand and headed for the door. "Blondie - he'll be fine," he told Hawke with a reassuring nod before departing.

Hawke slumped back into his chair and called for another ale, which he downed in one as he stared glumly at the rear of the pub. "No time like the present," he said to himself, wiping the froth from his mouth. He took his empty plate and tankard back to the bar, something which Corff found curious, as nobody else bothered, and paid for his meal.

"Corff, there might be some shouting coming from Varric's room," he warned. "Just leave us to it, all right?"

"What you do in there is your own business," answered Corff, looking slightly embarrassed as he busied himself polishing the counter. "Just keep it down if you can. I have to think of my other customers as well."

"What… ? No! I meant an argument! Maker's breath!" Hawke walked away, shaking his head.

Arriving outside the door to Varric's room, he paused and pressed his ear to the door. He certainly couldn't hear snoring, and hoped that Anders wasn't asleep or, at least if he was, that he wouldn't be too pissed off by the interruption.

Making a fist, he brought his hand up to the door and closed his eyes, sighing heavily.

Apart from Varric, Anders was the only friend Hawke had made since his arrival in Kirkwall. They'd hit it off immediately. They were both Fereldan apostates, and had much to talk about. At first, Hawke had appreciated Anders in a physical way, and had initially been attracted to him. Anders _was_ a handsome man, after all, in a raffish sort of way.

Wisely, he'd kept those thoughts to himself and had soon realised that Anders wasn't really his type, particularly after finding out about Justice. Any fantasies he'd entertained of bedding Anders had quickly evaporated with the thought of the spirit tagging along, watching, maybe even joining in. Could spirits even do that? He certainly wasn't taking any chances. And, although Hawke and Anders still shared some flirtatious banter, which Hawke enjoyed, Anders's preference seemed to be for women, as demonstrated at The Blooming Rose, although Anders had been been somewhat enigmatic about his relationship with Karl.

Hawke liked Anders. He liked the fact that they understood each other and that each brought a unique perspective to their lengthy conversations - Hawke, who had lived as a free apostate, and Anders, who had been locked up and had spent most of his adult life either on the run, or planning his next escape.

Anders made Hawke laugh when he was feeling glum, and Hawke did the same for him. When Hawke didn't feel like himself, he became snappy and irritable; when Anders was down, he'd be quiet and would take off somewhere on his own. The two men understood, and accepted this about each other. Anders was also very affectionate, and liked to touch people when he spoke to them - on the arm, the shoulder, the back. He always hugged Hawke when greeting him, and although Hawke no longer felt physically attracted to Anders, he'd missed that physical contact with another man, and looked forward to it.

In the time they'd known each other, Anders had come to mean a lot to Hawke, and they spent much of their free time together, either doing jobs or socialising. He knew deep down that Varric was right, that Anders _was_ a decent man and that he probably _would_ come round to the idea eventually, but he knew that Anders would be hurt and angered by his revelation, as well as disappointed, and that was probably what Hawke dreaded the most.

His fist made contact with the wooden door several times and he listened, hearing shuffling from inside the room.

"Come in, Varric! You don't have to knock," Anders called out.

Hawke wiped his palms against his robe and opened the door a little. "It's me, Anders. Are you dressed?"

"Oh, yes, come in, Hawke."

Anders pushed himself up on the bed as Hawke entered and yawned, stretching his arms.

"Did I wake you?" asked Hawke.

"No, I was just dozing. Nice room, this, isn't it?"

Hawke smiled and nodded as he found a small chair not far from the bed. "How did you get on with Feynriel?" he asked, sitting down.

"Oh, fine. That keeper seemed very interested in him and said they'd begin looking into his problem immediately. I think he'll be all right with them."

"Good." Hawke sighed and stretched his arms, hoping to stretch the knot of anxiety out of his belly, but failing. "You want some tea?" he offered, thumbing toward the direction of the bar.

"Ooh, yes please, Hawke. You sort that out while I go for a shit, yes?"

"Charming!" Hawke laughed as he stood and headed for the door.

"Even the King of Ferelden has to shit, Hawke," Anders chirped, following Hawke out and heading for the latrines at the rear of the building. "Although _his_ latrines are probably made of solid gold, and _his_ turds probably smell like flowers or something. Instead of shit."

"You berk!" Hawke laughed again and headed to the bar, while Anders headed out back.

"Race you!" Anders challenged.

" _Please_ , Anders, don't rush on my account."

Hawke won the race, and waited in Varric's room with two steaming mugs of tea. Anders sailed through the door a short time later with a huge grin on his face. "Ahh! I feel about a stone lighter, now!"

"Good to know, Anders." Hawke passed Anders his mug, and the strawberry blond mage plonked himself down on Varric's bed.

"So, what's on your mind, Hawke?" he asked as he took a sip.

"On my mind? What makes you ask that?"

"Well, you didn't come here just to bring me a cup of tea, as much as I appreciate it."

"No, I didn't." Hawke winced as he took too much hot tea into his mouth and swallowed. "Anders… oh crap, this is hard." He placed his mug on the floor and rubbed his forehead.

"Just spit it out," Anders said with a shrug.

Hawke sighed and placed his hands in his lap, looking Anders in the eye - that was the very least he could do. "I just want you to know that I consider you to be a good friend, and what I'm about to tell you may change that. I hope it doesn't, but…" He wrung his hands together and hung his head. "There's something I need to tell you. Something I'm not proud of."

"Go ahead, Hawke."

Hawke drew in a long breath and slowly released it. "I'm a blood mage."

"Yes, I know."

"You… _what_?" Hawke's head jerked up and he broke into a sweat. "What? I-I… Anders, I don't understand."

"I knew it the very first time we met," Anders explained, his face expressionless. "Well, rather Justice knew, and therefore I knew."

Hawke stared at him blankly. "Why didn't you say anything? I-I don't understand any of this."

Anders sighed and leaned back on his hands. "To tell you the truth, I didn't care what you were at first. I needed someone to help me out with Karl, and you happened to come along at just the right time. I used you, Hawke, that's the truth. At first, anyway." He took a sip of tea and set his mug down. "Then I did a few jobs with you, and we got on well, but I was still wary."

"So what changed your mind?" Hawke asked.

"Nothing's changed my mind, Hawke. I don't approve of it for one second, but Justice told me that your connection with your demon was very weak, like you'd never used blood magic at all. That got me thinking that maybe you'd regretted learning it."

"I do, Anders. I regret it more than anything. I only used it once, and I was very young and stupid when I did. I've not used it since, and I have no intention of ever doing so again." Hawke pulled up the sleeves of his robe and showed Anders his scar-free arms.

"You don't need to prove anything to me, Hawke. What happened, then? Did the demon come to you in your dreams?"

Hawke nodded and slouched in the chair, feeling his headache return. "I was fifteen. A desire demon came to me. She knew exactly what I wanted and, like an idiot, I accepted without a thought. I actually thought that blood magic would make me… mysterious, alluring. Fuck."

"What did she give you, Hawke? What was it that you wanted so much?"

Hawke blanched and fidgeted in his seat. "I-I'm sorry, Anders, I'm not ready to tell you that. Just know that I did something that I will take to the grave with me. I have to live with it every day."

"Did you kill someone?"

"No! Well... not exactly…I-I'm sorry, Anders, I just can't tell you. Not-not now."

"All right," Anders said briskly. "Well, at least you realised your mistake, and I'm glad you finally told me. I've been waiting for you to, considering you know my feelings about blood magic."

"I've wanted to tell you, I was just afraid that you'd, well, not be friends with me anymore. Or kill me. That probably would have been worse," he said with a rueful half-smile.

"Don't get me wrong, Hawke, I'm not happy about this at all," Anders said in a stern tone, before sighing. "I'm glad you don't use it anymore, though. So, what bargain did you make with the demon?"

Hawke covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head. "I… I said she could come for me on my fiftieth birthday."

"What?" Anders shot up from the bed and placed his hands over his face for a moment, and then removed them. "Hawke! How could you be so…"

"Stupid? Yes, I already know that, Anders! Look, I was fifteen. Fifteen! Fifty seemed so far away… I mean, old men are fifty, aren't they? I was a young kid and I thought it would take forever to reach fifty. I also thought, in my cockiness, that I could somehow wriggle out of the deal at some point. How wrong I was. She visits me in the Fade every now and then to remind me. Time's going fast, Anders. I'm twenty-six, now. My life is half-over."

"And when she does come for you, Hawke, a desire demon in the body of a _mage_ is going to be unleashed upon Thedas! Do you any idea of the devastation she could wreak?"

"Anders," Hawke said quietly. "Do you think I haven't thought about that? I have no intention of reaching my fiftieth birthday."

Anders groaned and his head fell back.

"There's no other way, Anders. I made the deal, and I have to live with the consequences. Or not, as the case may be."

"Bloody hell, Hawke…" Anders slumped back onto the bed and he picked up his mug of tea, swirling the brown liquid around. "I think we need something a bit stronger than this, don't you?"

"You'd drink with a blood mage?" Hawke asked dejectedly.

"I'd drink with _you_. I'm going to try not to think about the blood mage bit."

"Well, you _can_ forget about it, because for all intents and purposes I'm _not_ a blood mage. Not a practising one, anyway."

"Does anyone else know?"

Hawke nodded. "Varric knows. I told him before I came in here, because I was, well, shitting bricks about telling you. He didn't bat an eyelid."

"Figures," Anders said with a soft snort. "What about Bethany?"

"Bethany's known from the start."

"Did…" Anders began, and then paused.

"Did what?" Hawke asked.

"I was just wondering… tell me to mind my own business if you like, but… did Carver know? The rest of your family?"

Hawke stared at a wall for a while, and Anders thought he wasn't going to answer. "Yes, Carver knew," he said at last. "That was the very reason he hated me. That was the reason he hated the fact his brother and sister were mages. My father knew as well, but he was a mage and was understanding, if disappointed. My mother has no idea - she'd only fret."

"Sorry, Hawke, I didn't mean to bring up bad memories for you."

"It's all right."

"What about Fenris? Does he know?"

Hawke stood up and stretched before rubbing his temples. "No. He really _would_ kill me. His master was a blood mage." Hawke fell silent, again pondering Fenris's dream, and his stomach knotted. "Well!" he said with false cheer. "Let's get that drink."

Anders walked toward the door, and Hawke stood behind him as he opened it. "Anders," Hawke said, placing a hand on Anders's shoulder, who turned around. "Thank you for, well, not killing me." He wrapped his arms around Anders and hugged him tightly, and then let go of him quickly, stepping out of the room.

~o~O~o~

After his drink with Anders, Hawke headed to Gamlen's house. He couldn't quite call it home, but it was somewhere to sleep.

Thankfully, Gamlen was out. Bethany was up, having caught up on her sleep and, although she and her mother were relieved that Fletcher was safe, they fussed over him, dismayed at how tired and dishevelled he looked.

After a hearty meal and several cups of tea, Leandra insisted that Hawke go to bed, and made up a cot for him in the back room where she and Bethany slept. As Hawke usually slept on with floor in the same room as Gamlen, he didn't protest.

Although the cot was comfortable and warm, and even though he felt exhausted after the heavy meal, sleep did not come easily to Hawke, He was greatly relieved that Anders had not rejected him, but their conversation had stirred up some unpleasant memories for him, ones that he'd pushed to the back of his mind, but were now played out in perfect clarity.

He thought of Fenris, too. Hawke had no doubt that the elf's master had not treated him well, and in his dream Danarius could have been asking Fenris to do anything, but there had been real fear, real vulnerability in Fenris's voice, and Hawke's gut twisted again at the thought of what that might mean.

" _Please… not tonight."_

Was Hawke no better than Danarius? He'd harmed someone, despite their pleas for him to stop. He'd harmed them and, at the time, he'd taken pleasure in that, feeling they'd deserved it. But did anyone deserve what he'd done?

Was he a monster?

Finally, fatigue overwhelmed him and his eyes closed. He did not wake until the following morning.


	9. An Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're not a very nice person, you know that?" Hawke accused.
> 
> Fenris's laughter halted. "Nor are you."
> 
> "I won't argue with you there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, 600 hits! Thank you so much to all of you for following the story, and for your kind comments.
> 
> Some strong language in this chapter.

The following morning, Anders and Varric were already at the Hanged Man when a rather subdued Hawke arrived with Bethany. Anders failed to notice their entrance at first, as Isabela had also joined him and Varric, and sat on their table with her legs dangling over the edge. Anders didn't quite know which part of her to look at, but he didn't look away, either.

Hawke was startled at the loud wolf-whistle that greeted him, and glowered at the three people at the table, all of whom assumed an innocent look.

Anders burst out laughing as soon as he caught sight of his scowling friend. "Blimey, Hawke, where did _those_ come from? They look like they're from the Blessed Age!"

"They're Gamlen's," answered Bethany, not even trying to keep a straight face.

Hawke gave her a severe look, which only succeeded in making her giggle. "Look, I don't own any trousers of my own, all right? I'm not used to wearing them." He grabbed his waistband and twisted the trousers from one side to the other, his face reddening in frustration. "How can people _wear_ these bloody things?"

"They're a bad example of trousers, Sweetheart," drawled Isabela, her eyes feasting on Hawke's lower body. "The cut's all wrong. _Those_ trousers don't leave any room for genitalia, male _or_ female."

Hawke ceased struggling with his trousers and looked up. "I'm sorry, who _are_ you, again?"

"Isabela, remember?" prompted Varric. "Don't mind him, Isabela, he's not a morning person."

Isabela looked Hawke up and down approvingly. "So, you're a _night_ person, then?" she asked with a wink.

Anders sniggered from beside her. "Sorry, love, you're barking up the wrong tree, there."

"Oh? And which tree _should_ I be barking up, then?"

"Well, the only people he likes barking up _his_ tree have deeper voices and a lot more body hair than I'm guessing you do."

"Oh, bugger. Now you bloody tell me!" She pouted dramatically, her eyes moving to Varric. "No matter, there are plenty more fish in the sea," she said with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Varric laughed and shook his head as Bethany took a step forward, folding her arms. "Ah," said Isabela. "I get it. Well, how about our handsome mage here, then?" she asked, running her fingers through Anders's hair.

Anders laughed briefly before his face dropped like a stone. "Hey! Why am _I_ the last choice?"

"Oh, you're not, Sweetcakes. I just assumed that some lucky lady, or _man_ ," she said with a sly glance at Hawke, "would already have snapped you up by now."

"Something we can help you with, Isabela?" Hawke cut in.

"Actually, there is," she replied jauntily, and slid off the table. "I've already explained it to Varric, but I'll say it again. Some men are after me."

Bethany snorted in derision. "Seems it's the other way round, to me."

Isabela laughed, completely unfazed by the comment. "Cute. Anyway, they think I have something that I don't and, well, they're starting to become rather tiresome. I could do with some help, and I've heard that you and your little gang like helping people out," she said to Hawke.

"We do," he answered, "but we also like getting paid."

"Oh, you'll be paid, all right, once those bastards are off my back. The ringleader's a bloke named Hayder. We've arranged to meet tonight in the chantry to… 'thrash things out', but I have a feeling he'll play dirty, and will bring a few of his friends along. Well, a lot of them, actually."

"All right," agreed Hawke with a nod. "Anybody have plans tonight?"

"Not me, Hawke. I'm in," said Anders.

"Count me in, too," Varric called.

"Bethany?" asked Hawke, and she nodded.

Isabela grinned and breathed a sigh of relief. "Two mages _and_ a dwarf with a mighty weapon," she smirked, and then glanced at Hawke. "And what do _you_ fight with, sailor? Although… those trousers of yours _do_ look like they should come with a health warning."

" _I'm_ a mage, as well," Hawke grumped. "I usually carry a staff, but I don't…"

"I _bet_ you do," replied Isabela.

Hawke wrinkled his nose and distractedly scratched at his cheek. He was not used to being flirted with by women, particularly those who _knew_ he didn't actually _go_ for women. "Is, erm… Fenris here?" he asked, looking around the lounge.

"Hasn't shown up," Anders told him with a raised eyebrow. "I daresay he took umbrage at being overruled by a _mage_."

"Who's Fenris?" Isabela asked.

"He's an elf with a chip on his shoulder that's bigger than his sword," Anders answered.

Isabela's eyes lit up. "Ooh… I _like_ elves."

"Of course you do," said Bethany tartly.

Hawke didn't hear the rest of the conversation, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the pub. Where _was_ Fenris? Was Anders right? Had he taken offence at being disagreed with, or was his absence to do with what had happened afterwards?

"So, Hawke, what's on the agenda for the rest of the day?" Varric asked, interrupting his thoughts. "You and I are headed for the Gallows, which explains those… interesting pants, but what are Blondie and Sunshine going to do with themselves?"

" _I_ can't tell them what to do, Varric," he mumbled absent-mindedly.

"Actually," Anders piped up, "I thought I could pop over to the alienage to let Feynriel's mother know where he is. Fancy tagging along, Bethany?"

"Yes, I'd like that."

Hawke turned towards Bethany and addressed her, but kept Anders within his line of sight. "Actually… you _could_ check on Merrill while you're there, see if she fancies doing anything with us."

"Oh, that's a good idea, Brother!" she replied with enthusiasm, and Hawke grinned at her, well aware that Anders was staring daggers at him.

"Well, maybe _you_ could do that, Sister, while Anders talks to the boy's mother?" As Bethany nodded, he noticed Anders's posture relax a little.

"And what am _I_ supposed to do with myself?" Isabela demanded, hands on hips.

"Erm… whatever you usually do?" replied a bemused Hawke.

"The Gallows, eh?" she said to herself. "All those men in shiny armour with big swords… well, it'd be a lot better than looking at the shower that usually drinks in here. I'm in!"

"Uh, that's really not necessary, Isabela, but thank you for the offer," Hawke began.

"Oh, you're no fun," she teased with a wave of her hand. "Well, where did the rest of you say you were going?"

"Tell you what, why don't you go along with Anders and Bethany?" Hawke suggested, receiving a dig in his ribs from his sister. He leaned towards her and whispered, "I think she's going to come with one of us, whether we like it or not. Either she goes with you, or she goes with me and _Varric_. Make your choice, Sister."

"What a good idea!" Bethany said stiffly.

"I feel _so_ welcome!" Isabela laughed, tossing her hair behind her shoulders. "Well, when do we go?"

As the others talked, Hawke walked moved closer to Varric and leaned against the table, lowering himself to Varric's height. "I have something to do before we go to The Gallows," he mumbled quietly. "Can you wait a while?"

"Sure, Hawke. There are a few things I could take care of here. Going anywhere exciting?"

"No, not really," he answered evasively, and Varric knew better than to question him further. "See you all later," he announced in a louder voice and headed for the door, his friends' goodbyes following him.

~o~O~o~

Hawke stared up at the windows of Danarius's mansion and grasped the back of his neck as he hesitated by the entrance. He wasn't quite sure why he was here. He was almost certain that he would not be welcomed by Fenris, and that any attempt at conversation would be met with hostility.

Somehow, though, he felt the need to apologise to Fenris. Not for overhearing his dream, nor for disagreeing with him over Feynriel. No, it was something more than that, but of course he could never make that apology, as Fenris had never been involved in _that_. Despite that, he still felt he'd wronged Fenris somehow, and wanted to make things right, but how? How could he ever make things right when the person he'd originally wronged was dead?

Hawke's nervous spells over the past few days had started to manifest themselves physically. He'd had loose bowels earlier that morning and his shoulders and neck hurt from the tension he carried around in them. His stomach, which had been tied in knots since the previous morning, now actually hurt, and he rubbed his belly in the vain hope it would actually help. As he raised his fist to the door, he felt the beginnings of a headache for the third day in a row.

He knew he did himself no favours. He was irritable and tetchy and probably appeared to be quite moody to those who didn't know him well. The reason for his moods, however, was that he felt horrible guilt when he snapped at people and so did his best to push his sourness aside and plaster a grin on his face, at least for a short time.

He _was_ capable of being light-hearted and playful, but only once he'd got a few drinks under his belt. He was grateful that he wasn't an aggressive drunk, at least. He knew he drank too much, but the only reason he didn't drink more was for his mother and Bethany's sake. He couldn't remember his first three or four weeks in Kirkwall, as he'd spent most of that time in a drunken stupor, until the day he'd overheard his mother and sister weeping over Carver and out of concern for him. That was when he finally realised that he was not the only one suffering, and had made a concerted effort to be more supportive of his family.

However, although he now managed to haul himself out of bed in the mornings, to bathe and remember to eat properly, most of the time he still felt his life wasn't real, that it was being lived through someone else, and that he was just a casual observer.

He rapped firmly against the door, part of him hoping that Fenris wouldn't hear, or that he was not at home. He had no idea what he was going to say to him. He wanted to check that Fenris was all right, of course, but he didn't think that sentiment would be appreciated, and had tried to think up an excuse for being there, coming up with absolutely nothing.

After waiting a while, he knocked again. After several minutes, there was still no answer, and he decided to give the servants' bell pull a try. He pulled on the tattered rope and could hear a faint ringing from within the house.

Still no answer came. He meshed his hands together behind his neck and briefly considered throwing a stone up at one of windows, quickly deciding against it. He then wondered if Fenris was still barricading the door from the inside as Hawke had advised him to do; Varric hadn't yet had a chance to take a look at the lock.

He tried the handle and, sure enough, the door opened. Hawke tutted and shook his head, annoyed that Fenris wasn't taking proper care over his safety, but he was glad to have gained entry. He closed the door and stood in the vestibule. The mansion was in almost complete darkness; the heavy drapes that hung over the huge windows were all pulled closed, with only the odd chink of light seeping through where some of them hadn't quite been closed properly.

"Fenris?" he called out, his voice quieter than he'd intended. He cleared his throat and called again.

There was no answer.

Sighing, he began to climb the left-hand set of stairs and headed for the back room where Fenris had previously received him, finding the door closed. "Fenris?" he called again as he knocked on the door.

He grasped the handle and took a deep breath, but the air within the mansion was stale and dry, and he felt no benefit. He turned the handle and entered the darkened room, immediately recoiling as the stench of cheap wine and vomit assaulted him.

"Shit!" Covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve, he made his way to the window, remembering it was situated on the right side of the room, and threw open the drapes, choking as a cloud of dust exploded from them. Pushing the window up, he leaned against the window sill for a moment, gasping for fresh air.

"Fenris, are you… bollocks!" As Hawke turned around, he spotted Fenris's pale, limp form, still fully clad in his armour, half-hanging off the settee upon which he'd passed out. Half a dozen empty wine bottles, two of them smashed, and several pools of watery vomit surrounded his sleeping place.

Heedless of the vomit, Hawke strode to the settee and yanked the unconscious Fenris up by his armpits, propping him up into a sitting position; the elf's head flopped back and his limp body slumped. Hawke sat next to him and reached for his waterskin, removing the stopper and, with his other hand, grabbed the back of Fenris's head.

"Fenris!" he bellowed. "Wake up!"

Fenris's head jerked and he uttered something incomprehensible. "Well, at least you're alive," said Hawke, placing the waterskin next to Fenris's mouth. "Drink this," he ordered.

"Futue te ipsum*!" The waterskin was sent flying to the floor as Fenris swatted it away, and it landed in a puddle of vomit. Hawke scrambled to retrieve it before the contents were spilled. When he returned to the settee, Fenris's eyes were rolling in his head as he gave his best approximation of a fierce scowl.

"You stubborn bastard," Hawke muttered and once again sat next to Fenris, grasping the back of the elf's head and shoving the waterskin against his mouth. Having found his strength, however, Fenris fought back, and started grabbing at Hawke's arms, his spiked gauntlets puncturing Hawke's flesh.

"Ah… Agghhh!" Hawke yelled in pain, and violently yanked Fenris's head back, pouring the water down his throat. "Drink it, you cunt!"

Fenris struggled and spat the water out but Hawke persisted and, after a minute, Fenris released Hawke's arms and grabbed the waterskin with both hands, drinking greedily from it.

"Easy… go easy," counselled Hawke, who winced at the pain in his arms. They were bleeding heavily, and Hawke stood, preferring to be at a safe distance from Fenris when casting, and began to heal himself. "You bastard. That bloody hurt!"

Fenris let the now-empty waterskin fall to the floor and slouched on the settee, a deep, rasping laugh rumbling through him as he sneered at Hawke through half-closed eyes.

"You're not a very nice person, you know that?" Hawke accused.

Fenris's laughter halted. "Nor are you."

"I won't argue with you there."

"What do you want?" Fenris asked irascibly.

"I came to see if you were all right, if you must know, and it's a good job I did. What are you trying to do, kill yourself? An elf can't take that much wine! I knew elves in Lothering, and one bottle would put them on the floor!"

"You would be surprised at what my body can endure," slurred the elf, glancing at his lyrium-branded arms. "It took Danarius three days and nights to burn the lyrium into my flesh, and the pain was indescribable. And yet I still live. I still live! Adhuc sto!" he proclaimed, pointing at thin air, before his eyes closed and his head slumped to one side, his arm falling into his lap.

"Yes, adhuc sto, whatever the hell that means," mumbled Hawke, rolling his eyes. "Fenris. Fenris!"

"Uh?"

"Is there any food in this house?"

Fenris sighed and slowly opened his eyes, as though it took all of his strength to do so. "There are biscuits."

" _Biscuits_? Is that what you've been living on?"

"I happen to _like_ biscuits," growled Fenris.

Hawke laughed suddenly, not really knowing why, but found he was unable to stop for several minutes. When he finally regained control of himself, Fenris had mustered enough strength to glare at him. "I'm going to the kitchen to see if there's any _proper_ food here. Where is it?" Hawke asked, still chuckling.

"Find it yourself," came the terse reply.

"Fine. Just stay there until I get back."

"I do not take orders from _you!_ " Fenris roared before his body slumped once again, his strength finally depleted.

"All right, then - get up, slip on your own vomit and crack your head open. That would be a dignified way to go, wouldn't it?" answered Hawke, without malice, as he left the room.

Remembering the location of the scullery when they'd cleared the mansion of abominations, Hawke headed in that direction, finding the kitchen located not far from it. Within, he found several dried goods which were still safe to use, and decided that porridge was the safest bet. Although there was dried milk in the kitchen, as a healer, Hawke knew that milk would probably irritate Fenris's stomach, and so made it with water, adding a generous dollop of honey to sweeten it. He also made a cup of sweet tea, without milk, and placed everything on a tray which he carried up to Fenris's room.

Fenris, who was now awake but still slumped on the settee, watched Hawke curiously as he entered and placed the tray on the small table next to the window.

"Porridge," Hawke explained and walked over to Fenris, offering his hand.

"I do not need your help," Fenris grumbled, pulling his arms against his chest.

"Go on then, get up by yourself."

"I am not hungry."

"If you don't sit at that table and eat, I'll pour it down your throat, just like I did with the water," threatened Hawke.

Fenris's nose wrinkled and his lip curled into a sneer. "Who do you think you are?"

Hawke shrugged. "I don't think I'm anybody." He gestured towards the table. "Hurry up, it'll get cold."

Fenris glanced warily at him, and then at the table. Upon spotting the steaming bowl, his stomach growled loudly.

"You _are_ hungry, you bloody liar!" laughed Hawke.

A sour-faced Fenris began to push himself up and managed to stand, but as he did so he clutched at his head and grimaced.

"Fenris… this is just a suggestion, but I could cast a spell that would make you feel more alert."

"No!" barked Fenris before his shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes, quickly opening them, and blinked several times, holding his hands out in front of him.

"Dizzy?" asked Hawke, holding his arm out in front of the elf. "The table's just a few steps away. You can hold my arm, _if_ you want to."

Fenris looked first at Hawke's arm, then his face. "No, I can manage," he said quietly and slowly walked to the table with admirable dignity. Hawke pulled the chair out and Fenris gave him a wary glance before taking a seat. "Why are you…?" he began, and then sighed.

"Just eat up," Hawke instructed. "I'll be back in a minute."

Hawke left the room and returned a short time later carrying two wooden pails full of hot water, with a large scrubbing brush and a bar of lye soap tucked under each arm.

"Have you eaten that porridge yet?" he asked sternly. Fenris showed him the empty bowl, which had been licked clean.

"I see you like porridge as well as biscuits," said Hawke, smiling, as he placed the pails on the floor.

"It is similar to gruel, but is more… palatable."

"Gruel?" Hawke exclaimed. "Bloody hell. Was that…" He paused, unsure whether it would be wise to probe Fenris about his past. "I've been told I make pretty decent porridge. It's even nicer with milk." He picked up one of the pails and threw the hot water onto the floor.

"What are you doing?" asked Fenris in alarm.

"This room will stink if this sick isn't cleaned up," Hawke explained as he rolled up his sleeves, got onto all fours and began scrubbing.

"You… do not need to do that," said Fenris. "That is a servant's work."

"Look," answered Hawke, glancing up. "I grew up on a farm in Lothering. We didn't _have_ servants, and everyone had to pull their weight."

"I-I should assist," Fenris offered, pushing his chair back.

"Just stay where you are," ordered Hawke. "You barely have enough strength to hold yourself up. I'll have this done in a jiffy."

Fenris watched, feeling ashamed, as Hawke made short work of scrubbing the stone floor. Feeling uncomfortable with the silence, he tried to make conversation. "Was it… was it hard work on your farm?" he asked.

Hawke wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up. "Sometimes it was back-breaking, especially during the harvests. Father, Carver and I would be out in the fields from sunrise to sunset some days." He sat back on his heels and looked at the far wall for a moment. "I'd give anything to go back, though." He sighed and resumed his task.

"Carver is… your brother?" asked Fenris.

" _Was_."

"Oh. I did not mean to…"

"It's all right. Do _you_ have any family?" asked Hawke.

Fenris was silent for a moment, and Hawke heard a sigh. "I… do not know. I do not remember."

Hawke sat up again and watched Fenris, who had turned his back on him. "I remember you saying you'd lost your memory after getting the lyrium markings." Fenris nodded, but didn't speak. Hawke stood up and looked around the room. "May I have that tapestry on the wall?" he asked.

Fenris turned around, puzzled. "If you wish. It does not belong to me."

"Thank you." Hawke pulled the tapestry from the wall and threw it onto the floor. He then knelt down again and began mopping up the soap and vomit. "So, erm…if you don't mind me asking, how long has it been since you remember anything?" he asked Fenris.

"My first memory is of receiving these markings," he answered. "That was three-and-a-half years ago."

Hawke halted and once again sat back on his heels. "You remember nothing else before that?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

A heavy silence descended. Hawke finished mopping the floor and bundled the empty wine bottles in the tapestry, tying a knot in it. He then placed the makeshift sack outside the room, and threw the other pail of water over the floor. "It's a warm day," said Hawke. "This'll dry in no time." He took the empty pails and left the room again, returning ten minutes later to find Fenris on his feet, tidying the room.

"Here, I brought some biscuits up for you," said Hawke, placing a small plate on the table.

Fenris looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Why… why are you doing this?"

"Why shouldn't I?" asked Hawke, equally puzzled.

"I have performed no service for you."

"Of course you have. You've helped me out a few times."

"But you have paid me for that."

Hawke frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, this is what friends do - help each other out when they're in trouble."

"But… you are not my friend," answered Fenris.

"I'd like to be."

"Why?" Fenris asked suspiciously. "You already have friends."

"I could always use one more," replied Hawke. "And, I suspect, so could you."

"I have managed without friends thus far," Fenris stated in a cold tone.

"You must have been very lonely, then."

Having no answer to that, Fenris continued to busy himself with straightening the room out.

Hawke assisted for a few minutes before he wrinkled his nose, sniffing at his shirt. "Great, now I smell of elf vomit."

Fenris cocked an eyebrow and glanced at him. "Elf vomit smells no worse than human vomit."

"Wanna bet?"

"I do not gamble," answered Fenris, and Hawke burst out laughing.

"You're funny, you know. I've got to go. Varric and I are visiting the Gallows."

"The Gallows?" asked Fenris in concern. "Is that not a risk for one such as yourself?"

"Why do you think I'm dressed like such a twat?"

"I am... not familiar with that expression," said Fenris, and Hawke fancied that the edge of the elf's mouth twitched slightly.

"Stick with us, and you'll hear it a lot. I call Anders a twat all the time. Anyway, I'd better get going. I'll be back later to check on you, and if I find you in the same state again, I'll be very cross."

"You-you do not need to check on me," Fenris mumbled.

"I'm coming back," Hawke insisted. "Get some rest." He headed for the door.

"Hawke…"

"Yes?"

Fenris approached him, stopping a few feet away. "Your… arms."

"What about them?"

"I-I am sorry. Are they… all right now?"

"Right as rain. My healing spell's pretty good."

"You are a healing mage, then?"

"Yes, although Anders is a much better healer than me. He had the education I didn't. I get by, though."

"And your sister? What manner of mage is she?"

"Oh, she can do all the exciting stuff, like command the elements and all that. I can manage a bit of flame, but she's brilliant at it." He lowered his voice and whispered conspiratorially. "Between you and me, though, she can't heal for toffee."

Fenris nodded, wearing an expression that Hawke hadn't seen before - almost a smile, but not quite.

"Well, I'll see you later. Answer this time when I knock, won't you?" Hawke exited the room and headed for the stairs.

"Yes, I will. Farewell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Futue te ipsum = "Go and fuck yourself"
> 
> Adhuc sto = "I'm still standing/I'm still here".


	10. Unhappy Bedfellows and Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Normally, yes," replied Varric. "Thing is, she, uh, got the news of the raid through… unofficial channels."
> 
> Hawke folded his arms, his lips pursed. "And would these 'unofficial channels' happen to be about 4'9" tall with chest hair that small animals could hibernate in?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to everyone following the story. Your wonderful comments never fail to put a daft grin on my face! :D

"You're sure you don't need to go home and bathe, first?" asked Varric as he and Hawke climbed aboard the small boat that would bear them to the Gallows. He leaned in closer and sniffed at Hawke's shirt, wincing and shuffling away, causing the boat to wobble slightly. "What _is_ that smell?"

"The latest perfume from Orlais," replied Hawke with a grin. Varric noted that Hawke had been considerably cheerier since returning from his mysterious errand.

"Really? Smells like vomit, to me."

"Clearly, Varric, you're not familiar with Orlesian perfumes."

"Oh, I am, Hawke, and that _can't_ be Orlesian. Orlesian scents are usually _far_ more offensive to the nose."

As the boat got underway, Hawke stared at the minacious-looking fortress that lay ahead. He'd glimpsed at it once or twice from a distance but had chosen to ignore it, and its significance, deciding he had enough problems of his own to contend with.

"So, where did you go?" Varric asked with a nonchalance that didn't fool Hawke for one second.

"I went to see Fenris, actually."

"Oh? Is he okay?"

"Mm-hm."

"Think he'll still work with us?"

"I'm not sure," said Hawke thoughtfully. "I hope so. Like you said, we need him."

"Hm," Varric mumbled, looking at Hawke with a curious gleam in his eyes. "I think _someone_ needs him, anyway."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Hawke.

"Well, as you're not carrying that giant stick of yours today, I guess I can get away with saying it. You're different when he's around."

" _Different_? How am I different?"

Varric sighed and paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You'd be the first to admit that you can be… grouchy sometimes, wouldn't you?"

"Varric, about that - I don't mean-"

"Uh-uh," Varric chided, holding his hands up. "I'm not looking for an apology, here. The grouchiness is part of your unique charm, after all. All I'm saying is, you seem… I dunno, _less_ grouchy when he's around. Just an observation."

"Don't you believe it," laughed Hawke, amused that Varric considered him in any way charming. "Things were decidedly frosty between us after I refused to turn Feynriel over to the Templars."

"You still went to visit him, though," observed Varric.

Hawke tugged at his collar and fidgeted. "Yes, well, as I said before, we need him. You said that yourself, Varric, remember?"

"I did," the dwarf agreed. "I'm just wondering if you've finally found that asshole you were looking for."

Hawke stared at the dwarf blankly. "What in the Maker's name are you talking about?"

"You said that everyone needs an asshole in their life - someone who'll keep them on the straight and narrow, and that you were missing said asshole."

Hawke looked at Varric as though he'd grown an extra head. " _I_ said that I need an 'arsehole'? And when exactly did I say that?"

"Funnily enough, it was the very night we met the elf. You were six sheets to the wind at the time, but you said it, all right."

"You're putting me on."

Varric shook his head and grinned. "Nice try, but Blondie was there as well. He'll back me up."

"Well, he _would_."

Varric cleared his throat and stretched his arms above his head, a clear indication to Hawke that he was after something. "Anyway, Hawke, as you're in a good mood…"

"Uh-oh, I don't like the sound of this," said Hawke, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"Well, you know I did a favour for you, and saved you the bother of talking to Aveline?"

"Yes…?"

"Well, she kinda wants our help with a little problem tonight."

"A problem? What sort of problem?"

"She's had word of a possible caravan raid, and wants a few heavies to help out."

"Varric," Hawke said in a hard tone, "Aveline is a _guard_. She's surrounded by _other_ guards. Isn't that their job?"

"Normally, yes," replied Varric. "Thing is, she, uh, got the news of the raid through… _unofficial_ channels."

Hawke folded his arms, his lips pursed. "And would these 'unofficial channels' happen to be about 4'9" tall with chest hair that small animals could hibernate in?"

"Don't forget handsome, witty and cunning," answered Varric.

"I hate you, Dwarf," pouted Hawke.

"Hey, it'll be fun!" urged Varric, nudging Hawke with his elbow. "Bring the elf along - it'll get him out of that damned mansion for a couple of hours."

"Wait… we're supposed to be helping Isabela tonight, remember? We can't be in two places at once," said Hawke with a crafty smile. "Tell you what - you, Anders and Beth go and sort out Aveline, and I'll take Fenris to the chantry with Isabela. That way, we both have a healer in tow."

"Sorry, Hawke," replied Varric, shaking his head. "Aveline asked _specifically_ for you."

Hawke's face slackened and he groaned. "Why? What does she want with me?"

"Search me," Varric answered with a shrug. "Just… try to be nice to her, huh? Even if you have to pretend. Just like we're gonna pretend to be nice to these Templars. Think of the coin, Hawke."

"Being nice to someone for money? There's a name for that, you know."

"You don't have to be _that_ nice," laughed Varric.

"Oh, all right," Hawke reluctantly agreed. "Where's this raid supposed to be taking place, then?"

"Somewhere along the Wounded C-"

"The Wounded Coast? We've only just got back from there! It's bloody miles out!"

"Hawke, you really have to start seeing the silver lining. Weren't you saying just the other day that you're getting podgy? Just think of the exercise and all that fresh air! And it won't cost you a thing!"

"You're a manipulative sod, you know that?" accused a frowning Hawke as the boat drew near to the Gallows.

"The word, my friend, is _cunning_. Now, put on your most charming smile - we've a knight-captain to fleece."

As they disembarked, they were greeted by the standard two-templar welcoming party.

"Varric Tethras, here for Knight-Captain Cullen," Varric announced before they could speak. "We are expected."

One of them grunted and headed back inside, while his partner folded his arms and looked Varric and Hawke up and down. "Can you smell sick?" he asked Hawke.

"No."

They waited in silence for a moment until the other templar reappeared and summoned them inside. They were led through the courtyard and around a corner; as they walked, Hawke looked up at the barred windows of the fortress in dismay. "Anders has _got_ to see this place," he mumbled to himself. "If he thought the Circle in Ferelden was bad…"

"Knight-Captain, Varric Tethras and… someone else to see you," announced their escort as they stopped in front of a red-headed templar.

"Thank you. That will be all," said Cullen. He waited for his colleague to depart before addressing his guests.

"Messeres Tethras and Hawke," he said cordially, shaking Varric's hand before offering his hand to Hawke, who cautiously shook it and nodded once. "I am glad you received my letter. Once again, I apologise for not being able to travel over to the mainland - my duties here allow little spare time." He released Hawke's hand and pointed to the other side of the courtyard. Hawke and Varric turned around to look and spotted the young templar they'd rescued from the blood mages, chatting to a merchant.

"As you can see, Ser Keran is well, thanks to you, although he is under constant surveillance, as we are uncertain as to whether he sustained any… lingering after-effects from his ordeal."

"He's not possessed," Hawke said with certainty.

Cullen's eyes narrowed a little. "Oh? And what makes you so sure of that?"

"I have it on very good authority that he resisted all offers the demons made. You have no need to watch him," answered Hawke.

" _Authority_? Can you elaborate?" asked Cullen, frowning.

"No."

"I see." Cullen watched Hawke for a moment before sighing. "Well, perhaps we could go a little easier on the lad. We must still be vigilant, however."

"What became of the blood mages?" asked Hawke.

"Tarohne was executed," Cullen replied matter-of-factly. "She was clearly in league with several demonic creatures. Her henchmen were made tranquil. They now work in the Templars' armoury."

Hawke nodded and shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, you are here for your reward, no doubt," said Cullen, producing a small bag of monies, which Varric took, weighing it in his palm. "The Templar Order is indebted to you for your service, and I hope that in the future we may work together again."

Varric flashed a cheesy grin, most satisfied with the weight of the purse. "Oh, I think we can come to an arrangement, wouldn't you say, Hawke?"

"There are certain things I won't do," Hawke told Cullen. "I'm not going to capture or squeal on apostates for you."

Cullen nodded. "Your own status as an apostate makes that understandable."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, you misunderstand me, Messere Hawke. Your friend here," he said, pointing at Varric, "is aware that we employ certain… parties, strictly off the books, you understand. Some of them inform us of the whereabouts of apostates, and some don't." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "The knight-commander is completely unaware of this. She would not approve."

"You mean you employ apostates who tell you where _other_ apostates are?" Hawke asked in disbelief.

Cullen shrugged. "I can see how you would find such actions distasteful, but there it is. Apostates tend to respond more favourably towards fellow mages than they would a visit from us."

"I think we're done here, Varric," Hawke said superciliously, his eyes still on Cullen.

"Wait," said Varric. "There's one more thing we need," he said to Cullen.

"Oh? And what would that be?" asked the knight-captain.

"Oh, yes," Hawke interjected. "I have a friend whose… _status_ is similar to mine. I believe your men are aware of him, but do not know exactly where he is. I want him left alone, _and_ I want him to be able to walk freely around Kirkwall, and here."

Cullen took a deep breath and, for a moment, didn't answer. "You ask a great deal of me, Messere Hawke. Perhaps too much."

"Take it or leave it," Hawke answered gruffly. "You're getting a lot more out of this deal than we are. Throwing a few coins at us is a drop in the ocean to the Chantry."

Varric's eyes darted between the two men as they stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Cullen looked away.

"I will make this concession, once and once only," insisted Cullen. "If you ask me to 'look the other way' again, however, you will be disappointed with my answer."

"Fair enough," said Hawke.

"Who is this… person?" Cullen asked.

"His given name is Anders. I don't actually know if he has a second name."

Cullen raised his eyebrows, his eyes widening. "So it _is_ true… I've suspected he was in Kirkwall for a long time. There have been sightings, but nothing concrete up until now. He was one of the Circle's most notorious apostates."

"He's also a Grey Warden," Hawke reminded him.

"That means nothing here," Cullen answered. "It will be difficult to convince my men to leave him alone."

"You're their captain, aren't you?" asked Hawke. "You issue an order, they obey - simple as that."

Cullen slowly nodded. "I will do my best. And, if you do bring Anders here, I must ask that-"

"No robes, no staff. Got it," answered Hawke, taking a step closer to Cullen. "Just make sure your men _do_ obey your orders, or your knight-commander's ignorance of certain matters will come to an end. Just so we understand each other."

Cullen nodded, meeting Hawke's challenging look. "We do."

"Then you have yourself a deal." Hawke extended his hand, and this time it was Cullen who hesitated, tentatively taking Hawke's hand and shaking it.

"Just one thing," said Cullen as Hawke turned to leave, his voice taking on a hard edge. "I am aware that an operation to capture Anders, or at least someone matching his description, was conducted several weeks ago. The men who were to make the arrest were found dead in the chantry the following morning. They had been butchered. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

"I may have _heard_ about that, yes," answered Hawke, his expression blank.

"And did you also _hear_ if Anders was responsible for their deaths?"

"Anders did _not_ kill those templars. On that, you have my word."

A thick, uncomfortable silence hung between the two men, which was eventually broken by Varric, who seized Hawke's arm. "Well, we must be making tracks. Nice to see you again, Knight-Captain!"

Cullen could only watch, open-mouthed, as his guests headed towards the gate.

"Nicely played, Hawke!" Varric exclaimed with a hefty slap to his friend's back as they boarded the boat. "Looks like your stint at the Varric Tethras School of Cunning didn't go to waste!"

"I'm not aware of having attended that school," Hawke answered with a faint smile.

"Did I say I was cunning?"

"That's _one_ word for it, yes. How much money did we get?"

Varric opened the purse and peered inside. "Just as I thought. Seven sovereigns!"

"Seven?" Hawke pushed out his lower lip and raised his eyebrows. "Well, how about one apiece and two for the kitty?"

"Sounds good to me, Hawke. Hey… I noticed you didn't mention Sunshine to that Cullen guy. You could have negotiated for her to enter the Gallows as well, you know. I think you could have cracked him."

Hawke shook his head firmly. "I don't trust that Cullen as far as I could throw him. He quite happily deals with apostates who are willing to sell out their kin, and then in the blink of an eye executes and tranquils others. I know that Tarohne was mental, but still… well, I couldn't do his job, that's for sure." He shook his head again. "Bethany's not setting foot in that place."

"I dunno, Hawke, it just seems like he's trying to do his job under difficult circumstances. I would have thought that Blondie would be more at risk going there, anyhow."

"Anders _wants_ to go," countered Hawke, "and he's a grown man. He can look after himself."

"So can Sunshine, Hawke. I'm just saying."

Hawke glanced at Varric and sighed. "I know that, but I'm _not_ losing _her_ as well."

Varric nodded and clapped Hawke on the arm, and they sat back in the boat as they were rowed across to the mainland.

~o~O~o~

As Varric had one or two people to see, it was almost lunchtime when he and Hawke arrived back at the Hanged Man. As they entered, they were surprised to find a forlorn-looking Anders propping up the bar.

"Two more ales," he said to the ever-present Corff upon spotting the new arrivals.

"Not for me," said Hawke, arriving at his side. "What's the matter with you? And where's Bethany?"

Anders huffed and shook his head. "Your sister _insisted_ I go along to Merrill's with her after we'd spoken to Feynriel's mother. I was willing to go along with that, for Bethany's sake, but once we were inside, they all started talking about… _girly things_."

"Girly things? Like what?" laughed Hawke.

Anders screwed his face up and pouted. "Well, Isabela started giving Merrill tips on 'lift', whatever that is, and then she started grabbing Merrill's…" he lowered his voice to a whisper, "… _boobs_ and, well, pushing them up."

Hawke and Varric burst out laughing. "Sounds like a dream come true to me, Blondie!" chortled Varric.

"Well, it wasn't," Anders said indignantly. "It was just disturbing. And then they all started cackling like geese. I made an excuse and left. I don't think they even noticed."

"Aw," commiserated Hawke, patting Anders's cheek. "Were the nasty women paying no attention to you, diddums?"

"Sod off, you," Anders groused, passing Varric his pint.

"Well, I do have some good news," said Hawke, still laughing. "The next time I go to the Gallows, you can come along. You've been wanting to see it, haven't you?"

"Eh? How did you manage that?"

"I had a friendly chat with a nice man named Cullen. We… negotiated."

"Cullen?" asked Anders. "There was a templar at the Circle named Cullen."

"Must be the same one - he said he remembered you. What's he like?"

"He was always pretty decent, from what I remember," Anders mused thoughtfully.

"See? I told you," said Varric.

"Well, we'll see," Hawke replied. "The bad news, Anders, is that you have to dress like _this_ ," he said, pointing at himself. "No robes and no staff."

Anders shrugged his shoulders. "That's all right. I'm used to wearing trousers from when I was on the run, although I think I can find something a bit more modern than… _those_ things." He moved a little closer to Hawke and sniffed the air. "Blimey, Hawke, you smell a bit ripe."

"Yes, I know. I'm going home to change. I probably won't be back until later," he said, turning to Varric.

"Hey, Blondie, let's grab a bite and I'll tell you all about our plans for tonight."

"Aren't we going to help Isabela out?" Anders frowned. "Assuming we can prise her away from Merrill's _boobs_ , of course."

"Oh, yeah, _we_ will be," Varric said to Anders with a sly glance at Hawke, "but _Aveline_ has other plans for Hawke."

It was Anders's turn to laugh as Hawke cast Varric a look that would curdle milk, and left the pub with his nose in the air.

~o~O~o~

After having a thorough wash at home, Hawke slipped on a clean robe and breathed a sigh of relief as he no longer had to wear those confining trousers. Making his way to the kitchen, he found Leandra hard at work, cooking.

"Mother, that smells absolutely divine," he complimented her, kissing her on the cheek. "What are you baking?"

"I'm glad that _you_ smell a little more pleasant yourself, dear. Do I even want to know what you've been up to?"

"Probably not," he answered with a cheeky smile.

Leandra shook her head indulgently and pointed at the worktop. "I've made a huge fish pie with the fish you brought me from the docks, and I have cheese scones and biscuits in the oven."

"Biscuits?" Hawke asked, an idea forming in his mind. "What kind?"

"Two kinds," the skilled cook answered. "Shortbread and ginger snaps."

"Mother," Hawke said, grinning impishly, "you know how you're the best mother in the whole wide world…?"

Leandra folded her arms and tilted her head to one side. "What are you after?"

"Me, Mother?" he asked innocently, batting his eyelashes for effect. "Well, you _always_ make too many biscuits, don't you?"

"Yes, but they never go to waste, do they?" she answered, prodding Hawke's podgy belly with her finger. "They always seem to get eaten by _someone_."

Hawke stared at her finger disparagingly and shook his head. "I blame that Gamlen, myself. Anyway, I have a friend who likes biscuits, and I thought I'd take him a few of yours to try out?"

"A _friend_?" Leandra asked with a bright smile.

"No, it's not like _that_ , Mother. He's just… well, he's not looking after himself properly." He shrugged and turned away from Leandra, absent-mindedly wiping the worktop with a rag. "He's very mistrustful of people and I thought that if I showed him a little kindness, he might open up a bit, that's all. It's a shame. I think he's had a very hard life."

"Darling," said Leandra proudly, "You are as kind-hearted as the day is long. Just like your father was."

"Don't you _dare_ tell anyone," Hawke muttered with a sidelong glance at Leandra.

"Your secret is safe with me," she promised. "Now, let's see what else we can find for your friend."

~o~O~o~

For the second time that day, Hawke found himself in the courtyard of Danrius's mansion, but this time he was dressed more comfortably and carried a small jute sack that his mother had filled with various goodies for his new friend to sample.

His nervous complaint had returned. His stomach had been tied in knots since leaving home, but the tension he'd previously felt in his neck and shoulders had eased. Once again he hesitated as he glanced up at the front aspect of the mansion. He always felt uneasy when he came here, but not because of Fenris - there was an unwelcoming, menacing air about the place.

He caught his reflection in one of the lower windows and, straightening his robe out, considered his appearance for a moment. His hair was freshly washed, he'd also trimmed his beard and was wearing one of his best robes. In his hand, he carried a bag full of food. He groaned and shook his head.

"Maker's breath, Fletcher, what are you doing?" he asked himself. "He's going to think you're after him or something!"

Annoyed with himself, he turned to leave, and had just reached the gate when he heard the creak of the front door opening.

"Hawke?"

Hawke's gut wrenched and he turned around. Fenris stood across the courtyard from him, looking puzzled.

"I saw you from one of the windows. You are… leaving?"

"Erm…" Hawke laughed nervously and took a few steps toward the elf. "You see, the thing is, well… my mother always makes far too much food, so I thought I'd bring some over. It seemed like a good idea at the time, anyway. Then I got to thinking that maybe, uh, you might find that a bit… condescending. Not that I consider myself in any way superior to you," he hastily added. "Not-not at all. Uh…"

"You brought food for me?"

"I just thought it would make a change from biscuits and porridge. Although… there _are_ biscuits in here," he said awkwardly, holding the bag up.

Fenris watched him for a moment and Hawke's belly tightened, wondering what his response would be. "That was thoughtful of you," Fenris said quietly, taking Hawke by surprise. "Well, come in."

Fenris entered first and Hawke followed, surprised again to see that the drapes in the vestibule had been opened and that much of the rubble that their fight against the abominations had caused, had been removed.

"I've been busy," Fenris explained, noticing Hawke's expression as they climbed up the stairs.

"So I see. Has your strength returned, then? Do you feel better?"

Fenris paused on the landing and turned slightly towards Hawke. "Well, you left some porridge in a pan, and after another two bowls of it," he began, causing Hawke to grin, "I felt more like myself, yes." He clasped his hands together and turned to face Hawke, although he didn't look at him, casting his eyes to the floor. "I… wanted to thank you."

"There's no need," insisted Hawke. "Why don't we see what Mother has put in the bag?"

Upon entering the room where Fenris resided, which had also been given a spruce-up, Hawke laid the sack on the table and untied it, spreading its contents on the table. "Now, let's see," he said, opening several items that had been wrapped in waxed paper. "Cheese scones, with a pat of butter… cold chicken, a jar of homemade chutney…" As he unwrapped the parcels, Fenris watched in fascination. "Ah. Fish pie," said Hawke, unwrapping a dish containing enough for two. "You'll love this."

"This-this is too much," Fenris protested. "You should not have-"

"Like I said, Mother always makes too much, and I usually end up eating what's left." He patted his belly. "I used to be quite muscular, but since coming here… I'm getting fat, and I need to put a stop to it before it gets out of hand."

Fenris glanced at Hawke's chunky frame before looking back at the table. "Perhaps you could go for runs?" he suggested.

"I _could_ , but there's a slight snag to that plan."

"And what is that?"

"I'm bone idle, that's what."

Fenris's lips twitched slightly. "I see how that would be a drawback."

Hawke laughed. "Well, I suggest we have the fish pie now, and you keep the chicken for later. Store it somewhere cool." He opened the last package and presented it to Fenris. "Biscuits."

Fenris looked at Hawke briefly, and then his brow furrowed as he examined Leandra's fare. "What is this?" he asked, holding up a golden, star-shaped biscuit.

"Shortbread. Have you never tried it?" Fenris shook his head. "Go on, try it."

Fenris hesitantly took a small bite, and Hawke noticed how dainty his hands were without his gauntlets on, and wondered how he managed to hold his huge sword with such apparent ease. He also noticed that the lyrium markings extended all the way to Fenris's fingertips.

Fenris concentrated on the bite in his mouth and, after a moment, he looked at Hawke, his eyes widening.

"I think you like it," Hawke guessed.

"It tastes of butter," Fenris noted, looking back down at his hand, which tightly clutched the biscuit. "It is… quite delicious."

"No one makes shortbread like my mother," Hawke boasted. "Although she can't compete with my porridge."

"As I have not yet sampled your mother's porridge, I am in no position to comment."

"That's quite true," replied Hawke. "Now, I think we could do with some cutlery… and plates, if you have any, although we can get by without them."

"I shall fetch some from the kitchen," said Fenris, and he headed to the door.

"Oh, Fenris? How about a drink? Tea might be the best bet."

A faint, shy smile graced Fenris's lips, and he nodded. "No doubt you are correct. I shall return shortly."

Once the tea and cutlery, but no plates, had been brought up, Fenris and Hawke sat at the table and shared the fish pie and Leandra's shortbread. Hawke let Fenris have most of that, claiming not to like it very much.

"Fenris, there was a reason I came to see you this morning," he began. "I, um, I wanted to talk to you about what happened with Feynriel."

Fenris sighed quietly and looked out of the window.

"I know you didn't agree with what I did, and I know I might have been a little… belligerent. I wanted you to know that I didn't just dismiss your opinion off-hand. I _did_ think about what you said, but I just wanted to give the boy a chance."

Fenris looked back at Hawke. "My assessment of the situation was that you sided with your fellow mage."

"No," replied Hawke, shaking his head. "Anders wanted to let him go, and I didn't agree with that, either. I thought you were both wrong."

"Then you have appointed yourself arbiter of all decisions within your group?" asked Fenris, although there was no hostility in his question.

"No, not at all. I was just trying to find a balance. What was happening to the boy was not his fault, and he was clearly doing his best to resist the demons. I believe that Keeper Marethari can help him. The Templars would have made him tranquil and that would have been a senseless waste of a young life."

Fenris nodded. "As a mage, you would undoubtedly have a different viewpoint on the matter. I still believe you were wrong, however."

"That's fine," replied Hawke with a shrug. "I don't expect everyone to agree with me on everything, and I don't believe myself to be all-knowing. I've made some rare mistakes in my time, I can tell you." He fell silent and sipped at his tea.

"I am certain this will not be the only matter upon which we disagree," said Fenris after a moment.

Hawke put his cup down on the table. "So… you still want to work with us, then?"

Fenris nodded. "Yes. Although at this moment I have no idea why."

"That's great!" Hawke said enthusiastically before making an effort to straighten his face. He cleared his throat. "Uh, if you're feeling up to it, we do have a job tonight, well, two, actually and I was thinking that you and I could do one, and the others could do, well, you know, the other. The other job, I mean." He sighed, realising he was rambling, something he did when nervous. Why was he so nervous?

Fenris folded his arms and cocked a dark eyebrow. "It seems to me that you already had this planned."

"I-I might have… pencilled you in, just on the off-chance that you agreed," Hawke stammered, feeling a blush creep into his cheeks. "The food was in no way a bribe. Not at all."

To Hawke's relief and delight, Fenris chuckled as a wide, closed grin lit up his face.

"We'll have to go to the guard barracks and see someone I know named Aveline. She'll probably be coming with us. We need to go back to the Wounded Coast." Noticing Fenris fidget in his chair, he quickly added, "Although we won't be hanging around there or going to sleep or anything. We'll come straight back, no matter how late it is."

Hawke heard Fenris take a slow, deep breath. "Very well, I will go with you," he agreed.

"Thank you, Fenris. I appreciate it. Look, please don't ever be afraid to speak your mind. I may not always agree with you, and I may even be an arse about it, but... well, it would be good if you kept me on my toes."

Fenris nodded once. "I will certainly do that."

The two men finished off their meal in silence, and Hawke began to feel nervous again as he considered asking Fenris about his dream, but thought that perhaps he didn't know Fenris well enough yet for that, and decided to broach the subject in a roundabout way.

"Fenris… is there… anything you'd like to talk about?" he asked quietly.

"No, I don't think so," Fenris answered quickly, as though he'd been expecting the question.

Hawke nodded and shrugged apologetically. "Well, I just wanted you to know, if ever… well. You know where I am." He stood and began to clear away the contents of the table. "If you feel like it, why don't we visit the barracks now? It's not very far, and then we'll know what's what."

"Yes," Fenris agreed, and also stood. "Would you extend my gratitude to your mother? That was the finest meal I can remember eating, perhaps the finest I've ever eaten."

"All right, but you still haven't tasted my porridge made with _milk_. Don't get making such bold proclamations until you've tried _that_."

"In that case, I look forward to sampling it one day," Fenris replied, and Hawke once again noticed a shy smile on the elf's lips. He also noticed that his own palms had started to sweat, and wiped them on his robe.

"After you, Fenris," said Hawke and they left the room together, before making their way to the barracks.


	11. Drinking To Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fenris," called Hawke, and the elf stopped, turning slightly. "If you're not there, I'll come looking for you."

As they made their way through Hightown toward Viscount's Keep, Hawke noticed that he and Fenris were receiving quite a few odd looks from the nobles they passed on the way. As they neared the Keep, however, it became apparent to Hawke that those looks were not directed at them as a couple, but rather solely at Fenris. If his companion noticed at all, he gave no sign. Hawke, on the other hand, began to feel quite uncomfortable and wondered if the nobles' scrutiny was because of Fenris's markings or, more likely, simply because he was an elf.

Whatever the reason, Hawke considered the nobles' behaviour downright rude, and began to return their stares with a scowl. Fenris eventually noticed this, a wry smile forming on his lips.

"I am accustomed to it," he said quietly. "Do not let it trouble you."

"It doesn't matter whether you're used to it or not," answered Hawke, loudly enough for a passing noble to hear. "It's bloody rude and there's no need for it."

"I _am_ somewhat conspicuous, wouldn't you agree?" asked Fenris.

"I got the same treatment the very first time I came here," said Hawke as they neared the huge wooden doors to the Keep. "I was dressed rather shabbily and every one of these bastards looked down their noses at me. Now that I can afford decent clothing and my hair isn't like a bird's nest, I look just like the rest of them. Perhaps it's not a bad thing to be conspicuous. Who wants to look the same as everyone else?"

"I am not in need of reassurance, though I appreciate the sentiment," Fenris replied. "Their opinion means nothing to me."

"Well, good," said Hawke as they stopped and waited in line for entrance into the keep. Soon, they reached the head of the queue, and a bored-looking guard addressed them.

"Viscount Dumar does not see anyone without an appointment," he said in a weary monotone, as though he'd repeated those words countless times. "To make an appointment, you'll need to talk to Seneschal Bran, and you'll need an appointment to see _him_ , as well."

"No, we're here for Lieutenant Vallen," Hawke said. "She should be expecting us."

"Name?"

"Hawke."

The guard looked down a scroll and nodded. "Yes, Hawke. What about the elf?"

"The elf _can_ speak for himself, you know," Hawke answered in exasperation.

"All right," said the guard, holding his hands up. "No need to get snotty with me. What's _your_ business here, Elf?"

"I'm with him," answered Fenris, nodding at Hawke.

The guard glanced at both of them before nodding. "All right, you can enter. Don't get causing no trouble, though."

"And just why would we cause trouble?" demanded Hawke. A small hand touched his back and gently pushed him forward through the doors, and it wasn't until they were inside that Hawke realised that Fenris had actually touched him.

He stopped and glanced at Fenris momentarily before they stepped into the grandly-appointed reception area. Several more nobles and guards were here, and most of the nobles seemed too busy complaining to take much notice of Fenris, which came as a relief to Hawke. At the top of the stairs, an auburn-haired man wearing fancy red clothing looked harassed as several nobles petitioned him for an audience with the viscount.

"It's this way," Hawke said, pointing to the right-hand set of stairs. They ascended and made their way through several corridors, passing many guards on the way. As they turned a corner, Hawke halted and took a deep breath.

"Is something amiss?" asked Fenris.

"No," Hawke answered immediately. "Well, yes. You see, Aveline and I don't exactly get on," he explained. "I haven't seen her for a while."

"That would explain _my_ presence here, then," answered Fenris.

"No, I'm not scared of her or anything," Hawke laughed nervously. "It's just… well, it's complicated." He sighed. "Perhaps _I've_ made it complicated, I don't know."

"You were involved with her, then? Romantically?"

"No! No, I, er, well, I-I don't go for women in that way."

"Oh... I see." Fenris slowly nodded, and the two of them stood in silence for a moment.

"Well, let's get this over with," said Hawke, and they entered the barracks, where several more guards stood around, awaiting their assignments for the day.

"There she is." Hawke pointed out a ginger-haired woman who was surrounded by several men as she issued orders to them.

"She is rather tall," observed Fenris.

"Yes, she is." Hawke grinned, and then walked forward, taking another deep breath. "Here goes."

"Hawke," she said upon noticing the two men. "Was beginning to think you wouldn't show." She dismissed the rest of the guards and crossed her arms, her chin slightly raised.

"Aveline," Hawke replied briskly, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Who's your friend?" she asked.

Hawke remained silent and let the elf answer. "Fenris," he answered with a nod.

"Good to meet you, Fenris." She jerked her head and led them to a secluded corner. "You've been making quite a name for yourself, Hawke."

" _Have_ I?" he asked defensively.

"Yes, your name crops up in my reports all the time, the latest being that several slavers were left tied up on the beach for us while their ship burned. You did a good job there, Hawke, although your methods sometimes leave a lot to be desired. It'll cost the city a lot of money to clean up the wreckage."

Hawke folded his own arms, his expression hard. "Did you want me for something or am I just here for you to pick holes in?"

Aveline's jaw tightened and she glared at Hawke in annoyance before she sighed and lowered her voice. "I've had word of a planned raid tonight. I need to take a few people along and put a stop to this gang - they've been a thorn in our sides for a long time."

"Is that not what the city guard is employed for?" asked Fenris, and Hawke nodded his agreement.

Aveline shook her head. "Only a single patrol is deployed along that stretch of the coast as it's normally so quiet, and the captain won't deploy more on the strength of a rumour. I know that something's going down, though, and I intend to put a stop to it. Varric's information has always been solid. Are you in? Once we put a stop to them, there's bound to be a reward."

"All right, Aveline. What time? Where?" asked Hawke, eager to end the conversation and leave.

"Thank you," she replied. "Meet me… well, you spend a lot of time at the Hanged Man, don't you? I'll meet you there at eight bells, and we'll go from there. Just don't get leathered, all right? We'll need to have our wits about us."

Hawke nodded and rolled his eyes. "Eight bells," he repeated as he walked away with Fenris following.

"What is the nature of the animosity between the two of you?" Fenris asked as they made their way out. "If the question is not impertinent."

Hawke sighed and slowed his pace a little. "I first met her in Lothering. That's where I'm from, in Ferelden. That was when I lost my brother. She lost her husband, as well." Hawke fell silent, and could see from the corner of his eye that Fenris was watching him, his head slightly tilted.

"Was she the cause of your brother's death?" Hawke remained silent, and Fenris noticed a faraway look in his eyes. "I... should not pry. Forgive me."

"No…" Hawke came to a stop and ran his hand through his hair. "It's all right. I _used_ to think she was responsible, and I used to think _I_ was responsible. I don't know anymore, maybe it was just one of those things. She just reminds me of a bad time, that's all. I guess that's not her fault."

The two men continued to walk on until they reached the main reception area. "If I may ask," ventured Fenris, "how did your brother…"

"An ogre killed him," answered Hawke. "It just-" He shook his head, the image of Carver's body being smashed upon the ground careering through his mind.

"I cannot imagine how that must have been for you. I am truly sorry," Fenris said quietly.

"Thank you."

"Were you and your brother alike?"

Hawke smiled and snorted softly. "We _looked_ a lot alike. He and Bethany were twins, but the only similarity they shared was their black hair. I was the odd one out. I got _this_ brown, tangled mess, courtesy of my father," he said, pointing to his thick, curly hair. "I used to think that I was nothing like my brother, but since he died, it's almost as though the spirit of Carver lives on through me. _He_ was a prickly bastard, as well."

"None of us are perfect," Fenris commented evenly.

"I suppose not," Hawke answered with a smile. "Do you… have any plans for this afternoon? Fancy a pint?"

"A pint of what?"

"You _are_ joking, aren't you?" laughed Hawke. "You know, a pint? Of ale?"

"I do not drink ale," replied Fenris. "At least, I don't recall ever drinking it."

"They have wine, as well." Fenris glanced at Hawke and smiled ruefully. "They do decent lunches there, as well… if you like _stew_ , that is," Hawke finished.

"You would eat _again_? We ate less than an hour ago," Fenris pointed out.

"Hey, I'm a growing man!" protested Hawke.

"So you said earlier," Fenris said drily with a glance at Hawke's belly.

Hawke burst out laughing. "You could be right, there! Just an ale, then. Or wine, for you."

"Very well," Fenris accepted with a half-smile, which bloomed into a full one as Hawke continued to laugh. "Just the one."

"Or two," Hawke said very quietly. "And a spot of lunch."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Fenris cast a stern glance at Hawke, who started to snigger. Fenris shook his head, unable to completely suppress his own smile, and the two of them headed for Lowtown.

~o~O~o~

The Hanged Man was almost full when they arrived: several traders and guards were taking lunch and seats were at a premium. Hawke and Fenris stood at the entrance and, scanning the room, spotted their friends in two different places: a befuddled-looking Anders stood at the bar, flanked by Isabela and Merrill, and Varric and Bethany were seated at a small table in a corner, eating.

"I think Varric's table looks safest, wouldn't you agree?" Hawke asked Fenris, who gave a sly nod.

"Hawke!" Anders called out, a hint of desperation in his voice, as they made their way across the lounge. "Good to see you, mate!"

"Oh, don't let me interrupt," Hawke said wickedly, and walked to Varric and Bethany's table. "Are we intruding?" he asked.

Varric shook his head, unable to speak as he had a mouth full of stew and bread. He gestured to the edge of the table, and Hawke retrieved two chairs from a few that were stacked against the wall.

"Hello, Brother, hello, Fenris," Bethany greeted them as they sat down.

"Good afternoon, Bethany," Fenris replied with a polite nod.

Varric swallowed his mouthful, belched, and then apologised to Bethany. "So, how'd it go with Aveline?" he asked lightly. "Were you _nice_ to her, like we agreed?"

"Like _you_ agreed, you mean," answered Hawke. "I was _civil_ to her."

"Guess that's better than nothing," muttered the dwarf.

"She's meeting us here, tonight, at about eight. Fenris has very kindly volunteered to assist-"

"More like _I_ was volunteered by Hawke," Fenris cut in, "but yes, I agreed."

Varric laughed as Hawke gave Fenris a mock-sour look, and he and Bethany exchanged a glance. "Sounds about right, to me. Will the two of you be enough? Daisy said _she'd_ be happy to tag along with us, as well."

"Well, we'll have Aveline with us, so we should be fine." Hawke was pleased that he and Fenris seemed to be getting along well, and didn't want that spoiled by the presence of a blood mage - a known one, anyway - when they did the job with Aveline. He glanced behind his shoulder to where Anders was standing with the two women. "Anders looks a bit bewildered. Is he all right?"

Again, Varric laughed, along with Bethany. "He was a little snooty toward Daisy when the girls brought her back here, but the Rivaini was having none of it - she practically forced the poor sap to talk to her. When we left them, they were giving him tips on _styling his hair_."

Hawke creased over with laughter and then, feeling pity for his friend, wiped a tear from his eye and sat up. "The poor sod. I suppose I'd better rescue him. What are you having, Fenris?"

Fenris reached into a pocket in his breeches. "I will pay," he insisted.

Hawke waved his hand dismissively. "You can get the next round. What do you want, wine? Or you do fancy trying the ale?"

Fenris considered this for a moment. "Perhaps I will try the ale, for a change."

"Good man," said Hawke. "Varric? Any recommendations for beginners?"

"New to ale, huh?" asked Varric. "Hmm. Well, you don't wanna drink _this_ shit," he said, pointing to his tankard. "It's a little rough. Sunshine, what's that stuff you drink?"

"This is golden bitter," she answered. "It's quite smooth, and you couldn't really get drunk on it, not unless you drink a whole keg of it. Would you like to try some?" she asked Fenris. "That way, if you don't like it, you won't have wasted any money."

"Um, thank you," Fenris replied diffidently as Bethany pushed her tankard over to him. As he raised it to his lips, three pairs of eyes were fixed upon him, and he paused.

"Come on, now, don't crowd the man," Hawke remonstrated good-naturedly.

Fenris took a sip and his eyes moved to the table as he apparently considered the flavour. He then took another, and set the tankard down as a crease formed between his eyes.

"Well?" asked Varric.

Fenris continued to stare at the table, and did not answer. "Elf?" Varric prompted, and looked at Hawke. "Either he really hates it, or it's so good he's lost for words."

"Fenris?" asked Hawke cautiously. "Are you-"

"I-I must go," Fenris blurted out, pushing himself up. "Thank you for the drink," he said to Bethany, and turned, heading for the exit without another word.

"What's gotten into _him_ , Hawke?" demanded Varric.

"Maybe you should go after him, Brother," Bethany suggested.

Hawke hesitated for a moment, feeling his gut tighten. "Yes, all right," he mumbled and rose from his chair. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Hawke!" Anders called out to him as he walked past, and Hawke held his hand up, indicating he would be back soon. Stepping outside, he glanced around. Fenris was nowhere to be seen. He broke into a jog and headed for the steps leading to Hightown, cursing his lack of physical fitness as he began to climb them. After what seemed like hundreds of steps, he spotted Fenris, who was way ahead of him and taking the steps two at a time.

"Fenris!" he called breathlessly, to no answer. "Fenris, please! If I have to run up these steps after you, I'll drop down dead!"

Mercifully, Fenris stopped, slowly turned around and began to walk down the steps toward Hawke.

"Thank you!" gasped Hawke, sitting down on the small wall that ran alongside the steps.

"Are you all right?" Fenris asked.

"Yes, I will be, in a minute." Hawke panted, clutching at his chest. "What's wrong, Fenris? Why did you leave so suddenly?"

For a moment, Fenris didn't answer, and sat on the wall a few feet away from Hawke. "There is no excuse for my rudeness. I hope I did not offend your sister."

"No, you didn't, she was concerned about you, as am I."

Fenris nodded and closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging beneath an invisible weight. He opened his eyes and looked straight ahead, a pained expression on his face.

"That… wasn't the first time you've tried ale, was it?" Hawke guessed.

"I-I don't know," answered Fenris, his voice barely a whisper. "It… something. I... it is difficult to explain."

"Try," Hawke implored.

Fenris shifted a little and turned slightly toward Hawke, but didn't look at him. "I heard music, and laughter. I saw… no, it is gone. I saw _someone_ , but…"

"You _remember_ someone?" asked Hawke. "Try to think! Was it a man or a woman? Dark hair, light hair? Elf, human, dwarf?"

Fenris shook his head sadly. "It's gone. It was there for a second, but now… there is nothing."

"Fenris," said Hawke, "this means that you _are_ capable of remembering! This is a very important moment for you!"

"But I... don't remember now," Fenris rasped, his voice breaking, and Hawke looked at him, appalled.

"Fenris… come back to the Hanged Man with me. Try a bit more ale, it might help you to remember more."

"No," he replied abruptly, standing up, his hand slicing through the air. "I will not be a subject of pity or ridicule to you and your friends."

Hawke also stood up. "My friends - _our_ friends - are not like that. And anyone who would dare to ridicule you will answer to _me_ ," he said fiercely.

A bitter laugh escaped Fenris's lips. "You have a stout heart, I'll give you that." He shook his head. "I will continue to work with you, but you should not pursue friendship with me. You have tried, and I am grateful for that, but I have been alone for three years, and perhaps that is for the best. I-I do not know how to function around other people. I will only cause further offence."

"Don't you _dare_ ," growled Hawke. "If you think pushing me away is going to work, then you know nothing about me. Whether you like it or not, I'm your friend, now. You can feel sorry for yourself and drink yourself to oblivion all you like, but I am _still_ going to be there to clean you up in the morning. I almost destroyed myself once, and I _won't_ see the same happen to anyone else."

Fenris stepped back, aware that Hawke was standing very close to him. He nodded and stared at the steps.

"Fenris," Hawke said, his voice softer. "I've _been_ there. All right, I haven't lived your life and I can't claim to know what you've been through, but I've been in a very lonely place a couple of times in my life, and I always had other people who were there for me. Without them, I would have cracked up. I can't force you to be my friend, but the demons - literal or figurative - that come in the middle of the night seem to have less power when you know there will be someone there for you in the morning. I speak from experience, trust me."

Despite the bustle of the people around them, a silence seemed to settle over the two men, removing them from everything else. Fenris slowly looked up and nodded again and, as he met Hawke's eyes, Hawke's gut wrenched almost painfully.

"I will consider your words," said Fenris quietly. "For now, though, I wish to be alone."

"Are you going back to the mansion?"

"Yes."

"Will you promise me something?" Hawke requested.

"That depends."

"Promise me you won't get drunk. Give me your word."

Fenris blinked several times and took a deep breath, releasing it in a ragged burst. "I give you my word."

"All right, I accept your word. I'll see you tonight, at eight bells?"

"Yes," Fenris replied and once again began to ascend the steps.

"Fenris," called Hawke, and the elf stopped, turning slightly. "If you're not there, I'll come looking for you."

Fenris nodded once and Hawke sat back down on the wall, watching him until he was out of sight. He stayed there for a while, picking at his fingernails, until his stomach started to growl. He rose with difficulty, feeling a heaviness he was unaccustomed to, and wearily plodded down the steps.

When he arrived back at the Hanged Man, Isabela was waiting outside, hands on hips. "Was that the elf?" she demanded. "Why didn't you introduce us? I _told_ you I like elves!"

Hawke shook his head and walked past her.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, mister!" she continued as they both entered the pub. As soon as they walked into the lounge, Hawke was besieged by several people all at once.

"Where have you _been_? I need rescuing!" exclaimed Anders as Merrill skipped up to Hawke.

"Ooh, Hawke! I'm going out tonight with some of the others, and we're going to clobber some thugs!" she sang. "I'm so excited, I feel like I'm going to pop!"

"Hawke," called Varric , who was leaning over a table talking with a well-known band of mercenaries. "We might have some business coming our way, soon."

"What about the _elf_?" Isabela exhorted. "When do I get to _meet_ him?"

Then, like an angel sent from the Maker, Bethany pushed her way through and took Hawke's hand, leading him to the back of the pub and Varric's room. She removed a cord from around her neck upon which hung a key, which she used to unlock the door, and they entered, their friends' protestations ringing in Hawke's ears.

"Thank you, Sister," Hawke breathed, closing the door, and then one of his eyebrows shot up. "You have a _key_ to Varric's room?"

"Now, now, Brother, it's nothing sordid. Varric said I could use his room anytime I like when he's not here. Sometimes I need a little break from home, especially when Gamlen starts, or when Mother is very down. I know that sounds selfish, but…"

"No, no it doesn't," Hawke said gently, concerned. "I'm sorry, Beth. I didn't realise things were getting to you so much."

"I'm fine," she reassured him with a shrug. "I know things get on top of you sometimes, and I have my moments as well. Sometimes I come here for a little cry. I don't want Mother to see that."

"Oh, Beth…" Hawke wrapped his arms around his sister, pulling her close and she snaked her arms around his waist and laid her head against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Beth. I get so bloody wrapped up in myself sometimes. It's not fair. He was your twin, after all."

"I'm all right, Fletcher, sometimes I just get homesick and remember when we were all together, and I feel sad." She pulled away and looked up at him. "I'm a lot better than I used to be, though. Varric's a good man, you know. I cried in front of him once, and he didn't panic, or run away. He made me laugh," she said, smiling.

Hawke returned her smile and kissed the tip of her nose. "I'm very glad you have Varric. He _is_ a good man. Just don't be afraid to talk to me, all right? I know I'm not at home much, and I'm usually out gallivanting or getting drunk, but I'm always here for you if you need me, you know that, don't you?"

"I know, Brother," she replied before hugging him again.

"So…" drawled Hawke, stroking her hair. "How _are_ things with Varric?"

She broke the hug and placed her hands on her hips. "If you're after salacious details, you'll be disappointed."

"I didn't mean that!" he protested. "I'm just curious, that's all. I _am_ your big brother. It's my job."

She shrugged her shoulders and giggled. "Well, we _have_ kissed a few times, and sometimes we hold hands under the table. He's never tried anything, though," she said emphatically. "I-I have wondered, though… I mean, the time will come, won't it?" She sighed. "I'm sorry, perhaps I should be talking to Mother about this."

"No, I said you could talk to me about anything and I mean it. Look, Beth, you're a grown woman. I'm not going to demand honour if he touches a hair on your head or anything like that. Just be _careful_ , that's all, if you know what I mean."

"I know," she answered. "I just… I'm not sure what to do when the time comes."

"You'll figure it out," replied Hawke. "Look," he said in a whisper. "This is a serious offer. If you like, I'll take you to The Blooming Rose one of the nights. Some of the older women there can give you some… you know, tips. I know them, and they'll be happy to impart their wisdom. It might be preferable to an awkward conversation with Mother."

"Oh, I don't know, Fletcher," she mumbled. "Isabela has already offered-"

"Stop right there," Hawke commanded, holding his hand up. "I do _not_ want you getting advice on sex from Isabela. She'll be teaching you to run before you can walk. Leave it with me, I'll sort something out, all right?"

"All right, Brother," she answered before clearing her throat. "Did you find Fenris? Is he all right?"

"Yes, I found him," Hawke answered, turning away from her.

"Why did he run off like that?"

"This is between us, all right?" Bethany nodded as Hawke turned back to her. "He has no memory of his life before he received the lyrium markings. That was three-and-a-half years ago. I think tasting the ale brought some distant memory back to him. He was quite distressed."

"Oh, Brother, how awful for him!" She covered her mouth with her hands and paced the room.

"I think he's a very private man, so I don't want anyone else knowing about this."

"I promise. I won't even tell Varric." She removed her hands from her mouth. "He told _you_ though, didn't he? Perhaps he trusts you?"

"I don't know." Hawke moved to the small armchair next to the fireplace and sat down, staring at the floor, his hands clasped in his lap.

"Where is he now?" asked Bethany.

"He's gone back to the mansion. I didn't want to let him go on his own, but he wanted to be alone. I hope he'll be all right."

Bethany sat down on Varric's bed and watched her brother, inclining her head to one side. "You care about him, don't you, Fletcher?"

Hawke continued to stare at the floor, and groaned. "Maker, Beth, I-" He paused, shaking his head.

"What?"

"Nothing, it doesn't matter," he replied quickly, standing up. "I'm going to see if there's any stew left."

"Why don't you stay here and I'll fetch you some," offered Bethany, rising from the bed.

"Thanks, Sister," he replied with a thin smile. "And send Anders in, would you? Looks like _he_ could do with some respite, as well."

"I will," she promised, and Hawke blew her a kiss as she left.

~o~O~o~

Later that evening, Hawke sat at a table in the pub, staring at the door, only blinking when his eyes started to hurt. Varric, Anders, Isabela and Merrill had already left for the chantry. Fenris and Aveline were late. Very late.

"What time is it?" he asked Norah, one of the barmaids, as she passed by.

"You asked me that five minutes ago," she replied. "It's five minutes later, getting on for nine bells."

Hawke harrumphed and rested his face on his fists, his eyes not leaving the door. Where _were_ they? He couldn't give a fig about Aveline, but his imagination was running riot over Fenris. Had he broken his promise and got slaughtered on wine? Had he fallen down the steps? Had Danarius-?

He shot up out of his chair just as the door opened and Aveline strolled in, massaging her brow.

"Where have you been?" Hawke barked at her. "I've been waiting here for almost an hour!"

"There's no need to bite my head off, Hawke!" she retorted. "I was held up at the barracks, all right? I just need a quick bracer, and then we can set off."

Hawke stomped toward the entrance. "Knock yourself out. I'm going to look for Fenris."

"Fenris? You mean your friend from earlier?"

Hawke stopped dead. "Yes…"

"He's outside," Aveline said with a casual nod toward the door.

"He… he's what?"

"I've just spoken to him. He said he popped his head round the door earlier, but didn't see you. I think he was trying to avoid your friends, actually. They seem a rowdy bunch to me."

" _Do_ they, now?"

Ignoring him, Aveline turned toward the bar and ordered herself a drink.

"Maker's balls!" Hawke exclaimed, feeling a headache bloom inside his skull. His heart racing, he took a few deep breaths before stepping outside. Sure enough, Fenris was waiting there, standing next to a pile of barrels.

"Hawke," he said with a nod. "I did not realise you were inside."

"I've been in there for ages," replied Hawke, his head falling back as a tension-relieving groan escaped his mouth. "I must have been… indisposed when you called in."

"That's a polite way of putting it," Fenris quipped, his face expressionless.

Hawke relaxed a little, venturing a few steps closer to Fenris. "How are you feeling?"

"I am well, although _you_ appear a little unsettled."

"No, I'm fine," sighed Hawke. "Do you want to come in for a bit? Aveline's having a drink before we go."

Fenris cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot.

"The others have gone, you know," Hawke said quietly. "There's nobody in there from earlier on, if that's what you're worried about."

Fenris glanced at Hawke briefly, and nodded in acceptance.

"Good," replied Hawke. "Take the weight off your feet for a bit. Do they get sore? I've been meaning to ask you."

"Not anymore, no." Fenris stood awkwardly, and Hawke realised that he was blocking the entrance - Fenris would have to squeeze past him to enter.

Hawke opened the door and Fenris followed him inside. "Well, whether they get sore or not, we have a bloody long walk ahead of us. It'll do us good to sit down for a bit."

"And it will do _you_ good to take a long walk," remarked Fenris and Hawke turned around, just in time to see a grin disappear from Fenris's face.

"Well, now I _know_ we're friends," Hawke laughed. "Only friends can insult one another with impunity."

"I was not insulting you," Fenris claimed as they sat down. "Merely dispensing advice."

Hawke narrowed his eyes and regarded Fenris carefully, looking for a hint of a smile and finding none. "I never know if you're joking or not."

"You don't, do you?" Fenris answered and this time, a tiny hint of mirth flickered in his eyes. As Hawke grinned at him, one of the edges of his mouth turned upward.

Then they both laughed together.


	12. A Walking Contradiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You used magic on me," he said, his eyes glinting ominously in the firelight. "I did not give you leave to do that!" He turned away slightly and began to pace. "I made my wishes very clear, yet you chose to ignore them!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone following the story, and especially for your comments, which are a real inspiration to me.

The long trek to the Wounded Coast had been uneventful and largely conversation-free, apart from the odd time they'd bumped into one of the city patrols, and Aveline had stopped for a few minutes to chat with her colleagues. Although the small party had been quiet for much of the three-hour journey, the mood among them was not sour or hostile, but thoughtful.

Hawke, on Aveline's insistence, had dropped back a little, allowing the two seasoned warriors to flank the path ahead, while Hawke kept his eyes on the horizon and the tops of the dunes and rocks. Their path was already faintly-lit as the moon was out, but Hawke had summoned a small wisp that hovered between Fenris and Aveline, affording them a little more light. To Hawke's amusement, whenever the tiny sphere of light drifted too close to Fenris, the elf would give it a filthy look and swat it away.

Occasionally, Aveline would glance back at Hawke, as would Fenris. Once assured the mage was safe, she would nod and turn back towards the path, immediately mimicked by Fenris. After a while, Hawke started to return her nods. He had to hand it to her: she hadn't let his earlier hostility faze her in the slightest, nor had she let it stop her from looking out for the two men who accompanied her, enquiring if Fenris's feet were faring well, and receiving a polite reply in the affirmative.

Hawke had to admit that Varric had been right. Although he'd initially groaned at the thought of another slog to the coast, he was actually finding the walk quite invigorating, in spite of his aching feet. As rock turned to sand beneath them, and as the shadow of Sundermount loomed to the west, to occupy himself he took a leaf out of Anders's book and began looking around for sights of natural beauty, finding a few interesting shells and coloured pebbles, which he discreetly tucked into his pack.

He allowed his thoughts to wander for a while, lulled by the crisp, salt-tanged air and the faint sound of gentle waves lapping against the shoreline, and considered the fragile rapport that he and Fenris had recently established. His gaze wandered to the elf, whose movements, in sharp contrast to Aveline's steady, purposeful stride, were jerky, erratic and tense. His head seemed to be constantly on the move, his eyes darting here and there, and his arms were crooked, his shoulders stiff, and his hands tightly balled.

There were so many things Hawke wanted to ask him, so many questions that had come to light, but he'd refrained from doing so as he didn't know the elf well enough. It was none of his business. Still, he'd been deeply troubled by Fenris's dream that night on the Coast, and even more concerned by the possible explanations his mind had manufactured. Although Hawke had told himself that he could be wrong, that he could be jumping to conclusions, each time he'd thought back to that night, only one conclusion had repeatedly presented itself, and it hadn't just jumped, it had leapt.

Despite the life Fenris had led, which had only been tantalisingly hinted at thus far, and despite his almost-permanent scowl and sometimes caustic remarks, Hawke found himself admiring Fenris's quiet ways, his dignity and proud carriage. There was almost a nobility about him, a sentiment that Fenris would no doubt rebuff, but Hawke saw it very clearly. Although Fenris had grievances with mages, he had always been polite and respectful to Bethany. Furthermore, although he'd plainly disapproved of Anders's inhabitation by a Fade spirit and Merrill's use of blood magic, still he had not hesitated to protect them on the few occasions he'd accompanied them.

Hawke had to admit: he found the walking contradiction that was Fenris fascinating, a mystery to be solved, and longed to know more about him.

Snapping himself back to reality, his eyes returned to the elf's wiry frame, his breath catching as he realised the two warriors had stopped. Fenris was watching Hawke warily, having caught him staring. Again.

Aveline beckoned them closer and whispered, "The ambush site's not far. I recommend you extinguish this little light," she pointed at Hawke's tiny wisp, "and make whatever preparations you need. I want you to stay well back, Hawke, and stick to what you're best at. No heroics. Fenris and I will draw their attention, and you can work your… well, you know, magic."

"Fair enough," agreed Hawke, dismissing the wisp with a flick of his hand. "I'm going to give the two of you some protection. Is that all right?"

Aveline nodded her head but Fenris, who had readied his sword, shook his. "I need no protection," he proclaimed haughtily.

"Fenris," Aveline argued, "I've fought alongside Hawke before, and some of his abilities are very useful. He can--"

"The answer is no. Thank you."

"If you become injured, I _will_ heal you," insisted Hawke.

"That's right," replied Aveline in a sterner tone. "I know not everyone trusts magic, but I won't have you slowing us down because of your skewed perception of it. Accept his offer, and let's get this done." She strode ahead, leaving the men alone.

"I don't have to touch you to put magic on you, you know," Hawke said quietly.

Fenris tilted his head back a little in a display Hawke was unsure was down to defiance or uncertainty. It was clear by now that the two men knew of Fenris's aversion to physical touch, and it was also obvious that Hawke seemed to be respectful, or at least mindful, of it.

Then, Hawke cast his mind back to earlier that day, when a small hand had gently pressed against his back, steering him away from a possible confrontation with a guard at the keep.

A walking contradiction indeed.

"And what of healing?" asked Fenris. "Is… touch necessary for that?"

"That depends on the severity of the injury."

Fenris nodded gravely and, for a moment, Hawke thought the elf would take him up on his offer. "I will take my chances, but thank you all the same," said Fenris at last and he walked away, leaving Hawke shaking his head.

Aveline cautiously led the way in the darkness. As they neared a small cove her muscles tightened and her heart rate increased, signifying that Hawke was casting. "Thanks," she whispered, pressing her back against a rock and craning her head around it. "There's a campfire up ahead--they're around somewhere. Fenris, you and I--"

"Move!" Hawke yelled, and shoulder-charged Fenris onto the sand as an arrow glanced off the rock where the elf had previously been standing. As Fenris scrambled to his feet, Hawke tracked the trajectory of the arrow and spotted a shadow moving along the rocks just above. "Got him! Go! I'll cover you!"

While Fenris and Aveline ran into the cove, the sniper was punished with flame, his screams carrying high into the chilly night air.

Although Hawke longed to join the fray, he knew he was more effective as a healer and buffer if he was _alive_. Then, as he heard Aveline bellowing and the sound of clashing metal, and saw the faint glow of Fenris's markings flare into life, he began to methodically pick off the archers hidden in the hills and the undergrowth, using his connection to the Fade to ascertain the position of any other living creatures in the vicinity in relation to his.

Having disabled three of them he broke from cover, ventured nearer to the others and renewed his spells on Aveline, bestowing the same bolstering energies upon Fenris. Lyrium-imbued light danced across the sand as Fenris raced to Aveline's side again and again, fighting as one with her, while Hawke obligingly turned some of their assailants into living statues while keeping an eye on his companions' health and vigour.

Eventually, the bandits were defeated and Hawke's small party came together, the two warriors breathless, bracing their hands against their knees as Hawke approached.

"Are you all right?" he asked them both. "Anyone need healing?"

"I've wrenched my bloody arm," complained Aveline, wincing as she stood up.

"Let's take a look at that," said Hawke with authority, helping her off with her vambrace and gauntlet. He held her arm out straight and, running his hand along her skin, detected a knotting and swelling beginning to form slightly above her elbow. Closing his eyes, he gently massaged the afflicted spot, a soft light appearing from within Aveline's arm and radiating outward.

"That's much better." She rolled her shoulder and flexed her arm. "Thank you."

"Fenris?" he asked, turning to the elf, who stepped forward and fixed Hawke with a hard look.

"You used magic on me," he said, his voice quaking with anger. "I did not give you leave to do that!" He turned away and began to pace. "I made my wishes very clear, yet you chose to ignore them!"

Hawke had expected a reaction from the elf, but not such a forceful one. "I'm sorry. I thought it might help you."

"I have already told you, I do not _need_ your 'help'!" snapped Fenris as he turned and pointed an accusatory finger at Hawke while Aveline, having replaced her armour, began to loot the bodies. "Do you have trouble understanding simple requests, is that it? Or is it because I am a former slave? Do you believe my wishes and beliefs have no merit?"

"Of course I don't believe that! You were surrounded and I wanted to protect you! It's an instinct of mine! I can't help it!"

"And therein lies the problem, doesn't it?"

"What 'problem' is that, exactly?" demanded Hawke, deeply offended. "Because the only problem I can see is the ungrateful sod standing right in front of me!"

"If you two have finished squabbling, we need to get back," Aveline interjected with a sigh. "He saved your life, Fenris. You could at least show a little gratitude."

Fenris's eyes locked with Hawke's. "I'm _grateful,"_ he spat out. 

"Yes, you sound it," the mage retorted. "Next time, I'll stand back and let you get sliced up. How about that?"

"Works for me." Fenris turned and stalked away into the darkness.

Hawke's jaw set in a firm line, his hands on his hips as he watched Fenris leave. "You stubborn…!"

"Come on, let's get after him," Aveline suggested, running ahead. "There might still be a few of those bastards hanging around."

"Right behind you," said Hawke, both of them stopping dead as a piercing yell shattered the stillness of the night.

"Gyaaaaaahhh!"

"Fenris?" Hawke called frantically, his eyes darting around as he attempted to localise the sound. "Fenris!"

"Shit!" he heard Aveline call from up ahead. "Hawke! Get over here! He's trodden on a fucking claw trap!"

Racing to her side, Hawke fell to his knees and pulled with all his might against one side of the trap as Aveline yanked at the other. "Harder, Hawke!" she shouted.

"Stercus!" wailed Fenris, his hands covering his face. "Sum stultior quam asinus!"

As the trap sprang open, Fenris collapsed onto all fours and gnashed his teeth, growling and cursing under his breath.

"I need some light!" exclaimed Hawke.

"Wait there!" Aveline called unnecessarily, already running back to the campfire at the cove.

"Fenris… Fenris," entreated Hawke, shuffling forward on his knees. "I need you on your back. Please, I have to heal this immediately."

"Gaaaaahh!" shouted the elf, attempting to put some weight on his injured leg, only for it to collapse beneath him, sending him sprawling onto his belly.

"Listen to me!" pleaded Hawke. "Please, just this once let me help you! You'll bleed to death if you don't!"

"Sum inops!" bleated Fenris, his agony causing his voice to fracture.

"Use your good leg to turn yourself over! I don't want to touch you without your permission!"

Fenris braced his elbows beneath his chest and pushed himself up, immediately falling down flat. "Stercus!" he cursed, panting. "I-I cannot. Yeeaargh!" he yelled as he tried again without success.

At that moment, Aveline returned, carrying two large branches that she'd set aflame upon the bandits' camp fire. "Here, Hawke." She tossed the branches down.

"Thanks. Here, help me with him. I need him lying on his back."

"No!" growled Fenris, still frantically trying to push himself up.

Ignoring him, Hawke and Aveline grabbed his shoulders and pushed him over onto his back. In the light provided by Aveline's fire, Hawke was struck by the look of terror on Fenris's face as he gawked at them both, dumbstruck, his breath coming out in short, harsh bursts.

"It's all right," Hawke said softly. "We're not going to hurt you, but I need to look at that leg."

Fenris's eyes were fixed upon Hawke, his chest rising and falling rapidly as the mage edged a little closer.

"What's the matter with you?" Aveline said impatiently. "Have you _seen_ your leg? The blood's coming through your breeches! Maker's sake, let him help you!"

Hawke held a hand up to her. "Let me deal with this."

"Fine." She sat upon the sand with a confounded sigh.

Hawke turned back to the elf, who was frozen in position on his back. "Fenris, listen to me. I _have_ to use magic here. I could send you to sleep and do this without your permission, but after your reaction back there I'd rather not. I'm going to touch your leg. I need to look underneath your breeches. How about we work together on this? Can we do that?"

"I…" mumbled Fenris haltingly before gritting his teeth and moaning. Clearly, he was in agony.

"Look at the blood," Hawke said, pointing to the claret-coloured sand beneath the warrior. "If I don't heal you soon, you'll pass out. I can't fashion blood out of thin air. No mage can do that. Which means either you die of blood loss, or we all die of exposure out here." He shrugged. "I suppose you'd get to take an evil mage down with you, but you'd be too dead to take satisfaction from it. So let's get started, shall we?"

Slowly, Fenris nodded.

"Good man. It's going to be all right," Hawke said gently, slowly reaching for Fenris's leg.

Fenris watched as Hawke's hands made contact with his breeches and slowly began to tear at the shredded fabric.

"Shit. I think his shinbone's broken," muttered Hawke, spotting an ugly-looking protrusion on the elf's leg.

"Bastards!" Aveline exclaimed, pushing to her feet. "Hawke, I'll leave you to it. I'm going to keep an eye out, just in case. Shout if you need me."

"Will do. Be careful," Hawke said to her before addressing Fenris. "Your leg's broken. I _can_ heal it, but it will take time, and it will be painful."

"I-I understand," whispered Fenris, leaning back on his elbows, a fine sheen of sweat coating his skin.

"I need to put my hands on your leg. This kind of injury requires physical contact. I must stop the bleeding before I do anything else. All right?"

Fenris nodded again, anger and terror coursing through him. He was completely at Hawke's mercy. If Hawke _did_ try to hurt him, what could he do? His sword lay discarded out of his reach and his body was useless. How else could he defend himself but by crushing Hawke's heart? That was not what he wanted but if Hawke gave him no other choice… he held his breath as he felt Hawke's warm hands lightly brush against his skin.

"I'm going to use magic on you now. Be ready."

As Hawke's touch became firmer, Fenris's stomach plummeted and his mouth became bone-dry. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face as he felt a sensation of warmth pour into his leg. He glanced at Hawke and noted the mage's look of determined concentration.

And then, in an instant, Hawke was gone. Darkness bled into his reality and surrounded him. He was in a small place, confined, unable to move. Although he could see nothing, somehow this place seemed very familiar to him.

Then he heard it: ragged, erratic breathing, an occasional soft grunt.

He was not alone.

The smell of wine and stale sweat flooded his nostrils and he felt two large, clammy hands grip his leg and slowly move upwards.

_"My Little Wolf. So beautiful. So perfect. You are... a masterpiece."_

"Please, Master. Not tonight."

_"Fenris! Look at me!"_

The darkness receded and once again he was lying on the sand with Hawke leaning over him. Fenris gasped.

"Look at _me_. Don't take your eyes off _me_. Listen to my voice. It's me, Fenris. It's Hawke." Their eyes met, and a look passed between them. "You're here, on the Coast. In the Free Marches. You're _safe._ Are you with me?"

Hawke understood. Somehow, he understood. "Yes. I... yes."

"Okay," Hawke resumed. "I've stopped the bleeding. Now I need to mend that bone. This will take me a few minutes, all right? And it will hurt, but I'll do my best to lessen the pain for you."

"I understand," Fenris rasped, his voice thick and unsteady.

"Here. Grip this or drink from it and pretend it's filled with brandy." Hawke passed Fenris his water skin, which the elf clutched tightly against his chest. "Don't worry, I cleaned off the vomit from the other day."

"Thank you," replied Fenris as a more powerful, slightly uncomfortable energy flowed into his leg.

Hawke noticed the elf's discomfort and decided to distract him. "You're doing really well. Talk to me."

"What-what would you have me say?"

Hawke smirked. "You could teach me some of those curse words of yours. They sound great, and I could surprise Anders one of the days."

"You want me to teach you to curse?"

"In Tevene, yes. I think it's pretty unfair you get to swear at me when I don't have a clue what you're on about… hold still a moment. This is going to hurt. Brace yourself."

Fenris hissed as a bolt of pain shot up his leg, and then relaxed as it subsided.

"Take a few deep breaths," advised Hawke. "Keep looking at me. Talk to me. We're almost done."

Fenris nodded, Hawke's command of the situation reassuring him a little. "Er… well, if you wish a phrase suitable for Anders, I could teach you one."

"Please do," Hawke said with a grin, "and make it as insulting as you like." Hawke felt Fenris's body relax further against his grip, and watched him expectantly.

"Um… s-something simple. What about… 'Dolium volvitor'."

"Dolium volvitor," repeated Hawke. "What does that mean?"

"An empty cask is easily rolled."

Hawke laughed and repeated the phrase again. "I like that… hold on! Are you sure I won't be telling Anders that I want to have his babies or something? Because I really don't. Can you _imagine?"_

A pained smile spread across Fenris's face. "No, I assure you that is not what it means, although I could teach you that phrase, also."

"And I can assure you I don't _need_ to learn that particular phrase," chuckled Hawke. "How about something snappy, like idiot? Bastard?"

"You could say _follis_ to mean fool, or you could liken him to a beast of burden, which would be _asinus."_

"A beast of burden? You mean an ass?" Hawke looked up from Fenris's leg and frowned. "I heard you use that word, asinus, when you trapped your leg."

"Yes. I was calling myself an idiot."

Hawke looked down and removed his hands from Fenris's legs. "You're certainly not that," he said quietly. He cleared his throat and forced a grin. "All done. It's going to be sore for a while, though. Do you think you can manage the walk back?"

"Let us see." He began to push himself up, but hesitated.

"Here," Hawke said. Fenris looked up to see the mage's outstretched hands and stared at them for a moment. "I don't want to be here all night," Hawke remonstrated.

Fenris huffed and then held out his own hands, turning his gauntleted palms upwards. "Have a care," he warned as Hawke grasped his gauntlets. "They are sharp."

"Yes, I _do_ remember." Avoiding the gauntlets' spikes, Hawke pulled Fenris up, quickly releasing him. Fenris steadied himself, dusted himself down, and took a few cautious steps, limping slightly.

Hawke shook his head. "Anders would have done a much better job. You shouldn't have a limp."

"You have done a fine job," Fenris replied unassumingly, turning towards him and sighing. "I… did not mean to be so discourteous earlier. I merely--"

"No, it was my fault. You obviously have your reasons for disliking magic and I should have respected them. It was wrong of me to just go ahead without asking. I won't do it again."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Fenris spoke up. "It is done, now."

"You _do_ know I didn't disregard your wishes because you were a slave, don't you? I'm not like that, honestly. I was just... being a healer, I suppose. We don't usually ask. But I will from now on, I promise."

Fenris nodded. "Thank you. And... for mending my leg. It feels better already."

"Better than being broken, anyway. Let's find Aveline."

"I'm here, Hawke," she said from behind them, emerging into the small area that was lit by the burning tree branches. "If there were any more of them, they've scarpered. I've dismantled a couple more traps and cleared a safe path out of here for us. Can you walk?" she asked Fenris.

"I can," he said with an almost-smile at Hawke.

"Good. Let's get back, then. Captain Jeven will be very interested in what's gone down here." She looked at the two men and smiled. "I think we work well together. Well done, and thank you for your help."

"Of course," said Hawke, nodding. "Lead the way, Lieutenant." He closed his eyes and held out his hand, a tiny ball of light waxing in his palm. He whispered something to it and it drifted across to Aveline, lighting her path.

As she went on ahead, Hawke walked beside Fenris, though he maintained a discreet distance. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Fenris glancing down at his leg.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "Do you feel light-headed? You lost quite a bit of blood."

"I will manage," Fenris answered before glancing at Hawke. "I, uh, don't suppose you know of a spell that mends broken trousers, do you?"

Hawke laughed, tickled that he and Fenris were no longer at each other's throats. "I'm afraid not. I've heard of sewing spells, but I'm rubbish at them."

To his delight, Fenris smiled, and limped alongside Hawke as they faced the long trudge back to Kirkwall.

Their journey was slowed somewhat by Fenris's pace and although he doggedly pressed on, Hawke insisted they stop for a few short breaks along the way. After much debate, he also convinced Fenris to eat something.

As a result of the delay, they didn't arrive back in Kirkwall until the early hours of the morning. Aveline, borrowing a guard who had a rather quiet patrol in Hightown, escorted both Fenris and Hawke back to their homes before turning in for the night herself. Before they parted, Hawke advised Fenris to elevate and rest his leg, promising to call on him later that morning. Aveline arranged to meet them at the Hanged Man during her break to give them the reward she was certain would be forthcoming.

Hawke unlocked the door to Gamlen's house as quietly as possible, not wishing to wake anyone, and was surprised to find that a few candles, and the fire, were lit in the living room. He opened the door to his mother and Bethany's room and, without looking in, listened. Hearing two distinct sets of breathing, he closed the door, satisfied that his sister had arrived home safely.

"What time do you call _this?"_

"Bloody hell, Gamlen!" Hawke hissed as he spun around to find his uncle entering from the other bedroom. "Don't creep up on me like that!"

"I can do whatever I like," Gamlen said sourly. "This is my home, and yet you and your sister just stroll in at all hours of the night. _She_ only got back an hour ago!"

"Well, when that becomes your business, Uncle, I'll let you know. Until then, don't worry your handsome little head over it," Hawke said with vitriol. "What are _you_ doing up, anyway? Been for one of your strolls through Hightown?"

"As you know, I have an early shift at the docks," Gamlen spat, not even trying to hide his disgust with his ne'er-do-well nephew. He walked to a rickety table and picked up a letter, throwing it at Hawke. "This came for you. I am not a messenger service, y'know!"

The letter fell to the floor, and Hawke picked it up just as the front door slammed behind Gamlen. Hawke groaned and sank into an armchair next to the fire before opening the letter, which bore the seal of the Chantry.

_Messere Hawke,_

_It has come to my attention that you are a man of good character and conscience, having recently aided my fellows. I humbly call upon you to do so again. A situation has arisen that requires both discretion and diplomacy and I would welcome your aid in this matter._

_On the reverse of this letter are directions to where you will find me. You may bring others with you, of course, but I ask that you do not reveal this location to any other parties. I will await you there in the hope that you will take up this cause. If you are the man of moral fortitude I believe you to be, then you will do so with all due haste. Thank you._

_A friend._

Hawke read the letter a few more times, allowing himself a quiet snigger at being called a man of moral fortitude, and turned the letter over, scrutinising the hand-drawn map on its reverse.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be joking!" he moaned quietly. "The fucking coast _again_? Why don't I just live there?"

Groaning, he folded the letter, tucked it inside his robe and settled down in the chair, quickly falling asleep.

~o~O~o~

Having slept lightly in the chair, Hawke rose a few hours later and surprised his mother and Bethany by making breakfast for them, before heading for the Hanged Man, where he knew he'd find Varric, no matter how early or late it was. He often wondered if dwarves actually slept at all, or if Varric was just a special case.

He found Varric not in the lounge, but in his room, where he was enjoying a hearty cooked breakfast. Inviting Hawke in, Varric bade him to sit and listened to Hawke's account of the previous night.

"How did you get on at the chantry?" Hawke asked, cheekily helping himself to a sausage.

Varric grimaced. "We did the job," he began, "but there's a problem. That money the Rivaini promised us? She doesn't have it. Said she'd do a few jobs with us to make up for it, but funnily enough she's nowhere to be found this morning."

Hawke's face hardened and he shook his head, taking a bite of the sausage. "That's not acceptable. You all put yourselves on the line last night for her. We're not a charitable organisation. If you do see her, tell her either she pays up or she's finished with us."

"Will do."

"I've had an interesting letter, from a templar, I think." Hawke removed the note from his pocket and passed it to Varric. "It doesn't mention money, but it does bear the Chantry's seal."

Varric read the letter and, upon turning it over, burst out laughing. "Hey, Hawke! Your favourite place!"

Hawke groaned and rolled his eyes. "I feel like I'm forever doomed to walk to the Wounded Coast and back again. I'm certain my ghost will haunt that path when I die."

"But think how healthy your ghost will be!" Varric turned the letter over in his hands. "Hmm. Sounds like this is being done on the sly. We _could_ get some good coin out of this guy, whoever he is."

"It _could_ also be a trap," Hawke warned. "That knight-captain… Cullen? Said not all of his men would be pleased at having to leave Anders alone. If we do this, I want everyone along, just in case."

"That's good thinking." Varric returned the letter to him. "Blondie said he'll be busy at the clinic today, but maybe he'll be free later."

"I'll go and see him." Hawke stood up. "I could do with catching up with him, anyway. Then I need to check on Fenris, see how his leg's holding up. I'll see you… probably later this afternoon?"

"I'll be here," replied Varric. Hawke, finishing off the stolen sausage, left the room.

~o~O~o~

Varric, for once, hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Hawke that Anders would be busy. A ship from Ferelden had docked in Kirkwall the day before, meaning a new influx of refugees into the City of Chains, many of whom were in poor health. They soon found their way to Anders's clinic.

Hawke had to queue to see his friend and, after waiting in line a while, Anders spotted him and beckoned him over.

"Hawke! Was beginning to think you'd fallen out with me or something!" Anders, busy healing a young boy's grazed knee, didn't look up as he spoke and, although his comment was light-hearted, Hawke detected an undertone lacing his words. What that undertone signified, Hawke was uncertain of; he'd heard it before when Anders was upset or irritated about something.

"Do you need some help?" Hawke offered, looking down the queue that led out of the clinic and around a corner.

"Oh, Maker, yes." Anders massaged the back of his neck as he sent the young boy on his way. "These poor bastards started arriving last night. Most of them have lice, and one or two are badly malnourished."

"Last _night?_ Have you had any sleep?"

Anders shook his head and rubbed his eyes hard. "I couldn't very well leave them, could I? Would have been nice to have some help, but you can't have everything."

"I would have helped but I was at the Coast. Go and get your head down this minute," ordered Hawke, pointing to Anders's private room at the rear of the clinic.

Anders's shoulders slumped. "Normally, I'd argue with you there, but I feel like I'm about to drop." He grabbed Hawke's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you. I'll just have an hour. Give me a shout if there's anything you can't handle."

"I mended a broken leg last night," Hawke told him, beckoning to a woman who was standing at the head of the queue. "I'll be fine."

"Who broke their leg?"

"Fenris."

"How did he do that?"

"Claw trap."

Anders winced. "What, he actually let you touch him?"

"He didn't have much choice. Go on, off you go."

"All right. Thanks again. Don't let me sleep for too long, or I won't be able to sleep tonight." Anders walked to the back of the clinic and disappeared down a short flight of steps. Hawke bade the lady to take a seat and introduced himself.

It took almost two-and-a-half hours for Hawke to see to the rest of the refugees. As he tidied up the main room of the clinic, a few more arrived but Hawke, deeming their afflictions to be minor, told them the clinic was closed, and would re-open in half an hour unless there was an emergency.

Hawke had only slept for a couple of hours himself, and began to feel it catching up on him. Besides, he needed a little time for his mana reserves to replenish. Drinking a lyrium potion was a quick fix but no substitute for rest, and as he hadn't had a full night's sleep his reserves were low, causing him to feel skittish and jumpy.

He went down to Anders's room--which was nothing more than a small storage area with a cot and a few of Anders's meagre belongings scattered about--woke Anders and made them both a cup of tea.

Hawke sat down on a wooden box, first testing it to ensure it would hold his weight, and passed a grateful Anders his tea. "Most of them have been treated, now." Hawke wriggled on his makeshift seat, scratching his arms and legs.

"I know how you feel," said Anders, taking a sip of tea. "All those lice make you feel riffy* afterwards, don't they?"

"I've treated myself, but I feel like my body's crawling with them," Hawke complained, raking his scalp with his fingernails.

"Well, I really appreciate your help. Most of the time the clinic's fairly quiet, but when ships arrive from Ferelden, I'm overrun. There's a lot less of them these days, but you get the odd one."

"Let me know next time. I'll always help out, you know that."

"Thanks. Was there anything in particular you wanted me for?" asked Anders. "Not that I'm unhappy to see you or anything."

"Um… oh, yes, we might have some more work from the Templars." He retrieved the letter from his pack and passed it to Anders, who read it with interest.

"I wonder what that's about?" Anders pondered. "It sounds… unofficial, whatever it is."

Hawke nodded. "Varric and I haven't discounted the possibility that it's another lure."

"For me, you mean?"

"Yes. You don't have to come if you don't want to. If you _do_ want to, we'll set out as soon as you're free. If the letter _is_ genuine, it sounds like he needs our help fairly quickly."

Anders nodded. "All right. I'll finish up here and meet you a bit later. Will you be at the Hanged Man?"

"I will later on, but I'm going to see Fenris now. I need to check on that leg."

Anders nodded again, a thoughtful look settling over him. "Hawke… I know you probably won't appreciate me saying this, but just be careful with him, all right?"

"What, with Fenris?"

"Mm." Anders took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth. "You've been spending quite a bit of time with him lately. I just… well, I don't want to see you getting hurt, that's all."

"He's not going to hurt me. I've been getting to know him a little over the past few days. He's not the easiest of people to get on with, but I think there's more to him than meets the eye. He seems... quite a gentle person."

 _"Gentle?"_ Anders, incredulous at Hawke's naivety, nearly spat his tea out. "Have you forgotten the part where he plunges his fist into someone's chest and crushes their innards? How he nearly did that to you?"

"No, I can't see him doing that to me. I must admit I was a bit frightened of him at first, but I think _he's_ more frightened…" Hawke paused, wary of saying too much. "Give him a chance. I think he's going to become a good friend, and I'd like nothing more than for the two of you to get along."

Anders's eyes lingered on Hawke for a long moment and he eventually nodded, but didn't look convinced.

Hawke stood up and set his mug down on the wooden box. "Anyway, I'd better go and check on him. I left the poor sod with a limp."

Anders chuckled and shook his head. "I wouldn't have."

"That's exactly what I said. Oh, before I forget, I have something for you." Hawke reached into his small pack. "I found these on the Coast last night, and I thought maybe you and Justice would appreciate them." He produced a handful of unusual shells and brightly-coloured pebbles.

Anders laughed delightedly and took the tiny gifts into his hand, carefully examining each one. He then looked up at Hawke. "You collected these for me? That was… well, that was really thoughtful of you, Hawke. Thanks."

"Tiny things please tiny minds," Hawke teased. "I'll see you later."

"Thanks again! I really mean that," Anders called out as Hawke climbed the stairs up to the clinic, and he stroked his gifts between finger and thumb, his eyes lingering on the stairs long after Hawke had departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sum inops = I am helpless, stricken  
> Stercus! = Shit!  
> Sum stultior quam asinus! = I am less smart than an ass!  
> *Riffy = British slang word meaning unclean, dirty


	13. Beneath The Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The way you spoke to me… I don't think I deserved that. Was it because I'm a mage? Because I put my hands on you? I'd really like to know because I'm pretty confused at the moment."

Hawke strolled through Hightown, humming softly to himself. Although he was tired, his steps were light and his spirits high; not only had he managed to piss Gamlen off, which was never a bad thing, but he'd made his friend Anders happy, too. Although Anders was generally cheerful and optimistic, he was prone to the occasional bout of melancholy which, given his past and merger with a grim Fade spirit, Hawke could understand, and so he took every opportunity he could to boost Anders's morale and self-confidence.

He'd also found aiding the refugees to be very rewarding, and could certainly see the allure of being a full-time healer--he'd seriously considered it as a vocation once the Deep Roads expedition was over with, and once he'd made enough money for his sister and mother to live comfortably. For now, funding the expedition was his primary concern, and all else would have to wait.

Finally, there had been the breakthrough with Fenris. At least Hawke considered it a breakthrough, anyway. Fenris had actually allowed Hawke to touch him, and had trusted him to treat his injuries. Granted, there had been little alternative, save leaving Fenris to bleed to death, but still, Hawke felt he'd secured a minor victory of sorts, and something danced within him at the thought of that.

"I do good work," he said quietly to himself, grinning without a shred of self-consciousness.

Not only had he managed to alleviate Fenris's terror…

He stopped humming and paused.

Fenris _had_ been terrified. As Hawke had begun his ministrations, he'd glanced at the elf in between his spells and had seen Fenris's eyes glaze over, his breathing quicken, sweat form on his brow. Hawke could almost hear Fenris's heart hammering against his breastbone. Although Fenris had not once taken his eyes off him, at one point Hawke had noticed that Fenris was not looking _at_ him, but _through_ him; he'd ceased to see Hawke at all and was experiencing an entirely different reality. An extremely unpleasant reality, at that.

What was Fenris--on the two occasions Hawke had witnessed--imploring his master not to do? 'Not tonight'? The thought sent a shiver down Hawke's spine. The word 'tonight' implied a lot, although Hawke could be reading too much into it. Perhaps Danarius had required Fenris to perform a particular duty he disliked at night, one that _didn't_ involve sex--the only 'duty' Hawke's imagination had so far manufactured. Maybe the magister had used Fenris's blood to power his spells at night? Experimented on him? Hawke was sure those markings were not a lucky find; that months, even years of research had gone into them.

Maybe Danarius had done all of those things. Whatever he'd done, he'd left Fenris with far more than lyrium markings. There was bone-deep fear, or dislike, of magic and mages, as well as antipathy to physical touch. And that made Hawke angry: mages were distrusted enough without maniac magisters treating their slaves like slabs of meat, leaving them permanently scarred. It also angered him that someone as seemingly intelligent and, yes, gentle as Fenris was unable to function in the real world as a result of this abuse.

Tonight. _Abuse._ Well, there was another word to fuel Hawke's imagination. He drew a deep breath and forced himself to remember the _positive_ things that had happened at the Coast. Whatever reality Fenris had experienced, Hawke had helped him through it. As a result, Hawke felt their rapport had been strengthened considerably, which pleased him.

Resuming his walk, he entered the grounds of Danarius's mansion and arrived at the front door, relieved to see that Varric had finally had a lock fitted. He rang the servants' bell pull, as Fenris had advised Hawke that he may not hear a knock upon the door, and waited. After a few minutes, he heard a click and the door was opened.

"Good afternoon, Fenris. Sorry I'm a bit late, but I was held up."

"Hawke." Fenris nodded once and stood in the doorway. "Do you need something?"

"Um, I just came to see how your leg is? Like we arranged last night?"

"My leg is fine, thank you." Fenris did not move from the doorway, nor did he invite Hawke to enter.

"Oh… well, that's good, then. Any stiffness? Are you still limping?"

"No."

Hawke scratched the back of his head, a curious and not altogether pleasant sensation forming in his gut. "Right. Well, then, I also wanted to let you know that we're heading back to the Coast in a while. We have a job with the Templars. At least I _think_ it's the Templars." He glanced at Fenris, who stared blankly back at him. "If you feel up to it, I'd really like for you to come along. We'll be meeting up… probably around teatime."

"Hanged Man?"

"Where else?" Hawke chuckled, his smile quickly fading at the elf's stony expression. "Fenris, you look tired. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," Fenris claimed in a flat voice. "I will meet you there later." He began to close the door.

"Hey!" Hawke placed his hand on the door before quickly removing it. "Are you all right?"

"I have already stated as such, have I not?" Fenris replied in irritation.

"Well, yes, but..." Hawke stopped himself, getting the distinct feeling Fenris wanted him to leave. "Have I… have I done something to offend you?"

Fenris's gaze dropped to the ground. "No." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "Thank you for calling on me. I will meet with you shortly."

Hawke leaned closer to the elf, who stepped back, and lowered his voice. "Is everything all right in there? Are you trying to warn me about something?"

 _"No._ If there is nothing more?"

Crestfallen and confused, Hawke nodded slowly. "All right… I guess I'll see you later, then?"

Fenris returned his nod and closed the door, turning the key in the lock. He exhaled and rubbed his eyes, and then moved to a window next to the door, watching from behind the drapes as Hawke left. Seeing the mage's frown and dejected posture, Fenris felt a pang of guilt, but during the night he'd resolved to stand firm: he'd been careless, and steps needed to be taken.

Not only had he thrown his lot in with a band of mages--one of whom was possessed, and another, a Dalish blood mage--but he'd foolishly let his guard down around Hawke, and had even begun to enjoy his company. No matter how benign Hawke's offer of friendship appeared to be, Fenris knew from bitter experience that all mages, no matter how well-intentioned, would eventually succumb either to demonic influence or to their innate craving for power. Mages were born that way, and he castigated himself for believing Hawke might somehow be different from the rest of them. Hawke _was_ a mage, and therefore his path was already laid before him, his story already written.

As Hawke left the grounds, Fenris sagged against the drapes, partly in relief, and partly due to something else he couldn't quite define; whatever it was, it didn't feel good. He sat upon the window sill and looked down at his leg, recalling the feel of Hawke's hands upon it the night before. He hadn't allowed anyone to touch him in that way for almost three years, not since…

He'd fully expected Hawke to try to harm him, or to touch him in a way that was not appropriate, but the mage had been patient, considerate and gentle with him. Fenris certainly hadn't expected that. Hawke had seemed to know that Fenris had been in trouble, had called him away from the dark memories that had invaded his mind, and had ordered him to focus on his face. Hawke had _known_.

And, as Fenris had complied, he'd seen something in Hawke's brown eyes that was unfamiliar yet somehow comforting, and he'd been caught up in the mage's friendly and easy conversation, finding solace in his words. There had been almost an intimacy to their exchange as Hawke had beguiled him with kind words, irreverence and a gentle touch.

He could _never_ place himself in such a vulnerable position again.

Hawke was a mage, albeit one that came in the guise of a friend, but Fenris had managed quite well without friends since fleeing Minrathous, and could not allow himself to get close to _anyone;_ his only goal must be to await the return of his former master, and to make him beg for death as Fenris slowly squeezed the life out of him. He did not need friends for that.

"I am better off on my own," he said to himself, as if stating it aloud would make it true.

~o~O~o~

Although the Hanged Man was packed full at teatime, with conversation and laughter filling the lounge, the occupants of one table were curiously quiet. Bethany and Merrill conversed politely, their chatter somewhat subdued by the heavy atmosphere that hung over their table like a black storm cloud. Anders, who was seated next to Bethany, watched Hawke, who was seated on the opposite side of the table apart from the others as he stared into space, his left hand fiddling with a beer mat. Both men's ales sat untouched.

"Oh, look! That big guard woman's here," announced Merrill as Aveline strode through the lounge towards them. "I think it's her, anyway. Is it her, Hawke? Hawke?"

"What?" Hawke's eyes flitted to Merrill, but his head did not move, nor did his expression change.

Merrill lightly cleared her throat. "I was just saying… well, she's here, now. Doesn't matter."

"Hawke, we have a problem," Aveline announced, sitting on the bench next to him. He shifted slightly and edged away from her, his eyes glazing over as she began to tell him of Captain Jeven's unexpected reaction to their initiative.

"That sounds a bit dodgy to me," said Anders, glad for the chance of participating in a conversation that didn't involve hair and beauty tips. "You'd think he'd have been pleased."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Aveline agreed. "I've suspected for a while now that Jeven doesn't fly straight. I get the feeling the satchel was never meant to reach Lowtown."

"Satchel? What satchel? What are you on about?" Hawke asked irritably.

"What…? I've just spent the last five minutes telling you, Hawke! Pay attention this time, will you?" Aveline repeated her story, ensuring that this time Hawke was listening. "I need you to come with me to Lowtown, tonight. Guardsman Donnic will be carrying the satchel then and, if my suspicions are correct, we'll catch them in the act, and save Donnic from a beating. Or worse."

Hawke made a show of the exasperated sigh that rushed out of him. "Don't you think you should get some of the other guards to help you with this? Isn't it their _job?"_

"No, I can't," she said emphatically. "If I'm wrong about this, then I'll be thrown out of the Guard, maybe even imprisoned. I'll not risk any of my colleagues on the strength of a hunch."

"You'll risk us though, won't you?" Hawke folded his arms and huffed. "And _then_ will we get this reward you promised us?"

"This is more important than a reward," Aveline urged. "Look, I know you're tired after last night, but I can't do this without you. Please, I'm asking you."

"We're heading out to the Coast again soon," Hawke answered, rolling his head on his shoulders. "I don't know what time we'll be back."

"What for? Is it urgent?"

"We're helping someone out and yes, it does sound quite important. We're just waiting for Varric and... we're waiting for some people to arrive. It doesn't matter who."

"I'm off-duty until tonight," said Aveline. "Do you need an extra pair of hands? Is that fair? I help you out in return for the help you've given me?"

Hawke returned his attention to the crumpled beer mat in his hand. "Fine, but you'll still owe us for tonight."

"You drive a hard bargain, but fair enough. I owe you one. Deal?"

"Deal," Hawke answered, and the two of them shook hands.

"Over here, Varric!" called out Bethany, waving as the dwarf entered the pub.

Squeezing through the punters, Varric arrived at their table and frowned as he looked at his friends. "Okay, who died?"

"Oh, nobody's died," Merrill piped up, "but Hawke's in a right old strop." She cringed, expecting a fierce comeback from Hawke, and was surprised when none came.

"I'm just tired," Hawke claimed, avoiding Anders's gaze. Anders had questioned him earlier on the reason for his sour mood upon returning from visiting with Fenris, but Hawke had evaded his questions, quickly changing the subject.

Varric slapped Hawke's back. "Nothing like a nice bracing walk to the coast to remedy that, huh?"

"Go to the Stone, dwarf."

"Hey, surfacer here, born and bred. If I'm going anywhere, it'll be to that pretty lady with the flaming hands," Varric chirped with a wink at Bethany. "Let's go. The elf's outside. I think we're all ready. Sooner we go, sooner we get back."

"What, Fenris is outside?" asked Anders. "Why hasn't he come in?"

Varric shrugged, turned away, and started to clear a path through the throng. "Come on, you bunch of drunken bums! Make way! There are ladies coming through, and one of them's got a sword!"

The regulars stepped aside to let Bethany, Merrill and Aveline pass. Hawke, taking a large gulp of ale before standing up, also made his way out, unaware that Anders, who followed close behind, was still watching him carefully.

Spilling out onto the street, they immediately spotted an agitated-looking Fenris across the way being harassed by a woman.

"Stop… _looking_ at me like that!" he complained, leaning away from her as she flashed a lecherous grin at him.

"Isabela. Fancy seeing _you_ here," Hawke said sternly as he and the others walked up to them.

"Oh, Hawke!" she trilled, her eyes wandering over his body as Fenris hastily distanced himself from her. "My, my, you _do_ look handsome today."

"Forget it," snapped Hawke. "Where's our money? My friends here gave up their spare time and put themselves at risk for you. Flattery won't get you out of this."

"All right, all right," she grumbled, reaching into a small pouch on her dress. "I have a bit." She handed two sovereigns to him. "Just don't ask how I came by it, okay?"

"Doesn't take a genius," muttered Aveline with a narrow-eyed glance at the barely-dressed pirate.

"I couldn't care less how you came by it," answered Hawke, "but you owe us two more. You took four people with you. That's a sovereign apiece."

"I wasn't aware you had a price list," Isabela countered, mirroring Hawke's stance by folding her arms.

"I've just started one, right now, just for you."

"I'm honoured that you would make up a price list just for me! Fine! I owe you two sovereigns. Now, where are you all off to?"

"Nowhere you'd be interested in," said Hawke. "Let me know when you have the rest of our money." He turned and began to walk away from her, as did the others.

"Hey! Hold on a second!" she called, running after them and catching up to Hawke. "Come on, let me make it up to you!" she urged, slipping an arm around Hawke's. He glanced down at it and tried to pull away, but Isabela was having none of it. "Are you going to do one of your jobs? Let me come along? I could be useful to you. Just ask the dwarf! He was mightily impressed with my skills last night, isn't that right?" she asked Varric.

Hawke finally freed himself from her grasp and joined Varric, who was walking next to Bethany. "What do you think?" he asked the dwarf.

Varric shrugged. "I'm guessing she's not the most reliable person in the world, but she _is_ pretty nifty with those daggers of hers, and you did say you wanted as many people along on this as possible. It's your call, Hawke."

Hawke nodded at Varric and walked back to Isabela. "All right, you can come," he told her, "but you won't be getting a cut, _if_ we even make any money from this, that is."

A wide grin spread across the Rivaini's face, and she winked at him. "You _are_ hard, aren't you?" She sidled closer to him and lowered her voice. "You know what they say, handsome--a hard man is good to find."

A nervous chuckle escaped Hawke's lips. "Look, you really are wasting your time, you know."

Isabela frowned and pouted. "What, don't tell me you don't… _dabble_ occasionally?"

"Never," he answered with a firm shake of his head. "Not interested, sorry."

"Ho-hum," she said with a shrug, and once again threw him a wink. "I'll just have to put all of my energies into our handsome elf, then. Your loss, darling."

Watching as she sashayed towards Fenris, Hawke felt an unexpected flicker of irritation and then, without knowing why, an immense sense of gratitude as Bethany distracted the pirate and called her over for a chat, leaving Fenris to continue on alone.

As they made their way out of Kirkwall, they split into a few small groups: Merrill with Isabela, Varric with Bethany and Hawke with Anders. Fenris walked a distance ahead, having not spoken a word to anyone since their departure. Aveline, who seemed to have appointed herself leader of their group--something Hawke was quite happy about--walked not far behind the elf, occasionally checking on the rest of her companions.

Anders did his best to cheer Hawke up, who had fallen quiet again after his conversation with Isabela. Noticing that Hawke's eyes kept lingering on Fenris, he decided to press him.

"Hawke, are you going to tell me what happened earlier on?" he asked quietly.

"What do you mean?"

Anders tutted. "Come on, you haven't been yourself at all since you got back from the mansion. What did he say to you? What's he done to upset you?"

Surprised by the anger in Anders's voice, Hawke glanced at him and then looked straight ahead, shaking his head. "I don't know," he said quietly with a lethargic shrug. "I don't get it. Last night, when I was healing him, I thought…" He shook his head again and fell silent.

"You thought what?"

"I just thought we were getting somewhere, you know? Like he'd finally started to trust me a bit. He even cracked a few jokes on the way home. When I went to see him earlier, though… I don't get it," he repeated with a sigh. "He was so… cold towards me. I don't understand what I did wrong."

"I think _I_ understand," Anders said in a hard tone. "He was injured, and the only person he had on hand to help was a mage. He probably resents that."

"But he didn't seem to at the time. We had a long walk back to Kirkwall and he was absolutely fine with me. I even began to see his sense of humour coming through. He has a very dry wit, you know. He makes me laugh. Well, he _did_." Hawke detected a slight shift in the air around them which resonated with his mana field, and knew that Anders was bristling. He sighed. "I don't know why I'm letting this get to me. After all, I hardly know him, do I?"

"That's right," replied Anders, trying to keep his voice steady, although he knew Hawke must be aware of his anger. "You don't need him. Remember how he reacted when he first found out we were mages? He obviously detests us. I'm sure his master was a bastard to him, but that's hardly our fault, is it?"

"Perhaps you're right. I just wish... oh, never mind." Hawke's posture drooped.

Anders slung an arm around his shoulders, saddened by his low mood but, at the same time, something inside him rejoiced. "Remember what you once said, Hawke--we mages must stick together, yes? He obviously doesn't want to be friends with you, so don't waste any more time on him. You know who your real friends are."

Hawke smiled thinly and looked into Anders's eyes. "Yes, I know. You're a good friend. Thanks." He wrapped his arm around Anders's waist and Anders slapped Hawke's shoulder a few times. Hawke released him and they continued to walk on, with Anders watching him for a little while longer, before launching into his repertoire of bawdy jokes.

~o~O~o~

Having skipped afternoon tea, some of Hawke's party started to complain of feeling hungry after a while, so they all stopped for a bite to eat. Anders, who had not left Hawke's side the whole time, argued with Hawke's insistence that he speak to Fenris.

"Don't give him the satisfaction, Hawke," he implored.

"No, I'm going to have it out with him," insisted Hawke, who by now was feeling indignant. "I only went to check on him and he made me feel like a piece of shit. I want to know why."

"Well, don't let him talk you round with an empty apology," Anders urged as Hawke approached Fenris, who was leaning against a rock away from the others.

"Fenris," Hawke said sternly, causing the elf to startle slightly. "I want to talk to you."

"Yes?" asked the elf warily, backing away slightly as Hawke neared him.

"When I came to see you this afternoon, I was concerned about your leg. I thought I'd done a pretty poor job of healing it and wanted to see if there was anything more I could do," Hawke said, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. "The way you spoke to me… I don't think I deserved that. Was it because I'm a mage? Because I put my hands on you? I'd really like to know because I'm pretty confused at the moment."

Stunned, Fenris stared at Hawke with wide eyes, struggling to come up with an answer.

Hawke nodded, anger flashing in his eyes. "I think I get it. At least I know where I stand now. You once accused me of not respecting your wishes. Well, you're wrong. You want this mage to leave you alone? I'll do just that."

A hot, heavy sensation settled in Fenris's stomach as Hawke stomped away. As he watched the mage his eyes met those of Anders, who'd been watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow. Fenris's eyes narrowed and they stared each other down until he was distracted by Aveline. She'd been apprised of Hawke's suspicion that they were walking into a trap, and wanted to talk tactics with him.

As Hawke disappeared behind a rock to answer a call of nature, Anders made his way over to Isabela, who was squatting down, sharpening her blades on a small rock.

"You shouldn't give up on the elf so easily, you know," he advised with a sly grin as she looked up at him.

"No?" she said, straightening up. "I like men who play hard to get, but not _that_ bloody hard to get."

"He's just shy," said Anders with a dismissive shake of his head. "And he does have rather a big sword."

Sharing a laugh with him, Isabela saucily cocked an eyebrow and glanced at Fenris who, having been watching Anders, turned away under her scrutiny. "You think? I just need to work on him a bit more?"

"Definitely," he replied. "Just a bit of advice--don't get touching him. He hates that. But talking, you should be safe with."

"He hates being touched?"

"Very much so."

"Well if _that_ isn't a challenge, I don't know what is!" She waggled her eyebrows at Anders and started walking over to the elf.

"Isabela," he called. "Seriously. Don't touch him."

With a wink, she swayed her hips as she walked away from him. Anders bit his bottom lip and stifled a snigger at the same moment Hawke emerged from behind the rock.

"Feel better?" chirped Anders.

"Mm," Hawke mumbled absently. "Is everyone ready to go?" he asked the others, most of whom nodded. "Let's get going, then. I don't want to be out too late. We have a job in Lowtown later as well," he added with a yawn.

Following the directions on the hand-drawn map, they soon arrived at the approach to the Coast. Hawke stopped and examined the map again. "This is it," he announced. "We're not far."

As his companions readied their weapons, Hawke noticed Anders swaying a little as they walked forward. He placed his hand on Anders's back, who by now had halted, rubbing his forehead.

"Anders? What's the matter?"

Anders led him away from the others, blinking rapidly to maintain his focus. "Justice is agitated."

"Do you know why?"

Anders shook his head as Varric, having noticed Anders's discomfort, walked up to them.

"Everything okay, Blondie?"

"We're not sure," said Hawke, nodding at the path ahead. "What can you see?"

"There's a lone templar standing outside a cave," Varric replied. "Can't see anyone else around."

"Anders, do you think you can keep Justice under control while we speak to the templar?" asked Hawke. "He might be the one who sent me the letter."

Anders nodded slowly and took a deep breath. "I'll talk to him. You go on ahead."

"You sure?" asked Hawke.

Hawke slapped his shoulder. "All right. See you in a bit," he said, and joined Varric as they walked around a bend to speak to the templar.


	14. A Different Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hawke, I'm proud of you," said Varric with a slap to his friend's arm. "You've now graduated from the Varric Tethras School of Bullshit!"

"Hey!" Varric whispered to Hawke as they walked down a small slope toward the lone templar. "I _thought_ I recognised him! That's the poor sod whose daughter turned into a demon, or abomination, or whatever it was. The one I took the letter to?"

Hawke raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah. He seemed a pretty good guy. What was his name? Thrush? Frisk? Gah, I'm terrible at remembering names!"

"He's spotted us," Hawke observed as the templar turned towards the group and waited patiently for them to arrive alongside him.

"Ser Dwarf," he greeted Varric with a small bow, which the rogue returned. "I am Ser Thrask," he said to Hawke, and Varric rolled his eyes in recognition. "I thank you for heeding my call. I was not certain you would come."

"What seems to be the problem, Ser Thrask?" Hawke asked.

At that moment, Anders walked down the slope and joined the group. Hawke, immediately noticing his rigid posture and frozen expression, placed himself directly in front of Anders, suspecting that his friend was struggling to contain Justice.

"There has been an incident at the Circle in Starkhaven," explained Thrask, "during which several mages escaped. A group of them has been tracked to this locality." He lowered his voice. "I am the only one who knows of their exact whereabouts."

"Oh, so you want us to go in there and capture them for you?" asked Merrill impertinently. "Well, you can forget it! Isn't that right, Anders? Hawke?"

"I heard about that incident," Hawke said to Thrask. "The Starkhaven Circle burned down, didn't it?" Ser Thrask nodded. "Let's just hear what he has to say, first," he said, turning to Merrill. Anders gave no answer and stared, unblinking, at the entrance to the cave.

Thrask cleared his throat. "A colleague of mine, Ser Karras, is bent on their destruction. I do not wish for this to turn into a massacre, and would have these mages surrender peacefully. I ask that you speak with them, Messere Hawke. Were I to enter the caverns, they would undoubtedly slay me on sight. I am certain you will be able to reason with them."

Hawke glanced around. "Is this Ser Karras anywhere around here?"

"He is in the vicinity, leading a search party," answered Thrask. "Should he arrive here before the mages have surrendered, he will not hesitate to execute each and every one of them."

"Is there any chance the mages have fled?"

Thrask shook his head. "They are trapped within and have no means of escape. Their only chance is for you to convince them to lay down their arms and surrender."

"Let us waste no time," Anders adjured solemnly, striding forward toward the cave.

"Yes, all right," agreed Hawke, quickly following him. "We'll do our best, Ser Thrask."

"That is all I can hope for," replied Thrask. "Thank you, and may the Maker watch over your path."

As they filed into the cave, Anders's head fell back and an eiree blue light filled the narrow chamber. Aveline and Isabela stepped back, the guardswoman unsheathing her sword.

"It's all right," Hawke told them, holding his hands up. _"Put your sword away_ ," he mouthed to Aveline. To his great relief, she nodded and complied. "They're blood mages then, Justice?"

"Not all," answered the spirit. "Some innocents yet remain." He turned to face the others and pointed at Fenris, Merrill and Hawke. "The weak and innocent must be protected. You will come with me."

"Hey! Who are _you_ calling 'weak'?" demanded Isabela with one hand on her hip.

"Not _now!"_ Hawke hissed. "Just do as he says. Please."

Isabela rolled her eyes and tutted.

Fenris followed just behind Justice as they walked on. "Do not presume that I am following your orders, Spirit. I would walk ahead without your direction."

"I am aware of that, dauntless one," replied Justice, "which is why you are in the vanguard."

As Merrill and Hawke followed, Hawke whispered to her, "Whatever you do, _don't_ use you-know-what magic, no matter how dire the need."

"Why?" she asked loudly before Hawke shushed her. "Doesn't he like it or something?" she whispered.

"No, he doesn't, and he'll probably kill you if you do use it."

"Oh," Merrill said flatly. "He _really_ doesn't like it, then. Oh, well! I seem to be in his good books at the moment. Think I'd like to stay that way," she finished with a cute grin.

Hawke nodded, and then a frown settled over his features. Why _had_ Merrill been given special favour by Justice? After all, she was a practising blood mage, one who would have a strong connection with her demon. Why had Justice not manifested himself during their first meeting with her? What was the difference between Merrill and the blood mages within the cave?

He had no more time to consider that as the group were suddenly accosted by a frankly pathetic gaggle of skeletons, which rose from the ground and shambled towards Hawke and his companions, their insubstantial frames weighed down by the weapons they carried. They were quickly vanquished.

"They're raising the dead!" exclaimed Bethany.

"Well, if that's the best they can do, they should pose no threat to us," Aveline replied confidently.

"That was merely a warning, Human," said Justice, turning to face her. "You fight with the strength and heart of a ox. Come, fight at my side."

Flattered, Aveline joined the head of the group alongside Fenris, Hawke and Merrill. Hawke turned around and poked his tongue out at Varric, Bethany and Isabela. "How are you doing back there, weak ones?"

"Hey, we're just chilling, and letting you guys take all the heat," answered Varric with a chuckle. "Call us weak all you want, doesn't bother us none, does it, Sunshine?"

"Not at all, Brother. You go ahead and be _brave_. We'll just watch you from back here."

Hawke wrinkled his nose and turned away from them.

"Well _I_ don't want to hang around on the sidelines," pouted Isabela. "When do we get to see some _real_ action?"

"Well, as Justice has appeared, I guess you'll get your wish shortly," Varric answered her. "Although, saying that, Justice _has_ appeared, so we might not get much of a look in. He's pretty impressive."

"He _is_ , isn't he?" agreed the pirate.

Bethany rolled her eyes. "Oh, you must be joking."

As they ventured further into the cave, Justice came to an abrupt halt and motioned for the others to stop. A few seconds later, a young man wearing a cowled robe ran towards them, stopping in his tracks upon spotting them.

"Did the Templars send you?" he asked nervously.

Hawke, noticing that Justice paid no attention to him, guessed he wasn't a blood mage. "We _are_ here on behalf of the Templars, yes, but we're not going to hurt you."

He nodded quickly. "Decimus has gone mad," he began, thumbing over his shoulder.

"Who?"

"One of the mages that escaped with us. I suspected he already knew blood magic, but he's started raising the dead, and said he'll kill anyone who enters the main chamber! I want no part of this."

"Go to the entrance of the cave," Hawke directed as Justice charged ahead along with Fenris. "Ser Thrask awaits you there. You'll be safe with him."

"Hawke," suggested Varric, "why don't we go with him, just in case those templar reinforcements show up outside?"

"That's a good idea. Yes, take Bethany and Isabela with you."

"What? We've got to go all the way back?" moaned the pirate.

"You'll get to see some men in shiny armour with big swords," Hawke reasoned. "If you're lucky, they might even manhandle you a bit."

Isabela frowned and watched as Fenris disappeared around a corner. "But what about my elf?"

"Just get going," Hawke said, a sudden frostiness imbuing his words. "We haven't got all bloody day." He turned and walked away.

"Come on, ladies," said Varric, and Bethany's eyes lingered on her brother for a moment before the two groups went their separate ways.

By the time Hawke had caught up with the others, they'd already entered the main chamber and Justice was conversing with a group of approximately a dozen mages who were spread out throughout the chamber.

"Lay down your weapons and surrender immediately," he commanded. "If you comply, you will not be harmed."

"They're working for the Templars!" a voice called from atop a wooden platform.

"No, Decimus! There are mages with them!" argued a dark-haired female standing next to Justice.

"I care not what shield they carry!" answered Decimus, and all turned to face him as he surrounded himself in a sphere of protective magic. "Destroy them all!" he ordered as an orb of crackling black energy left his hands and slammed into both Fenris and Hawke, sending them sprawling onto their backs.

Decimus's cohorts immediately dropped back and began casting protective magic upon themselves, while Merrill attempted to dispel it. While this was going on, Aveline ran up the steps leading to the wooden platform upon which Decimus was standing.

"Aveline!" Hawke groaned, trying to push himself up. "Don't!" He looked at Fenris, who was struggling to his feet, fury etched on his face.

"Begone, hag!" Decimus called out, sweeping his arms out towards Aveline, another orb of energy slamming into her. She flew through the air, crashed through the wooden guard along the edge of the wooden platform, and fell more than twenty feet to the ground, where she lay in a crumpled heap. At the same moment, the chamber was lit up as several of Decimus's cronies began attacking Fenris, Merrill and Justice.

"Aveline!" Hawke stumbled onto all fours and groggily crawled to the stricken warrior.

Justice raised his arms into the air and Merrill and Fenris felt their skin tighten and harden, their enemies' attacks fizzling into nothing before they reached them. Fenris took immediate advantage of this and charged toward a group of five mages who were clustered together. In a flash of steel, two of them fell. Their comrades scattered, screaming, as Fenris gave chase, a guttural growl issuing from him as his markings blazed into life.

"I gave you all fair warning!" bellowed Justice, smiting the ground with Anders's staff. "Now, behold as justice is done!"

He raised a hand towards Decimus and, with a flick of his wrist, the blood mage was propelled at high speed toward the far wall of the chamber, meeting it head-first with a sickening crunch. The dark-haired female mage ran to her lover's destroyed body as it fell to the ground. Justice then advanced on Decimus's underlings who, having been rounded up by Fenris and Merrill, cowered together in a corner.

"Lay down your weapons!" Hawke yelled as he tended to Aveline. "He won't attack you if you're unarmed!"

The trapped mages quickly threw their staves to the ground, but still Justice advanced. "Discarding your weapons will not absolve you of your crimes!"

"Justice!" called out Hawke. "I need Anders back! This woman may die without his help! Please!"

Justice turned and could see that Hawke was struggling to revive Aveline. "These malefactors _must_ be punished! They _must_ face justice!"

"They will! Please, just let me have Anders back! Is it just for this brave woman to die? Because she will if you don't do something!"

"Spirit," added Fenris as he waved his sword at the terrified mages. "Relinquish your hold over Anders. I will see to it that these criminals do not go unpunished. I give you my word."

"Very well," Justice agreed. "I would not see the female expire needlessly. I accept your word. See that you do not break it."

Anders felt control of his body being returned to him and glimpsed Hawke frantically beckoning to him as his senses slowly returned. "How bad is it?" he mumbled, trudging to where Hawke was kneeling next to Aveline.

"She's cracked her left iliac crest, broken her left ulna, and there's blunt trauma to the back of the skull but no fracture I can see," Hawke told him. "I'm working on her head injury first."

"Good," replied Anders, blinking hard to clear his vision. He dropped to his knees and removed a lyrium potion from his pack, downing it in one. "I'll start on her pelvis."

As they worked on Aveline, Fenris turned back to the captured mages and sneered at them. "A templar welcoming party awaits you," he told them with a sneer.

"No," said Merrill, an unusual steely tone in her voice.

"No, what?" barked Fenris. "Your opinion is of no consequence here, maleficar!"

"Don't you see?" she argued. "They were frightened of him! That young mage we met out in the tunnels was running away from him!"

"That is no excuse! They attacked us without provocation!"

"Will you two be quiet?" snapped Anders. "We're trying to concentrate here!"

Merrill stared balefully at the elf, who glowered back at her in return, his lip curling in disgust.

"Anders and Hawke won't allow the Templars to take them, you know," she said quietly.

"What?"

"You heard me. You're outvoted here. I know they'll do the right thing by their fellow mages."

"The 'right thing'? And just how would someone who cavorts with demons know what the right thing is?" snarled Fenris.

Hawke looked up angrily from his work. "Shut _up_ , before I burn you both!"

The elves turned away from each other. Fenris took a few steps closer to the two healers, watching as they worked on Aveline, all the while keeping one eye on the weeping mage who was kneeling next to Decimus, as well as the group standing in the corner.

"That should do it, Hawke," Anders said after a while. "Let's bring her round."

Hawke nodded and they combined their energies to rouse the warrior. Aveline gasped and began to sit up, only to be gently but firmly held down by two pairs of hands.

"Don't move," Hawke instructed her. "You sustained some serious injuries. We're going to take it nice and slowly, all right?"

She nodded weakly and looked up at the platform from where she'd fallen. "Bloody hell," she murmured. "I'm lucky to be alive. Is everyone else all right?"

"Everyone except Decimus and a couple of blood mages, yes," answered Anders. "Come on, let's sit you up. Slowly."

Hawke and Anders assisted Aveline to sit and she covered her eyes with one of her hands, feeling light-headed, her entire body hurting. "It'll pass," Hawke told her. "I'm afraid you're not going anywhere tonight. You have a head injury and sustained some fractures. There's no way you can travel back to Kirkwall in this condition."

"No, I must!" she protested. "Those thugs are going to attack Donnic, and that bastard Jeven will get away with it!"

"We'll sort something out," promised Hawke. "Don't worry, a few of us will go back to Kirkwall and we'll take care of it. Either Anders or I need to stay and observe you. You must rest for now. That's not negotiable."

Aveline's body sagged in relief. "Thank you, Hawke. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

The two healers stood and aided Aveline to stand, leading her to a small rocky ledge where she could sit. Anders stayed with her while Hawke approached the group of captured mages. "Get going," he ordered, pointing to the exit of the chamber. "The Templars are waiting outside for you."

Just as Merrill began to protest, the female mage that had stayed with Decimus rushed to Hawke's side. "Please," she entreated, wiping tears from her eyes, "we didn't know he was a blood mage. We tried to stop him, I swear to you."

"Stop him?" spat Hawke. "Oh yes, I remember that! You tried to stop him by attacking us as Aveline lay dying on the ground! Give us _some_ credit, will you?"

"We were scared of him!" one of her cohorts called out. "We're sorry about your friend. We just want to leave here peacefully."

"You cannot leave," countered Fenris in a commanding voice. "There is no other way out of here, and even if there were, I would not allow it."

Anders left Aveline's side and strode over to the group. "And just who put _you_ in charge?" he demanded of the elf.

"Anders," said Hawke, "we both promised Justice they wouldn't get away. Besides, they _should_ be punished. They're dangerous!"

"Dangerous? Why, Hawke? Because they freed themselves from their jailors and want to make new lives for themselves?"

"What? No! They're dangerous because their leader almost killed Aveline and the rest of them attacked us after we gave them a chance to talk and surrender peacefully! _That's_ why!"

"They were clearly under his thrall!" Anders pointed to the group of cowering mages. "Look at them! Do they look dangerous to you?"

"I don't care _what_ they look like!" Hawke argued fiercely. "If it hadn't been for Justice, they would have killed the lot of us! They didn't even care that we were here to help them! The fact they're mages has nothing to do with it!"

"There must be another way besides turning them over to the Templars!" protested Anders, unable to find an argument against Hawke's words.

"You're right," Hawke said. "Aveline, I hereby turn these mages over to the city guard. Happy now, Anders?"

"But the Guard will hand them over to the Templars!" Anders blustered as a grim smile settled over Fenris's face.

"Too bloody right, we will!" Aveline called over.

"All right then," said Hawke. "Never let it be said that I'm not fair. Let's put it to the vote. Anders, Merrill, your opinion is quite clear. Fenris?"

"Templars."

"Aveline?"

"Obviously the Templars."

"You're outvoted, Anders," Hawke began.

"You call _that_ fair?" he protested. "The numbers are odd!"

"Then let's ask Justice," Hawke said. "That'll make the numbers even, won't it?"

Anders stared at Hawke and shook his head, his nostrils flaring.

"Wait," said the dark-haired female mage, stepping forward. "Perhaps there is another way."

Hawke folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow. "Well?"

"My name is Grace," she said nervously. "Your friend is correct. We only want to get away from here and start a new life. We were trapped in here with little food or water and we've been expecting the Templars for days. When we saw you, we panicked. I am so sorry for what Decimus did to your friend, and also for attacking you. Please don't make us go back. If you release us, you will never hear from us again, I swear to you."

"No!" Fenris insisted, his hand slicing through the air. "These mages _must_ be confined. I gave my word to the spirit, and I will see it done, no matter what."

Hawke groaned and covered his face with his hands. A look of hope crossed Anders's face as he watched his friend carefully.

Sensing that Hawke was uncertain, Grace continued. "There is a lone templar standing guard outside. All you have to do is eliminate him, and we can leave."

"What?" Hawke spun around to face her, wearing an expression of disbelief as his hands fell away from his face.

Anders nodded. "It makes sense, Hawke. He's only one against all of us. The Templars need never know. We can--"

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" asked Hawke in outrage. "You want us to kill the man who was trying to help these people?"

"He's only a templar."

Hawke's mouth fell open and he stared at Anders, shaking his head. "The man outside is the one you felt so sorry for when his daughter died! Where's your compassion now? What's wrong with you?"

"This is different! You're placing one man's life against the life of all of these mages!"

"We are _not_ killing him!" Hawke turned to Grace. "And you have just proved me right! There's nothing you lot wouldn't do. You _are_ dangerous, and you're going to the Templars!"

"I'm surprised at you, Hawke," Anders said bitterly, his words loaded with meaning. "I thought you of all people would sympathise with them and what they've had to turn to in order to free themselves!" As fury glinted in Hawke's eyes, Anders realised his mistake. "Being a fellow mage, I mean. With you being a fellow mage."

"Fenris," Hawke snarled, still glaring at Anders. "Round them up, if you please. We're taking them out."

"With pleasure," answered the elf. "Move!" he commanded them. Wisely, they obeyed.

"No," Grace cut in. "If we're going to the Templars, then so are you!" she said to Hawke and Anders.

"We're _working_ for the Templars, genius," Hawke retorted, his eyes still fixed on Anders, who'd started to perspire under his gaze.

"And do they know that your friend here is possessed?"

"Hey!" Anders protested angrily, tearing his eyes away from Hawke. "I've just been standing up for you lot!"

"As you stated," she said to Hawke, "there's nothing we won't do for our freedom."

Hawke moved away from Anders and stood almost nose-to-nose with Grace. "Just you try it," he threatened. "If you want another fight, we'll give you one, and believe me, with Justice on our side, you'll end up like your boyfriend over there. I'd have no qualms about that, because you and your friends are a disgrace to mages everywhere and _exactly_ why people hate us so much! Your choice--decide quickly!"

They stared at each other for a long, fraught moment before Grace turned away and joined the other mages, angrily shaking her head and muttering under her breath.

"Merrill, stay with Aveline until we get back," ordered Hawke in a tone that would suffer no argument. He looked at Fenris. "Go on ahead, we'll catch you up. I need to speak with Anders."

Fenris nodded, his eyes lingering on the two mages for a few seconds. He then began barking orders and threats at the captured mages as he led them out.

Hawke walked forward a short distance, knowing Anders was following him, until he was certain Aveline and Merrill couldn't hear.

"Hawke..." Anders began.

Hawke slowly turned to face Anders, his brown eyes almost black with fury. "What are you trying to do? Get me killed or something?"

"Look, I'm sorry! I was just trying to convince you… I didn't actually say it, did I?"

"You almost did! You were that close!" hissed Hawke. "I trusted you with this! Do I have to live in fear now that it will just slip off your tongue at an inopportune moment? Like in front of a fucking templar? There are _templars_ outside, you know! Maker!"

"What are you afraid of, Hawke? Is it because you don't want Fenris to find out? He knows about Merrill, doesn't he? He hasn't killed her or turned her over to the Templars, has he?"

"The reason I don't want him to know is _my_ business! The fact is I told you in confidence, and you almost--"

Anders nodded quickly. "Well, it all makes sense now. No wonder you've been spending so much time with him."

 _"What?_ What are you talking about?"

"You're not fooling anyone, Hawke," Anders sniped, walking away from him. "It's pretty obvious to me what's going on. Well, on your head be it."

Hawke quickly closed the gap between them and prodded Anders harshly on the shoulder. "Is that what this is all about? Your so-called concern for me earlier on? All this 'you know who your real friends are'? You're jealous, aren't you?"

"Jealous?" Anders turned and gawked at Hawke. "I'm _trying_ to be a friend to you! Fenris _hates_ mages--look at the way he herded them through the cave like cattle! They're nothing to him, yet you've hardly left his side over the last few days!"

"We were doing jobs together! And, in case you'd forgotten, he was injured!" Hawke shook his head. "Wait… why in the Void am I explaining myself to you?"

"Yes, why, Hawke? Perhaps you feel you _need_ to explain yourself?"

A cold silence hung between the two men. "You know something?" Hawke said after a moment in a quieter voice. "I've seen a different side to you today, and I don't think I like it."

"Likewise," sniped Anders. He turned and walked off, leaving Hawke quietly seething.

Hawke remained where he was for a few minutes, willing his stomach to stop churning and his hands to stop shaking. Having no success, he pressed ahead. He wouldn't put it past Anders to waylay Fenris and Thrask and free the mages. Remembering Bethany was at the entrance to the cave, he picked up his pace.

Eventually reaching the mouth of the cave, he found the corralled mages standing outside, where more templars had also arrived. Anders was nowhere to be seen.

Varric turned towards Hawke and winked hard at him. "Ah, First Enchanter! _There_ you are!"

Keeping his expression neutral, Hawke stepped forward. "What's going on here?"

"I was explaining to Ser Karras, here," said Varric, pointing out a templar with bushy sideburns, "about the work you're doing for the Circle in Starkhaven. Another job well done, First Enchanter Hawke!"

Ser Karras stepped forward and eyed Hawke suspiciously. "Aren't you a bit young to be first enchanter?"

Hawke groaned and rolled his eyes. "Where have you been, man? In case you hadn't heard, the Circle in Starkhaven burned to the ground! There aren't that many of us left!" He glanced at the group of mages, his eyes daring them to contradict him.

"And you say you're from Starkhaven?" said Karras. "You sound Fereldan to me."

Ignoring him, Hawke turned to Varric. "I really don't have time to explain myself to rank-and-file templars. I'll speak with their knight-commander when we get back to Kirkwall. I'm certain she'll want to know exactly how this group of mages evaded her brave knights of Andraste for so long."

"There's no need to bother the knight-commander with this," insisted Karras, holding his hands up in appeasement. "We have the mages back, that's the main thing." His eyes narrowed slightly at Hawke, and then he turned to his men. "Come on, then, let's get this lot back to the Gallows."

The templars moved the mages into another small group and surrounded them. As they departed, Ser Thrask whispered to Hawke and Varric, "Thank you, my friends. I will ensure you are well compensated for your trouble." He then quickly joined the templar/mage party. Hawke and the others waited until they'd disappeared from sight.

Once they'd gone, Hawke slumped against the cave wall, clutching his chest.

"Hawke, I'm proud of you," said Varric with a slap to his friend's arm. "You've now graduated from the Varric Tethras School of Bullshit!"

"Where's Anders?" asked Hawke.

"He said he had to get back to the clinic," answered Bethany.

A fierce frown took Hawke's features. "But I need a healer to stay with Aveline! What's he playing at?" He sighed. "All right. We need to decide what we're going to do. Aveline is not fit to travel back today." He explained to the others what had happened inside the cave. "But some of us need to go back to Kirkwall to finish this job of hers, and ideally we need a healer in that group, too." 

Bethany spoke. "I'm no healer, Brother, but I know how to care for a concussion. Don't worry, I'll take care of Aveline. You're needed more in Lowtown." 

"Thanks, sis. That sounds the best bet." He fell silent for a few minutes, deep in thought. Leaving certain combinations of people together would not be a good idea. "Does anyone _have_ to be back in Kirkwall tonight?" he asked. His companions either shook their heads or said no.

"Right. I'll take Fenris and Merrill with me. Bethany and Varric, you stay here, and I'll come back for you tomorrow. Is that all right with everyone?"

"And what about me?" demanded Isabela.

Hawke sighed inwardly. He didn't think Bethany would welcome her presence, but neither did he particularly want her accompanying _his_ group. He paused for a second as he asked himself why, and then quickly brushed that thought aside. "Of course, Isabela, you'll come with us."

"Don't forget to let Mother know that I won't be home," Bethany prompted.

"I won't," Hawke promised. "The mages left some of their belongings behind," he told Varric and Bethany, reaching into his pack. "Everyone, give what food and water you have to them." Isabela, Fenris and Hawke handed their rations to the couple. "We'd better get going before the sun starts to set."

"We'll be fine, Brother," Bethany assured him with a smile.

"Will you send Merrill out to us? We'll wait here for her."

"Sure thing, Hawke," said Varric as he and Bethany turned to enter the cave.

Hawke grabbed the dwarf's arm and stopped him. "I expect my sister to be in one piece when I return in the morning."

"You should be more concerned for your friend here," muttered Varric, pointing at himself. "I'll be spending a whole night with two women, who'll probably spend the entire time saying stuff like, 'ooh, where did you get that simply _adorable_ hairpin?' and such. I'm gonna have to chug a few beers and kill some kittens when I get back, just to restore my manliness to its natural levels."

"More likely Beth will bore you with magical theory, and Aveline will tell you in minute detail how to forge a sword. The sacrifices we have to make, eh?" joked Hawke. "See you in the morning."

Varric shook his head and laughed before leading Bethany into the cave.

Aware that Fenris had been watching him, Hawke faced the elf but didn't quite look at him. "Now what?"

"I am merely surprised that you allowed the mages to be taken by the templars. I did not expect you to do that."

"It doesn't really matter what you expected. I didn't do it to impress you." Hawke turned his back on the elf. He walked a short distance away, feeling troubled. Not so long ago, he'd promised himself that he would never turn on his own kind.

But he hadn't done it to impress Fenris. The elf had made it quite clear he didn't want to be friends, and now it looked like Hawke could cross Anders off his friendship list as well. The trouble was, Fenris had never been on Hawke's friendship list, and that was why he felt so wretched.

He had to finally admit to himself that his interest in Fenris went beyond friendship. Well beyond it. But he could not get the way Fenris had spoken to him at the mansion out of his head. It hurt. Why had he done that? What was behind it? And why was Hawke committing so much time and energy to someone who hated him?

"Let's get out of here," he said gruffly, walking past Fenris without a backward glance.


	15. Not Fooling Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris moved his hands away from his face and fixed Hawke with a wild look, unshed tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "Why must you always be like this? Why will you not leave me alone? Have I not made myself clear? I do not need you, or anyone!"
> 
> "I beg to differ," Hawke said quietly.

"So, Fenris. Those tattoos of yours…"

"They are _not_ tattoos," he answered wearily.

Isabela shrugged her shoulders, undaunted. "Well, whatever they are, then. Do they cover _all_ of your body?"

He sighed. He'd tried to evade her questions, had attempted to walk away, and had even been quite abrupt towards her, but still she persisted, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. "Yes, they cover my entire body. Why do you want--"

"Really?" Her eyes lit up and travelled up the length of Fenris's body. He shuddered and increased the distance between them, only for it to be immediately closed again by the tiresome woman. "Even on your… you know?"

"On my what? Oh… no. _No!_ What is the matter with you?"

"Good to know," she whispered with a lascivious smile.

"Have you hurt your eye, Isabela?" Merrill asked the pirate. "It's just that you look like you're winking at him all the time."

"That is because she _is_ winking at me!" Fenris grumbled. "I wish you would desist!"

"Well, what do you expect?" asked Isabela. "Walking around, looking the way you do."

"Looking the way I do? What do you mean by that?"

"Ha! _That's_ fishing for a compliment if ever I heard it!"

"I am _not_ fishing for a compliment!"

Merrill giggled. "That's what women say all the time, Fenris. It doesn't fool anyone."

"Do I _look_ like a woman to you, Blood Mage?"

Hawke growled under his breath and quickened his pace, taking himself even further ahead of the rest of the group. He was beyond irritated with his companions' constant prattle. He felt weary, but it was a mental weariness, and he regretted his decision to leave Varric and Bethany behind--they would have provided much more soothing company, he was certain.

He then thought of Anders, and immediately his weariness left him, his jaw and hands clenching tightly. Anders _knew_ Aveline wouldn't be able to travel, and Hawke had wanted a healer to stay behind with her. How could Anders be so selfish? Was he going to run off every time someone disagreed with him? Even Fenris hadn't abandoned him when he'd decided to give Feynriel to the Dalish!

And would Anders really have killed Thrask? Anders's compassion, so evident in his handling of the refugees, did have limits, it seemed. Obviously a templar's life held little value to him but, as far as Hawke was concerned, that attitude was not commensurate with being a good healer. What if they were to find an injured or dying templar? Would Anders leave him or her to their fate?

Or was he being unfair on Anders? Was Hawke's anger, which sat so easily on Anders's shoulders, really directed at himself? Anders, after all, had not abandoned his principles back in the cave. Had Hawke? Was he so obsessed with getting the money together for the expedition that he'd forgotten, or had chosen to ignore, everything Anders had told him about life in the Circle? Had Hawke forgotten all those times he and his family had had to hide from the templars while Carver had spun them yet another story, hating himself for doing so? Had he forgotten how easily he could have lived the life Anders had?

And now Hawke was working for those very same templars, taking their coin for imprisoning mages. Perhaps Anders _did_ have good reason to be angry with him. How far, though, would Anders go for the sake of his principles? Would the death of an innocent templar have been justifiable to him? Hawke shook his head. Clearly, his and Anders's principles were very different. Would that fact affect the friendship they'd built? Would Hawke ever to be able to look at Anders in the same way again?

"Hawke?" called Isabela and he blinked, halted and turned around.

"Yes?"

Isabela and the others caught up to Hawke. She pointed at Fenris's face, causing him to flinch and edge away from her. "I think Fenris would look much more distinguished with a beard. I _like_ beards. What do you think?"

"Elves do not grow beards," Fenris told her morosely. "How many more times…"

"Well, perhaps you should," urged the Rivaini.

Merrill smiled. "Elves aren't hairy like humans. We have hair on our heads, oh, and our eyebrows as well, and that's about it."

"You mean you don't have any…" Isabela's eyes dropped to Fenris's groin, causing the elf to look at Hawke, desperation in his eyes. Unfortunately, Hawke was unsympathetic to Fenris's plight and coolly met his gaze for a second before turning away and continuing on. Fenris then remembered his conversation with Hawke earlier that day, and watched him for a moment, once again feeling a pang of guilt. Hawke had obviously taken things to heart, but what choice did Fenris have? He didn't want to give this mage the wrong idea--that they could ever be friends. Did he?

"Fenris? I'm talking to you! Do you have pubes or not?" Isabela demanded.

"Why must you persist with this line of questioning?" asked Fenris irritably, not without a mite of panic in his voice. "Is that all you ever think about? Men, and their… appendages?"

"No, of course not!" answered Isabela with mock indignation. "I _do_ think about other things sometimes. Right now I'm struggling to remember what they might be, but I resent the implication that I'm obsessed with willies!"

"Then perhaps you should cease mentioning them with every sentence that passes your lips," Fenris rebuked. "It is said that one who _speaks_ of something incessantly, is not _getting_ something."

"Ooh, is that an offer?" she purred, stepping closer to Fenris.

"What? No, it is not!" exclaimed Fenris in horror, once again moving away from her.

"Maker, you're a tough one," she groused, folding her arms. "Oh, don't tell me. Do _you_ bat for the other team as well, like Hawke does?"

Fenris's brow creased in confusion. "What team are you referring to? I do not understand these colloquialisms of yours!"

"My, that's a big word!" chirped Merrill.

"Yes, and you know what they say about men who use big words…"

The conversation continued much in this vein until the sun set and the group reached the outskirts of Kirkwall. Hawke was relieved beyond words to set foot in Lowtown, knowing that soon his companions would have to shut up while they laid in wait for Donnic's would-be attackers.

"I'm popping home to speak to my mother," he told them as they walked through the slums. "If any of you have anything you need to take care of..."

"Oh, I'd love to see your house!" said Merrill excitedly. "I bet it's dead posh, and big as well."

Hawke shook his head, unable to stop his derisive laughter. "I don't know what _your_ definition of posh is, Merrill, but this isn't it, trust me. Come on, then." He led them up the steps to Gamlen's home and took out his key, pausing at the door.

"Isabela, you're about to meet my mother. Do you think you could keep the penis comments to a minimum? Or not say anything at all?"

"Yes I can, Hawke. Like I said, I'm not obsessed, just… enthusiastic, that's all."

Fenris snorted. "Prodigiously so."

Hawke opened the door and ushered the two ladies through. "Mother?" he called, turning to face Fenris, who remained at the threshold. "Can you pretend you don't hate me for a bit? For my mother's sake? If so, you're welcome to come in. It's cold out there."

"But I don't..." Fenris cleared his throat, nodded awkwardly and entered. "Thank you."

"Oh, hello, dear!" said Leandra, who walked up to Hawke and embraced him. She then looked at his three companions. "You've brought some friends home? How wonderful!"

"Yes, this is Fenris, Isabela and Merrill." To his relief, the ladies nodded respectfully, and Fenris bowed. "I'm not staying for long, Mother, we have some business to take care of. I just stopped by to let you know Beth won't be home tonight."

"Oh?" Leandra asked. Hawke explained his sister's absence, leaving some details out. "Well, you'll stay for some tea, won't you?" she offered, gesturing toward the dining table.

"Yes, I suppose we have a little time. Take a seat, everyone."

As Leandra went into the kitchen, the four of them settled themselves at the table. "It's nice and cosy in here," commented Merrill, looking around.

"Not posh, then?" Hawke said.

"Not exactly," she answered diplomatically, "but those posh places are so big and draughty. Not that I've ever been in a posh place, mind you, so I wouldn't know. I'm guessing. It's lovely and warm in here."

Hawke smiled at her. "It has a roof. Oh, and walls, too."

"Let's not forget doors," Isabela pointed out. "A must when the wind's blowing your skirts around your ears!"

Leandra brought the tea in a short time later with a plate of biscuits, which she placed at the centre of the table before taking a seat next to Hawke. "There's some shortbread for you there, Fenris--Fletcher told me you like it."

Fenris, who was seated opposite Hawke, smiled shyly. "I very much enjoyed your shortbread, madam. That was a thoughtful gift, for which I was very grateful."

"So polite," Leandra said to Hawke, who nodded, watching Fenris with a frown. "Well, do help yourselves."

A chorus of thank-yous rose around the table, and they all began to tuck in. Fenris waited until everyone else had taken a biscuit, before reaching for a piece of shortbread and taking a small bite out of it.

"Never before have I seen such excellent table manners," Leandra remarked with a sidelong glance at Hawke. "And _yours_ seem to have improved all of a sudden, Son."

Hawke groaned. "Is this the part where my mother embarrasses me in front of my friends?"

"That _is_ part of a mother's remit, yes," she answered. Isabela and Merrill laughed while Fenris choked on his biscuit, taking a sip of tea to remedy his predicament.

After a pleasant, if slightly embarrassing chat, Hawke rose and helped to clear the cups away. "Thank you for the tea, Mother. We should get going now."

"Well do put on something warm, Fletcher," she advised. "There's going to be a frost tonight."

"I'm _fine,"_ he insisted through gritted teeth, suddenly grateful Varric had _not_ accompanied them--the dwarf would never have let him hear the end of it. "Don't get waiting up for me. I may not actually be back until tomorrow. This could be a long job."

"Please be careful, dear," said Leandra, kissing Hawke's cheek.

"He will be kept safe, madam," Fenris assured her. "You have my word." Hawke looked at him in confusion.

After saying their goodbyes, they left the house and walked down the steps. "Thank you all for behaving yourselves," Hawke said.

Isabela pretended to wipe sweat from her brow. "Phew! That was difficult. May I start talking about genitals again, now?"

"Please don't," muttered Fenris.

"I'm joking! No, Hawke, thanks for inviting us in. Your mother's a nice lady."

Merrill nodded. "She's lovely, and she makes nice biscuits."

Hawke noticed Fenris's eyes dart between the two women, and sensed the elf had something to say, but didn't want to say it in front of the others. Hawke dropped back a little, as did Fenris. A few minutes passed by before the elf finally spoke.

"Thank you for inviting me into your home."

Hawke shrugged, doing his best to appear not to care what Fenris thought. "Bit of a comedown from your place, isn't it?"

Fenris shook his head. "I live in a large, cold mansion that does not belong to me. It is not a home. You have a home, Hawke, and many would envy you that."

The two men walked on quietly for a moment, and once again Hawke was struck by the thought that Fenris must be terribly lonely. Why, then, did he insist on pushing everyone away? Why had Fenris been so rude to him when he'd gone to check on his leg?

"Thank you for being so polite to Mother," Hawke said eventually. "She's not used to manners, what with me and Gamlen around."

"Gamlen?"

"My uncle. You two would get along famously. He's almost as cantankerous as you."

"Oh."

"But, that said, you've always been respectful of Bethany as well. I appreciate it."

Fenris sighed quietly. "Perhaps my manners need work in other areas. I can be... cantankerous, as you said."

"You don't say," replied Hawke, though there was no malice in his words.

As they neared central Lowtown, Hawke realised again that Fenris was watching him, and turned to face him.

"Hawke?" Fenris began.

"Yes?"

Fenris looked at the ground and frowned. "Nothing. It doesn't matter." He moved a little ahead of Hawke, his eyes still cast upon the ground. For a moment, Hawke was tempted to ask Fenris what he'd wanted to say but he thought better of it, not wanting to be drawn into a confrontation.

Following Aveline's directions, Hawke's group found a series of blind alleys that lay directly along Donnic's patrol route--Aveline had guessed this would be the most likely spot for an ambush. Hiding behind barrels and crates, the four companions settled themselves in and waited.

They were not disappointed. After half an hour or so, a gang of roughs, eight in number, entered the first alley, looked around, and disappeared around a corner. Hawke smiled to himself. He and the other three were in the perfect position to not only catch the thugs in the act, but also to quickly leap to Donnic's aid.

Before long, Fenris, who was nearest to the entrance to the alley, spotted a solidly-built guard who matched Aveline's description of Donnic striding towards them, a bulging leather satchel slung across his shoulder and hip.

"He's here," he whispered to Hawke, who then signalled for Merrill and Isabela to make themselves ready.

Donnic entered the alley and stopped dead as he heard the sound of a weapon being unsheathed. Isabela grimaced and paused, her hand stilled on the hilt of her dagger.

"Who's there?" asked Donnic in a gruff, authoritative voice, unsheathing his own sword.

For a few tense seconds, nothing happened, and then everything seemed to happen at once. The gang of thugs charged around the corner, two of them slamming into Donnic and knocking him to the ground, while four of them sped to the entrance of the alley, keeping watch as Donnic was dragged around the corner.

A quick change of tactics was in order, however, as Merrill, Isabela and Fenris emerged from their hiding places. The women went after Donnic and his attackers, and Fenris went for the four men standing guard. Hawke ran across the alley, finding a spot where he could see both groups, and began to cast spells that would protect the women and Donnic, although he didn't cast anything on Fenris.

Isabela and Merrill seemed to be holding their own assisted by Donnic, who, although having sustained a blow to the head, fought ably in the tight space of the narrow alleyway.

A blue glow lit the main part of the alley and two thugs fell to the ground, blood gushing through holes in their chests. Fenris vociferated in rage and pain and launched himself at a third thug, not noticing as one of the others had crept behind him.

"Fenris! Behind you!" shouted Hawke, emerging from his hiding place.

Too late to hear his warning, Fenris was grabbed from behind and slammed against a pile of crates. Thrashing his arms and growling, Fenris was helpless as the thug tightened his grip around his waist and straightened the elf up, ready for a beating from his friend.

Then, everything seemed to stand still. Hawke watched helplessly as Fenris's sword clattered to the ground, his body limp and sagging in the thug's arms.

_The man's grip around his waist tightened and would not let go. Hot breath against his ear, stubble scratching against his neck, a gravelly voice, the smell of sweat and musk and sex…_

Lights exploded in Fenris's vision as a fist connected sharply with his cheek.

"Get your hands off him!" yelled Hawke, breaking from cover and smashing his staff across the back of the thug's head, breaking it in half. The thug pitched to the ground, and as Hawke readied a spell, the other thug released Fenris and tackled Hawke to the ground, breaking his concentration.

Punches rained down on Hawke, dazing him momentarily. As the thug reached for a dagger, Hawke gasped and tried to wriggle free, but his arms were pinned in place by the thug's knees as he sat atop him. "Fenris!" he called out in desperation.

"The elf can't help you now," sneered the thug, the tip of his dagger pressing against Hawke's throat.

Hawke spat in his face.

Suddenly, the thug's dagger fell from his hands and he looked into Hawke's eyes, his breathing quickening as a look of absolute terror fell across his face. "Wh-what…?" The thug hastily got to his feet, slowly backing away from Hawke and then falling to his knees. "Please! Please don't h-hurt me!" he begged, tears spilling from his eyes.

At that moment, Merrill rounded the corner, her arm outstretched towards the terrified thug, who promptly slumped to the ground, fast asleep. He then began to tremble, and screamed as unimaginable horrors came to him in his dreams. Merrill knelt down next to the thug. "Shut it, you!" she commanded. The thug quietened, softly whimpering in his sleep.

"Thanks, Merrill! For a moment there I thought I was a goner!" Hawke pushed himself to his feet, rubbing at his windpipe, and immediately looked around for Fenris. He was gone.

Isabela, who was covered in blood, then walked around the corner, one arm slung around a dazed Donnic. Hawke ran to them and assisted the battered guard to sit on a barrel.

"Guardsman Donnic, my name is Hawke. Aveline sent us."

"A-Aveline?" Donnic clutched his head and squeezed his eyes shut as Hawke placed his hands over the guard's temples and concentrated.

"You have a concussion," Hawke told him. "I'm a healer. I'm going to use magic on you--is that all right?"

Donnic grunted and nodded, and felt his strength and clarity return as Hawke sent fortifying energy into him.

"Isabela!" Hawke exclaimed, suddenly noticing the blood on her dress. "I'm sorry, are you hurt?"

She laughed. "Don't worry, handsome. It's not my blood."

Hawke nodded and smiled in relief before glancing at the entrance to the alley, wondering where Fenris had got to.

"What's going on?" asked Donnic. "How did Aveline know about this?"

As Hawke explained Aveline's suspicions about Jeven, a grim look befell Donnic's face, and he shook his head angrily. "That bastard! I always knew he was bent, but there's been no proof, up until now, that is." Donnic stood up and placed a protective hand over the satchel. "I'm going straight back to the barracks to sort this out!"

"Wait," said Hawke. "This was Aveline's idea. I think she should be the one, don't you?"

Donnic sighed. "Yes, you're right. I shouldn't deny Aveline the pleasure of having that bastard arrested."

"And won't it be fun to make Jeven sweat a bit when his hired thugs don't report back?" added Isabela.

"That it will," agreed Donnic with a sly smile. "Hawke, you say?" he asked the mage, who nodded. "Yes, Aveline's mentioned you. Says good things about you, she does."

"Really?"

"Yes. Where _is_ she, anyway?"

"She was injured," explained Hawke. "We had to leave her-"

 _"Injured?_ How badly? Where is she?" asked Donnic, concerned.

"She's all right, she just can't travel tonight," Hawke replied, and Donnic exhaled. "Got a bit of a concussion, same as you, so she needs to rest. I'm going back for her in the morning."

"I'll go with you," Donnic insisted.

"That's fine. Are you going to continue with your patrol?"

"Yes, I only have an hour or so left, and it's best that nothing seems untoward. I'll get some of my colleagues to clear away this refuse," he said with a nod at the dead or unconscious thugs that littered the alley.

"You probably shouldn't go back to the barracks after your shift," Hawke advised. "Is there anywhere else you can stay for the night?"

Donnic shook his head. "No. My family lives outside Kirkwall."

"There's a room at the Hanged Man," suggested Isabela, and Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Not mine!" she protested. "There's an empty one. Tell you what, I'll go and see to that now. You coming, Merrill?"

"All right, then," chirped the elf, and Donnic gave them his sincere thanks as they went on their way.

"Are you going to be all right?" Donnic asked Hawke. "Where do you live? I'll escort you home."

"No, that's not necessary, but thanks all the same," answered Hawke. "I, um, I need to look for someone. They might be... never mind, it doesn't matter."

"Need any help? It's the least I can do."

"No thanks. I think I have an idea where he might be."

Donnic nodded and extended his hand to Hawke, who shook it. "Keep yourself safe, Hawke. Shall I wait for you at the Hanged Man?"

"Yes, I'll be there early tomorrow morning. We'll break our fast together, if you like."

"All right, I'll see you then. Thank you for everything you've done. I hope you find your friend." Donnic glanced at the thugs again, shook his head, and left the alley.

Hawke sat upon a barrel, taking a few deep breaths. What had happened to Fenris during the fight? He'd just relinquished control of himself and had seemed to go into a trance, almost as though he'd been somewhere else.

Somewhere else.

As Hawke remembered Fenris being restrained from behind and bent over the shattered crates, a feeling of cold dread crept over him as his imagination worked overtime.

Tonight. Abuse. _Sex._

_Rape._

Hawke stared into space for a short time, feeling sick. Was he reading too much into this? No. The signs were all there, right in his face. No wonder Fenris hated and distrusted mages so much. It no longer mattered that Fenris had been rude to him--he was in trouble, and Hawke needed to make sure he was safe. He stood up, but then hesitated. Would he get the same icy reception the elf had given him before? Would it make things worse between them?

Perhaps that didn't even matter. Hawke wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep until he knew Fenris was well.

He walked to the entrance of the alley, determination in his steps, and just as he was about to depart, he noticed a flash of white from behind one of the crates. He stopped, his heart slowing almost with uncertainty, and quietly moved to the crates, peering over them.

There, on the ground, was Fenris, his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands covering his face.

"Fenris?" asked Hawke gently. "What are you doing down there? Are you hurt?" The elf startled, but did not move his hands or look up. Hawke pushed one of the crates aside and squatted next to him a few feet away. "It's over. The guards are on their way. You're safe."

"I placed you in danger," Fenris said, his voice unsteady.

"No, it doesn't matter. Everyone's all right."

"There are no excuses!" snapped the elf. Hawke could see from beneath Fenris's hands that his face was contorted. "You relied on me to protect you, and I failed you all!"

"Fenris, listen to me--"

"Go!" ordered the elf, a fine tremor in his hands.

Hawke stood up. "No. I'm not leaving you like this. Come with me, I'll see you home."

Fenris moved his hands away from his face and fixed Hawke with a wild look, unshed tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "Why must you always be like this? Why will you not leave me alone? Have I not made myself clear? I do not need you, or anyone!"

"I beg to differ," Hawke said quietly. Fenris once again covered his face, his body slumping against a crate. "Come on. The guards will be here soon. Do you want them to see you like this?"

Fenris howled in frustration and scrambled to his feet, muttering to himself as he pushed past Hawke. "Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare!"

"You didn't teach me _that_ at the Coast."

"Bloody fool! Leave me be!"

Hawke struggled to keep up with Fenris as he charged through Lowtown and sped up the hundreds of steps leading to Hightown. Before he was even halfway up, Hawke was out of breath, his thigh muscles screaming at him to stop.

"Oy! You're not going to leave me to die here, are you?" he called plaintively.

"Heal yourself!" Fenris barked in reply.

"I don't have an out-of-breath spell!" Giving up, Hawke stopped and braced his hands on his knees, gasping for air. "I'm not a magister, you know! I can do fire and a bit of healing, and that's about it!"

Fenris turned and also stopped, shaking his head. "You are the one who insisted on following me! It is not my fault you cannot keep up!"

"Yes… you're right…" Hawke sat on the wall and glanced up at the elf. "I need a minute. Carry on if you like. Maker, my head's spinning."

Fenris folded his arms, his mouth set in a hard line, but remained where he was. "Are you... are you ready now?" he asked after a few moments.

Hawke stood up and grinned. "Yes, I think so," he answered, and started to laugh.

"What is so amusing?" asked Fenris shortly.

"Nothing."

Fenris huffed and resumed his trek up the steps, while Hawke, still laughing, followed behind. For all his bluster, Fenris was a decent man who cared for others, Hawke had decided, no matter how hard Fenris tried to conceal that fact with his aloof manner, cutting remarks and Tevinter profanities.

He _was_ worth the trouble.

Arriving at the mansion, Fenris took out his key and watched Hawke warily as he opened the door. "I am fine now," said the elf. "You should go home and rest."

"Aren't you going to offer me a cup of tea?" asked Hawke, sensing Fenris was not going to allow him to enter.

"What?"

"A cup of tea. I walked all the way up those steps for you."

"I did not ask you to!" Fenris stopped himself, sighed, and walked inside, leaving the door open for Hawke. "The tea is in the kitchen. I am going to retire. See yourself out." Fenris headed straight for the stairs.

"No, I think I'll be staying here tonight," Hawke announced, closing the door. Fenris came to an abrupt halt on the stairs. "That settee will do nicely." Hawke pointed to a large couch next to the fireplace.

"There is no need for you to stay here," Fenris spluttered in indignation. "I do not require company."

"I just thought you might feel better knowing someone was here."

"And how do _you_ know how I feel?" Fenris descended the stairs and stopped a short distance away from Hawke. "You know nothing about me!"

"I'm beginning to," replied Hawke softly.

"So, you feel pity for the poor slave, do you? You think you can wave your hands or cast a spell that will make everything better? Well, some things never get better!" Hawke said nothing and looked at Fenris while the elf took a deep breath. "Go home!" ordered Fenris, who then turned and once again headed for the stairs.

"I'm staying."

Fenris's body tensed and, without facing Hawke, he once again muttered something under his breath. "You are the most...!"

"Your rancorous bastard act doesn't fool me. I'm staying."

With another growl of frustration, Fenris stomped up the stairs and into to his room, slamming the door behind him. Hawke then heard a click as the door was locked.

After collecting his thoughts for a few minutes, Hawke went to the kitchen, where he made a cup of tea and some porridge. After cleaning up he made his way back to the vestibule of the mansion. Using his hands--having broken his staff--he got a fire going in the hearth, and turned to the settee, frowning and cocking his head to one side.

Upon the settee were two neatly-folded blankets and a pillow.

He walked to the settee, a huge grin lighting up his face, and glanced up at the door to Fenris's room, which was closed.

"Thank you!" he called out, and proceeded to make up his bed for the night. He then removed his boots and settled down on the settee. "Goodnight!"

Definitely worth the trouble, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare!” = Anyone can err, but only the fool persists in his fault.


	16. Wiping the Slate Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hawke… are you sure you know what you're doing? With Fenris, I mean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my sincere thanks to all of you following the story, and for your comments and kudos. :-)

Through half-closed eyes, Hawke could barely make out the dim glow of the dying fire. He rubbed his left eye, wincing as his hand touched a tender spot on his cheek. Oh, yes… the fight. He sighed and closed his eyes again, yawning loudly. He really would have to get into Fenris's good books and do a deal with him for this settee, he thought. It was more comfortable than his bed back in Lothering had been, and infinitely better than sleeping on a draughty floor next to a snoring and farting Gamlen.

At the sound of a throat being cleared, adrenaline coursed through him and his eyes shot open, slowly focusing on a slender black figure in his peripheral vision. He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes again.

"Fenris?"

The elf was standing next to the fireplace, dressed in a thin black tunic and his ever-present leggings. Hawke pushed himself up a little and reclined on an elbow.

"I... heard you moving about," Fenris said from the shadows in a slightly awkward tone. "I remembered you wished to rise early."

Hawke squinted and looked to the windows. The drapes were open but it was still dark outside. "But the sun isn't even up yet."

"It will be, shortly. I am accustomed to rising at this hour. I apologise if I awakened you prematurely."

Hawke slowly sat up and pushed his blankets aside, smoothing his robe down to cover his legs. "No, it's all right. I suppose I do need to make an early start. We used to have to get up this early back at home, working on the farm, you know? I can't say I ever became _accustomed_ , to it, though." He once again yawned and sank back on the settee, closing his eyes for a moment. Hearing the soft padding of Fenris's feet moving away from him, he opened them.

"You're always up at this time?" he asked. "Don't you ever sleep in?"

Fenris paused, snorting softly to himself. "I was always required to rise early. I had to draw Danarius's bath and lay out a selection of clothing for him. Then… I had to wake him."

Hawke detected tension in Fenris's last few words. "Didn't he have servants to do that for him?"

Fenris shrugged. "He required that I did it."

"But you don't have to do that anymore, do you? Why don't you treat yourself now and then, and get up late?"

"I-I cannot," he replied, shaking his head. "I am unable to remain in one position for too long."

"Is that because of the markings?" Hawke asked, by now sitting on the edge of the settee. "Because they hurt you?"

Fenris sighed and cleared his throat, turning slightly towards the fireplace, a soft orange glow falling across his face. "If you wish to bathe, there is--"

"Oh, shit!" Hawke exclaimed, standing and walking up to the elf. "Your eye!"

Fenris placed a hand over his very swollen and bruised left eye. "Yes, it is swollen."

Hawke tilted his head and leaned a little closer for a better look. As he did so, he caught the scent of wine, and Fenris immediately took a step back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare," said Hawke, also stepping back. "Damn, I could have done something about that last night, if I'd thought. Now it'll take about a week for that to go down. I'm sorry."

"There is no need to apologise," answered Fenris, looking at the floor. "I did not exactly give you the opportunity to examine it."

Hawke chuckled. "That's very true. I should probably tell you now that there's no point in arguing with me, ever, because I'm always right. I'm a stubborn bastard."

"So I noticed," Fenris said hesitantly, glancing up at Hawke. "Your face is also bruised."

"Oh, I'm sure it is." Hawke once again touched his cheek, smarting a little. "Well, look at it this way. Nobody's going to mess with us, looking the way we do, are they?"

"I suppose not," replied Fenris with a thin, fleeting smile. "I... am going to bathe. There is another bathtub in the scullery, should you wish to use it."

"How do you heat your water?"

"I don't."

"You bathe in cold water?" asked Hawke, and Fenris nodded. "I could heat it for you, if you like," he offered. "I'd have to use magic, though."

"No, that is not necessary, but thank you. I prefer it cold."

"Does hot water cause you pain?" Hawke ventured. "Because of your markings?"

The elf shrugged.

"I see. You know… perhaps _I_ could do something for the pain? If you would let me examine..."

"No," Fenris said sharply before sighing. "I… have already sought the services of a healer, when I first fled Minrathous. She told me there is nothing to be done."

Hawke slowly nodded, stroking his beard. "Is the pain severe?"

"I've learned to live with it."

"That's not answering my question."

"It is… I suppose it would be akin to…" Fenris paused as he thought of a suitable comparison. "Have you ever been sunburnt?"

"Several times, yes. Is that how it feels?"

"It is similar."

"You mean you feel that way all the time, all over your body?"

Fenris shrugged again. "As I said, I have learned to live with it."

Hawke blinked a few times, his heart sinking. "I'm... sorry, Fenris."

"I will return shortly," Fenris said, heading for the stairs.

"Will you go back to the Coast with me this morning?"

Fenris stopped and turned around slowly. "I was not certain you would want me to, after last night."

"We've already been over this. You didn't place anyone in danger. We're all fine."

"But… should it happen again..."

"Then we'll deal with it. You're very important… you're a very important part of our little gang, now, and I want you to come with me."

Fenris considered Hawke's words for a moment, before nodding. "As you wish."

"But only if _you_ want to."

"I do." Fenris turned and started up the stairs. Hawke watched the elf enter his room and close the door before making his way to the scullery.

After bathing, Fenris strapped himself into his armour and left his room, finding no sign of Hawke downstairs, although the blankets had been folded and the fire rekindled. Just as he began to take the blankets and pillow away, Hawke entered, carrying a large tray.

"Oh, bugger," Hawke muttered, glancing around the room. "It _would_ have been a good idea to find a little table _before_ I made breakfast."

"The dining room is just through there." Fenris strode across the room to open a set of double doors which led into a pitch-black room. Hawke waited outside while Fenris opened the drapes before entering and setting the tray down on the large, polished dark wood table. By now, the sun had started to rise and a pale, hazy light seeped into the room, illuminating countless particles of dust that drifted lazily around, eddying around Fenris as he took a seat.

"I'm afraid it's porridge again," Hawke said apologetically, passing a bowl to Fenris. The elf nodded and watched quietly as Hawke began to pour them both a cup of tea, wondering why Hawke was being so gracious after the way he'd acted the night before, both in Lowtown and at the mansion, and braced himself for the catch that was sure to come.

"It's made with milk this time," Hawke told him, taking his own seat. "There's honey in it, too. Oh, and a bit of nutmeg, although Maker knows how long that's been there for. It probably tastes like dust now." Hawke immediately began to shovel porridge into his mouth, slurping at his tea between mouthfuls, while Fenris slowly sipped at his tea, allowing his porridge to cool.

Hawke burped and slapped a hand over his mouth, laughing. "It seems Mother was right. My table manners _do_ leave a lot to be desired!"

"I have seen worse."

"Where, at the Imperial menagerie?"

A flash of teeth accompanied Fenris's inhibited laugh, before he quickly covered his mouth with his hand. "As I have never visited the menagerie, I am in no position to comment."

"You should have been at the farmhold when Carver, Father and I came in for our supper after a day in the fields. Mother always joked that one day she'd bring one of the pigs in to teach us some manners." A wistful look came over him then, and he gazed out of one of the windows. "Just look at that sunrise."

Fenris turned in his chair and looked behind himself. "Yes, I often watch it from my room."

Hawke regarded Fenris for a while as he looked out of the window, averting his eyes when the elf turned back and began to eat his porridge. "Fenris, what do you do with yourself all day, when you're not out with us, that is?"

Fenris waited until he'd swallowed his mouthful before answering. "I eat, train, and wait."

"You mean you wait for...?"

"Yes."

Hawke's heart rate quickened slightly as he decided to test a supposition. "You have a fine library here. I saw it on the way back from the kitchen. Do you make time to read much?"

He immediately noticed the fine lines around Fenris's mouth deepen slightly, and prepared himself for a reaction. Instead, Fenris nodded and took another spoonful of porridge.

"What's your favourite book?"

Once again, Fenris swallowed his porridge before replying. "There is no particular one."

Hawke nodded silently and noticed from the corner of his eye that Fenris's posture had stiffened. After several minutes of silence, Fenris sighed and set his spoon down.

"I cannot read, Hawke, as you _know_. I saw the look on your face when you passed me that bill of sale for the boy, Feynriel. You knew I could not read it. I do not see the need for this… pretence."

Hawke sighed. "I'm sorry. You're right, I did guess."

"Then why the question about my favourite book? Why not just ask me directly?" Fenris's voice had acquired a brittle edge, and Hawke rubbed his eyes, angry with himself for disrupting the tentative accord they'd seemed to have established.

"I'm sorry," Hawke said again. "It's just that… well, I never know how you're going to react. I didn't want to be deceptive, but I didn't want to offend you, either. I wasn't sure how to broach the subject."

"You _could_ have just asked." Fenris fell quiet, his eyes fixed on the table. "Or not mention it at all. Why does it even matter?"

"It doesn't. It's really none of my business. Forgive me." Hawke stood and gathered his bowl and cup. "Have you finished with yours?"

Fenris nodded and pushed his empty vessels across the table. Picking them up, Hawke turned to leave.

"You were right, Hawke. It is better with milk."

"What is?" Hawke asked, turning back to face him.

"The porridge. I enjoyed it. Thank you."

Hawke chewed his bottom lip, his eyes crinkling. "There's some more left, you know. You want another bowl?"

"I don't think I could manage another, but thank you."

"Well, would you think me a pig if _I_ had another bowl?"

"Probably."

Hawke laughed, relieved that Fenris no longer seemed angry. "Well, as you said yourself, no more pretence. You may as well know the truth. I _am_ a pig, and fully intend to polish off the rest of that porridge."

"I appreciate your candour," Fenris drawled as Hawke made for the kitchen, still laughing.

When he returned with an overflowing bowl of porridge, a fresh pot of tea and two clean cups, Fenris was still in the dining room, but was standing next to the window.

"How's that sunrise?" asked Hawke, setting the tray down.

"See for yourself."

Hawke walked to the window, ensuring he didn't stand too close to Fenris, and they watched for a few minutes as the fiery yellow globe rose over Sundermount in the distance. "Breathtaking," Hawke remarked. "Makes one realise how insignificant one is, doesn't it?"

"'One'? That is rather... grandiose of you."

"Yes, well, I didn't want to say 'you' in case you thought I was calling _you_ insignificant as an insult. I meant 'us'. But that wouldn't have made sense if I'd used it in the sentence. 'Makes us realise how insignificant us is'. Wait... us are? Nope, doesn't work." He chuckled to himself. "Maker, I talk some shit sometimes, don't I? I'm not even drunk." He glanced at the elf, hoping to see a smile, but none was forthcoming. 

"Hawke," Fenris said after a while, still looking out of the window, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "The way I spoke to you when you called on me after healing my leg... and last night... I..."

"It doesn't matter."

"But clearly it does. My words injured you, which I regret. I have…" He sighed and shook his head. "I have become… accustomed to fending for myself. I am not used to relying on others. I do not _like_ relying on others." His eyelids closed as his gaze dropped lower. "I have been quite rude to you several times since we met, yet you have taken it with good grace and humour. My behaviour has been churlish and unacceptable. I-I do not--"

"I wouldn't say I've always taken it with grace and good humour. I was pretty rude to you a few times myself, especially on the first night we met."

Fenris shrugged. "Perhaps at first, yes." He moved away from the window and placed his hands on the back of a dining chair, his eyes fixed on the table. "I do not find it easy to trust others. Every person I have encountered before and after my escape has had an agenda of some kind. Some have come in the guise of a friend, but have quickly proven to be anything but. When someone shows me kindness and appears to want nothing in return... it... confuses me."

"Do you trust me?" asked Hawke, still standing next to the window.

"No," said Fenris immediately, "but that is more a fault of mine than yours. You have given me many reasons to trust you, yet I cannot."

"When one has been abused and belittled for so long, trust must be a rare commodity indeed," Hawke opined quietly, and glanced out of the window as he felt Fenris's green eyes bore into him. For a second, he considered asking Fenris why he hated physical contact, why he shrank from his touch, and why he'd frozen and lost control of himself during the fight in Lowtown, but there was no need. He knew. When Fenris's gaze once again returned to the table, Hawke realised that Fenris knew, also.

Hawke cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "With your permission, I'd like to keep giving you reasons to trust me. Maybe you'll never trust me, but perhaps that isn't even important. It's the journey, and the effort we put into that journey that _are_ important. It's a horrible platitude, but I don't care. I know what it's like to be alone, and it's not a place I'd like to revisit." He turned away from the window and took a few steps toward Fenris. "Do you think we could start again?"

Fenris's gauntleted hands gripped the back of the chair tightly as he turned to face Hawke. "Start again?"

"Yes, you know, start from scratch. Forget everything that's been said. Wipe the slate clean."

"You are a mage," Fenris said quietly. "That is something I cannot forget or wipe away, as you would wipe a slate."

"I'm not asking you to. That's what I am. Either you accept me or you don't, but I think we should give it a try, don't you? You never know, I may surprise you yet. Perhaps I'll become the first mage you've ever trusted? Stranger things have happened, I'm sure."

"You are persistent," Fenris said as a smile ghosted across his lips.

"'Vexatious' is probably a more fitting adjective, but I appreciate your tact."

Fenris's lips quirked into a half smile and he nodded. "Very well. This... 'journey' you speak of should prove to be interesting, if nothing else."

"For both of us." Hawke extended his hand toward Fenris, who glanced at it, pondering its significance. Why was the touching of hands necessary to cement a deal? Was that really what Hawke had in mind, or would he do as Danarius had so often done, and take his hand and place it...

But why would Hawke do that? Had he not already had ample opportunity to harm Fenris? 

"My arm's starting to ache."

"Put it down, then."

Hawke shook his head.

Fenris gulped and, uncertain of what to do, he bunched his hand into a fist. Perhaps a show of trust on _his_ part was warranted? He opened his hand and raised it, although every fibre of his being screamed at him not to. His stomach clenched and he held his breath as Hawke's hand moved closer. What would he do if Hawke tried anything, tried to… touch him? Hurt him? What else could he do? His other hand, which hung at his side, formed into a claw, ready and waiting.

Hawke smiled easily as the cold steel of Fenris's gauntlet pressed against his palm. He gripped Fenris's hand, shook it once, and then released it. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Fenris felt his body go limp, and shook his head.

"Thank you, Fenris."

"For what?"

"For trusting me."

Those words rang hollow in Fenris's ears, as he hadn't trusted Hawke at all, and had in fact expected the worst. Hawke was clearly someone who found it easy to trust others. Perhaps it was about time Fenris reciprocated some of that trust, but he had no idea where to start. Could he _ever_ trust a mage? Was Hawke just like all the others, with a sinister agenda concealed by smiles and kind words and deeds? Or would Hawke truly prove him wrong?

"Shall we have one more cup of tea, and then get going?" suggested Hawke through a mouthful of porridge, already pouring the tea.

"Yes, I would like that."

Time would tell.

~o~O~o~

Fenris and Hawke took their time during their walk through Hightown, knowing that the Hanged Man's doors would not be opened for a little while yet. They paused at the top of the huge flight of steps leading to Lowtown and Hawke took a deep breath, a smug grin plastered across his face.

"I _love_ going down these steps."

"But not going up them so much?" guessed Fenris with a quirk of an eyebrow.

"Well, no. Going _up_ them always carries a slight risk of death, particularly if I'm _running,"_ he added flatly with a sly glance at Fenris, whose expression remained neutral.

"Perhaps you should resolve to travel up them at least once a day," suggested the elf. "That way, you would become accustomed to them and your fitness level would improve."

"Yes, I _could_ do that, theoretically..."

"But, as you once told me, you are bone idle."

"You have a long memory, Elf."

"Indeed I do, Mage."

"Race you to the bottom."

"I would not advise that, attired as you are," counselled Fenris with a glance at Hawke's long robe, "but do as you wish. I, myself, would prefer to remain upright."

"Suit yourself," sniffed Hawke. "But I win by default."

Fenris smiled softly and shook his head. "If it pleases you."

"It does."

To Hawke's delight, this banter continued much of the way down the steps and through Lowtown. They passed several merchants and traders on the way, all preparing their stalls. As the Hanged Man came into view, both men slowed, immediately tensing.

Anders was waiting outside.

Hawke stared ahead, feeling his light mood become leaden as a headache nibbled at the apex of his head.

"Should I leave the two of you alone to talk?" asked Fenris, his trademark scowl darkening his features.

"No, Fenris, you're with me." Hawke began to walk forward, the elf following.

Upon spotting them, Anders flashed a broad grin which quickly disappeared upon seeing the bruising on both men's faces.

"Blimey, what happened to you two?"

"We had the shit beaten out of us last night, that's what," Hawke answered shortly. "Thanks for sticking around, Anders. It's not like we _needed_ you or anything," he added with biting sarcasm.

"Yes, about that… I, um, I may have overreacted a bit last night. Sorry."

"We all overreact sometimes, I'm no exception, but what I don't do is run out on everyone else when we have an injured person and a gang of thugs to deal with. I _wanted_ one of us to stay behind with Aveline because of her head injury. You know all about head injuries, don't you? Of course you do. You're a healer and a compassionate man. _Allegedly."_

Anders hung his head and sighed. "How is she?"

"I've no idea. I was too busy almost getting killed to notice."

At that moment, the doors to the Hanged Man were opened and Corff, the proprietor, bade them good morning as he placed a piece of slate, advertising the day's menu, against the wall.

"Stew again," said Fenris, stepping inside, giving Anders a look of disgust as he passed. "I will check on Guardsman Donnic."

Anders's amber eyes followed the elf as he entered the pub and then moved to Hawke, uncertainty in them as his friend folded his arms and turned away. "So… did you and Fenris meet up on the way here?"

Hawke's head turned in Anders's direction, but his arms remained folded. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing, I was just wondering."

"If you must know, I spent the night at the mansion. Not that it's anything to do with you." Hawke watched Anders carefully for a reaction, and could tell that the strawberry-blond mage was working hard to contain himself.

Eventually, Anders nodded and once again changed the subject. "Look, Hawke, I know things got… unpleasant between us. I've been thinking, and perhaps you were right about those mages. They did attack us, after all."

Hawke turned a little and, although his expression was unchanged, his mind raced. Where was Anders's passion now? Where was his unwavering commitment to his cause? "I didn't expect you to agree with me on that. You know me, I like a good argument, and I respect people who stand up to me. What I didn't expect was for you to piss off in a huff."

"I know," Anders said with genuine contrition. "That was wrong of me."

"I still want us to be friends, but do that again and we're finished. I need people I can depend on. I need to know you're not going to throw a wobbly when we disagree on something, because there _will_ be times when we disagree. Look at Fenris. He's against pretty much everything we stand for, yet he's still here."

At the mention of Fenris, Anders's expression hardened briefly before it was blinked away, replaced by a bland smile. "You're right, Hawke. I won't let you down again, I promise."

Hawke exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. "All right. I don't know what you have planned today, but Fenris and I are going back to the Coast with Donnic."

"Oh," said Anders. "Well, I'm going to have my hands full at the clinic today. I just wanted to see you and make things right. I'm sorry, Hawke. Friends?"

Hawke nodded and Anders wrapped his arms around Hawke, slapping his back several times. "Let buy you a drink," Anders offered as he released him.

"That's a good start," said Hawke with a smirk.

As he entered the pub, Anders grabbed his arm, immediately letting it go. "Hawke… are you sure you know what you're doing? With Fenris, I mean."

"What I'm 'doing' with Fenris is none of your business," Hawke replied, a little annoyed. "Look, let's just have a pleasant drink, all right?"

"Yes, of course. Wait… where's your staff?"

"It had an argument with a thug's head."

Anders's face lit up with a gleeful smile. "Now this I've got to hear about!"

Upon entering, they spotted Fenris sitting in the very far corner of the lounge, from where he could see everything. He watched the two mages as they approached. Anders now appeared in a jovial mood, but he noted with some satisfaction that Hawke was rather more reserved.

"The guard will be with us shortly," announced Fenris as they took their seats.

"Breakfast, lads?" called Corff from behind the counter.

"The works for me, please," replied Anders.

"Me too," Hawke said more quietly and, spotting the look of disbelief on Fenris's face, winked and grinned at him. A strange look came into Fenris's eyes and he shifted in his seat a little. "No, just tea for us, if you have any ready," Hawke said in a louder voice.

"Aye, I've just put the pot on the stove. Give us five minutes," said Corff, disappearing into a room out back.

"So, come on, Hawke, tell me all about last night," Anders prompted, resting his head on his hand.

As Hawke recounted his tale, Donnic entered the lounge and nodded at them as he approached the bar to settle his bill and order breakfast.

"So _that's_ what happened to your staff!" exclaimed Anders as Hawke finished his account of the fight.

"Yes, so I don't have a weapon, now, and neither does Fenris. He left his sword behind in that alley. We, um, had to make a hasty exit, and he forgot to pick it up."

"You lost your sword?" asked Donnic from the bar before joining them and taking a seat next to Anders. "It might be in the lock-up at the barracks or, if I know some of the guards, it's been sold by now--they'd probably think it belonged to one of the criminals. Was it valuable?" he asked Fenris.

"No, it was just a sword."

"Looks like we'll have to dig into our funds a bit," said Hawke.

"No, wait…" Anders stood up. "I'll see if Lirene has anything new in. She said I could take my pick of her stock."

"Oh, thanks," said Hawke. "Don't forget a sword for Fenris, if she has any. A broadsword, right?" he asked the elf, who nodded in confirmation.

With a nod, Anders turned to leave. "Don't get pinching any of my bacon while I'm gone," he warned Hawke.

"Promise."

"Things are well between the two of you, now?" asked Fenris as the door closed behind Anders.

"Mm," mumbled Hawke distractedly, still looking at the door. "We'll see."

"Things are _not_ well, then?" asked Fenris, and the three men moved aside as Norah placed two cooked breakfasts on the table, promising to return with their tea.

"No, they are, it's just… I don't know. I expected more of an argument from him. Instead, he's falling over himself to be nice. Maybe I have a suspicious mind," Hawke mused, reaching for one of Anders's sausages.

Laughter rumbled through Donnic's chest. "Didn't I hear you promise not to touch his breakfast?"

"Bacon," Hawke corrected, his voice muffled as he took a bite. "He said nothing about sausages."

"Where do you _put_ it all?" asked Fenris. "I'm not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed."

"In my tank, here." Hawke patted his belly, frowning heavily as it undulated at his touch. "Hm. Maybe I should do something about that. It's a good survival tactic, though. What if we get stranded on the Coast, eh? What would _you_ do, Fenris, with only a bowl of porridge in your belly? You'd shrivel away to nothing, that's what."

"I doubt you would expire through lack of sausages."

"Then you have much to learn about me."

Once again, Fenris shook his head and snorted. "I give up."

"That seems best to me," chortled Donnic, taking a bite of fried bread, dripping with egg yolk.

"Shit!" Hawke spluttered, cramming the rest of the sausage into his mouth as Anders sailed through the door.

"You should not have done that," counselled Fenris with a soft chuckle. "You should have concealed it."

"Rit's roo bruddy rate row, ibbn't it?" Hawke slammed his mouth closed, his eyes wide as Anders joined them.

"We're in luck!" announced Anders, presenting a basic but sound wooden staff to Hawke, who took it and nodded. "And a sword for you, Fenris. It's a bit notched, but it'll do the job until you can get a better one."

"Thank you," Fenris said politely, taking the sword carefully and examining it.

"What do you think, Hawke?" asked Anders as he took a seat next to him. Hawke smiled and gave him a thumbs up, his smile waning slightly as Anders's eyes narrowed. "What have you got in your mouth?"

"Mm?" He pointed ahead as Norah arrived with their tea and set the mugs down on the table.

Anders's eyes darted from his plate to Donnic's, comparing the two as Hawke hastily chewed on his sausage.

"I said, what have you got in your mouth?"

Hawke immediately ceased chewing and swallowed hard, clutching at his chest and grimacing as the inadequately-chewed food stuttered its way down. "Nothing," he rasped, opening his mouth for all to see. "That Corff's getting a bit stingy with his sausages, if you ask me. You want to complain."

"You thieving bastard," accused Anders, moving his plate further away from Hawke. "Guard," he said to Donnic. "I want this man arrested."

"Sorry," chuckled Donnic. "I'm off duty."

"I should have known better," grumbled Anders. "He's like a dog around food. He can never be trusted on his own with it."

Having finished his breakfast, Donnic sighed and pushed his plate away. "I need a walk now. When you're ready, we'll set off."

"Are you ready, Fenris?" Hawke asked the elf, who nodded as he drained his mug. "I'll stop by and see you later," he promised Anders as he stood up. "Thanks for the staff."

"No problem," said Anders, holding his hand out to Hawke and smiling when he shook it. "Now go and walk some of that flab off."

"As I've already explained, this is _fuel_ for survival purposes," Hawke insisted in defence of his paunch. "I'll be the one laughing when these two are shivering and crawling on their hands and knees when we reach the Coast."

Donnic laughed at this. "I've had a much bigger breakfast than you."

"No you haven't," Fenris muttered as they departed.

"See you later! Have fun!" Anders called to them and Hawke nodded, rolling his eyes.

Anders watched them leave and cleared his throat as the door closed. "You were right," he said quietly. "I should keep them all on side, especially Hawke." He stared at his plate for a moment, and then nodded. "I can't pretend to be friends with the elf, but all right, if you insist. I'll be civil to him, for Hawke's sake."

He took a sip of his tea and his eyes moved to the entrance as a few traders walked in. "Yes, all right. Even the blood mage."

Finishing his breakfast, he pushed away from the table and walked to the bar, settling up with Corff. He then left the Hanged Man, whistling to himself as he made his way to the clinic.


	17. Bethany, the Eternal Optimist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How can I be friends with someone who hates what I am?"

Hawke, Donnic and Fenris had a slow start to their trip to the Coast, mainly because a bloated Hawke developed a stitch in his side and had to stop a few times. Eventually his discomfort subsided and, amid much teasing from his companions, they began to make good progress.

The affable Donnic proved to be good company, holding an involved conversation with Fenris about swords and fighting styles. As they took a short break halfway to their destination, Donnic challenged Fenris to a quick sparring session, during which the elf soundly trounced him.

"Have you considered applying to the city guard?" an impressed Donnic asked him.

"No. Do they even take elves?"

"What's that got to do with anything? I'll admit we don't get many elves applying, but that's probably down to the fact that the elves in Kirkwall keep to themselves. I can't say I blame them when they're all shoved into that alienage. No, guards are hired on their merits. You shouldn't let skills like yours go to waste, you know."

"I don't. I train daily and now I'm working with Hawke, there's ample opportunity to apply my skills."

"Yes," interjected Hawke, "and I couldn't do without him, so keep your mitts off."

Donnic laughed and held his hands up as one edge of Fenris's mouth quirked upward. "All right, I get the message," said Donnic. "You know, it's a shame we don't take mages in the Guard. I reckon with a few healers and specialists, we'd be unstoppable."

"So why don't you?" Hawke asked.

Donnic shrugged. "It's not up to me, of course, but if we _were_ to take mages, things would become complicated with the templars. We have a good relationship with them, and that would definitely change if we started recruiting apostates. Aveline has a few thoughts on this subject, actually. She'd love to see mages in our ranks, and had an idea that willing mages could be recruited from the Gallows, but if that were to happen the templars would insist on tagging along with them. It's just too complicated."

"How about employing some on the side?" suggested Hawke. "Anders and I know of a few..." He paused and glanced at Fenris, who was giving him a curious look. "Perhaps not," he finished with a grin.

"Like I said, it's not up to me," said Donnic. "Jeven would never… although, I don't suppose Jeven will be guard-captain for much longer, will he?" he mused with a wicked smile. "I can't _wait_ to see him get what's coming to him. Let's get a move on."

With renewed vigour in their steps, the three men soon arrived at the cave where Bethany and Varric had stayed with Aveline.

"Let me go in first," Hawke recommended, "as Beth has probably put wards down."

Upon entering the cave, Hawke summoned a few small wisps to light their path and they made their way further in, occasionally passing the body of one of the blood mages they'd engaged the day before.

"Are these the mages you were telling me about?" asked Donnic.

"The _blood_ mages, yes," corrected Fenris with a sneer. "We killed some of them. The others are with the templars where they belong."

Hearing the abrupt coldness in Fenris's voice, Hawke suppressed a sigh. Now that they seemed to have reached an understanding, he'd been preoccupied over whether he should tell Fenris the truth or not. Fenris appreciated honesty, and it would save a lot of trouble in the long run if Hawke came clean with him now, but would telling Fenris the truth about himself destroy their fledgling friendship? Would Fenris be able to look past the fact Hawke was a blood mage? Given that Danarius--who had subjected Fenris to things Hawke was only just starting to understand--was also a blood mage, he was forced to conclude that the answer was a resounding no.

And he wasn't prepared to let all his effort in befriending Fenris go to waste. If he was honest with himself, Fenris's friendship and approval were probably more important to him right now even than Anders's. Each time Fenris had opened up to him, every smile of his, every laugh, had been a tiny victory and had made him feel good. He wanted to see more of Fenris's smile, wanted to make him laugh more often. He wanted to be the person Fenris trusted and confided in.

Fenris was opposed to everything Hawke, and Anders, stood for. Becoming friends with Fenris could make things difficult with Anders, Hawke knew, but somehow, he felt it was worth it. Although on the surface he and Fenris had nothing in common, he was forced to admit that he enjoyed, and looked forward to, Fenris's company even more than Anders's, and yet Hawke and Anders had so much more in common.

There was a very good reason for all those things: Anders was infinitely more pleasant, friendly and easy to understand than the elf, but Anders just didn't make Hawke feel the way Fenris did. Anders was Anders, but Fenris was a classical sculpture trapped inside a hunk of rock. All Hawke needed to do was keep chipping away, expecting the occasional bruised thumb when he mistimed. And he had a feeling that thumb was in for a pummeling. 

"Hawke?" Fenris said, interrupting his thoughts.

"Hm?"

"You were… looking at me. Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no, sorry, I was miles away. I didn't mean to stare at you."

"'Miles away'? Were you somewhere pleasant, then?"

Hawke laughed softly and felt his cheeks flush. "Yes, you could say that. I'm sorry, were you saying something to me?"

"I would be interested in hearing _your_ opinion on blood magic."

Hawke swallowed hard and felt his cheeks burn, although a shiver ran through his body. "I don't really have an opinion," he said readily, his gut tightening.

"But you must. Do you not feel mages of this kind cast other mages, such as yourself, in an unfavourable light?"

"The mages we encountered here, certainly," Hawke answered evasively. "I said that at the time, didn't I? That they were a disgrace? They'd obviously turned to blood magic to aid their escape from the templars, and intended to use it with only destruction in mind."

Fenris halted and fixed Hawke with a hard look. "Are you saying there are _noble_ reasons for the use of blood magic, then?"

"I'm not saying that at all," replied Hawke, breaking out in a sweat, "I'm just saying not all blood mages are insane, like that lot clearly were."

"You have _known_ many blood mages, then?" asked Fenris, a hostile note creeping into his voice.

"The odd one," Hawke said distractedly, longing to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Many of them are perfectly decent people who lead very ordinary lives."

"Decent? Just how is someone who makes a conscious decision to treat with a demon, decent?"

"Not all of them have a choice!" Hawke reacted, immediately regretting his words. He had no desire to get into a conversation about blood magic, or his own experience, with Fenris.

"You mean some of them are _forced_ to make a deal? How is this so? From what I have seen, all blood mages crave power, and that is why they turn to it in the first place!"

"Some mages are like that, yes, but you can't tar us all with the same brush based on your own experiences!"

"Can I not?"

"Fellas, shall we just get on and find Aveline?" suggested Donnic, feeling a little uncomfortable.

Hawke ignored him and continued, addressing Fenris. "Demons are conniving and devious. They prey on mages when they're at their most vulnerable--when they're young, or ill, or grieving. They offer a solution, a perfect solution, to the mage's problem, and want little in return, or so it seems at the time."

"Then you have been _visited_ by one of these demons?" demanded Fenris. "You certainly sound as though you speak from experience."

"Haven't I already been over this?" Hawke said in exasperation. "I've already said this in front of you! _Every_ mage is visited by demons once in a while. Some accept their offer, while many others _don't_. And some accept the demon's offer without realising they _have_ accepted it. There are a lot more blood mages around than you realise, it's just that most of them never use their powers." He took a deep breath, reining his anger in before it further loosened his tongue.

"So some mages are tricked, then? That is what you claim?"

"I'm not claiming anything! I'm _telling_ you! You love this, don't you? Winding me up for the sake of it?"

"If mages are tricked that is even _more_ of a reason for them to be confined! If they are too weak to resist a demon's influence, they should not be allowed to roam free!"

"Are you saying _I_ should be locked up, then?"

"No. I am not saying that." Fenris sighed, realising he'd pushed too hard.

"Why? What makes _me_ so special?" Fenris shook his head and did not answer. "Well? You've come this far, don't back down now!"

"Perhaps this is a discussion for another time," Fenris said with a glance at Donnic.

"I think what you mean, _Fenris_ , is that you can't think of an answer," Hawke bit out, his anger gaining the upper hand over his rationality. "You seem to enjoy starting arguments with me so much, at least have the balls to finish them!"

"I agree with Fenris," said Donnic. "We came here for Aveline. You two can debate this all you like another time."

"No, I want to know why _I_ shouldn't be locked up, and why some other mages should," Hawke demanded of Fenris, waving an accusing finger at the elf. "What about Anders? Bethany? Should _they_ be imprisoned as well?"

"It would be prudent to keep Anders under scrutiny, yes. As for your sister, I do not think--"

"Why? Because you don't like him?"

"No. Because he is an abomination."

"That's my friend you're talking about! He's host to a spirit, that's not the same as an abomination!"

"That is _exactly_ what an abomination is!"

"Well, why don't you tell that to Justice the next time you see him? From what I've seen so far, you seem to get on quite well with him! You don't know even what you're angry about, do you? You're just spouting ignorance!"

"I do not _get on_ with the spirit," Fenris insisted curtly. "I tolerate its presence. It would be unwise to incur its wrath."

"And yet you're quite happy to incur mine and Anders's? Why _is_ that? Is it because you know that as apostates we have no rights and no recourse? Is that it? You're nothing but a coward and a bully!"

"I've had enough of this," huffed Donnic. "I'm going on ahead."

"Wait," said Hawke, his eyes still fixed on Fenris. "I need to look out for wards. This conversation's over, anyway." With one final glare at the elf, he shook his head and turned away.

"You have not met every mage in Thedas, Hawke, and therefore cannot speak for them all!" Fenris called after him.

"Nor have you!" Hawke called back as he charged ahead.

Donnic groaned and positioned himself in between the two bickering men as they walked on silently in single file.

As they neared the main chamber of the cave, Hawke stopped and dispelled a ward he recognised as one of Bethany's, loudly announcing their presence as they entered.

Bethany, Varric and Aveline were seated around a small fire, drinking tea.

"Thought it was you, Brother," called Bethany.

"Is everyone all right?" asked Hawke as he approached them. "How's that hip, Aveline?"

"A lot better, thanks to you." Pushing to her feet, she walked back and forth a little to demonstrate. "It's a bit stiff, but it'll get me back to Kirk-- _Donnic?"_ Her mouth fell open as her fellow guard entered the small sphere of light cast by the fire. "What-what are _you_ doing here?"

"I insisted on coming when I heard what had happened. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, I, um… well, how are _you_ , Donnic? Did those thugs get to you?"

"I'm fine. I got a knock on the head, but Hawke here and a few of his friends were ready for them. Didn't give us much trouble, did they?"

"Not much, no," answered Hawke drily, rubbing his bruised cheek.

As Aveline and Donnic discussed the actions they would take upon returning to the barracks, Hawke sat down next to the fire and Bethany made him some tea.

"Just the two of you, Hawke?" Varric said.

"No." Hawke glanced around. "Fenris is here somewhere."

Not wanting to be rude, Fenris stepped forward into the firelight and nodded to Varric and Bethany.

"Ooh, Elf! That's a beauty of a shiner you have, there!" Varric exclaimed, wincing.

"Shiner?" Fenris tilted his head in confusion.

"A black eye," Hawke clarified flatly without looking at him.

"Come and sit down, Fenris, and have some tea," Bethany invited.

"I will remain standing, thank you, but I would gladly partake of some tea," the elf replied. Bethany glanced at her brother, hearing him huff.

"Listen, you two," whispered Varric. "You need to settle an argument." He pointed to Donnic and Aveline. "Sunshine thinks Aveline's sweet on this Donnic guy."

"She talked about him _non-stop_ last night," Bethany clarified.

"While I think we need more evidence," Varric continued. "What do you two think?"

Hawke watched them discreetly for a short while. "It's hard to tell from here. The light's not very good. Although she did stammer a bit when she saw him, but that could have been because she was surprised."

Fenris, who had a clearer view of the couple, offered his opinion. "She appears to be smiling more than is her wont, and her hands are restless."

"See? I told you!" Bethany whispered to Varric, who shooed her away with his hand.

"That proves nothing! She's relieved that he's safe, that's all."

Bethany sighed. "It looks like we're no closer to solving the argument, then."

Fenris shook his head as Bethany passed him some tea. "I concur with you, Bethany. When she speaks with him, there is a light in her eyes that was not previously apparent."

Bethany stuck her tongue out at Varric, who scowled in return. "Come on, Hawke! Help a dwarf out here. Tell me you agree with me."

Hawke craned his neck for a better look, noticing this time that Aveline's body language was awkward and that she wore a strange expression, which he had also never seen before. "Well, either she's desperately trying not to fart, or she fancies the pants off him. Is that helpful?"

Varric folded his arms and pursed his lips. _"Real_ helpful." Turning his attention away from Hawke, he stood up and stretched. "Well, I'm about ready to get outta here. You guys want to stay and finish your tea?"

Bethany shook her head and Varric held out his arm, helping her to her feet. Hawke also stood and called to Aveline and Donnic. "We're thinking of making tracks. Are you two ready?"

"We certainly are," Aveline replied, moving to Hawke's side with Donnic. "We're going to take this straight to the Viscount. There's been the odd complaint about Jeven before, and I know Seneschal Bran dislikes him. His ears will prick up when he hears about this."

"You may be called as witnesses," Donnic said to Hawke and Fenris. "Would you be willing to give evidence?"

"Of course," Hawke replied. Fenris remained quiet and looked at the ground.

"Fenris?" asked Aveline. "Your testimony is very important."

Fenris considered this for a moment, not really wanting to replay the previous night's events, but not wanting to let Aveline down, either. "I will give evidence," he eventually replied.

"Thank you," Aveline said with a smile. "Both of you. If it hadn't been for you, I dread to think what might have happened."

"Hey, let's not forget the dashing and charming dwarf who held your hand and helped you through the pain last night," added Varric.

"I don't remember that bit," Aveline said with a frown which quickly turned into a smile. "But thank you both as well, for staying with me," she said to Varric and Bethany.

"I should think so," Varric said snootily, turning away from Aveline, a hint of a smile evident as he disappeared into the semi-darkness. "Let's go, Sunshine." Bethany joined Varric and they all made their way out of the cave.

After allowing a few minutes for their eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight, Bethany whispered something to Varric and he jerked his head, indicating that the others follow him as Bethany remained behind. When Hawke passed her, she touched his arm and they waited for a moment before slowly walking behind the others. Fenris, as usual, went to the head of the group by himself.

"Are you all right, Brother?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't seem yourself. Have you and Fenris fallen out again? You've hardly spoken a word to each other, and you both seem down in the dumps."

"Have we fallen out with each other? Don't you have to be friends with someone first to fall out with them?" His tone was sharper than he'd intended, and he groaned. "I'm sorry, Beth. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"But I thought you and Fenris were getting along well."

"So did I, Sister. Every…" He paused and stared glumly at the path ahead. "Every time I think we're getting on well, something bites me on the arse. We started talking about blood magic and then we started _arguing_ about blood magic. I guess he views my opinion on the matter to be as extreme as I view his."

"Friends don't always agree on everything."

"But this is not us arguing over what the best colour is, or some similar trifling nonsense. This is arguing about what I am, what _we_ are. I know you're not a blood mage, Beth, but his hatred of _all_ mages runs deep. How can I be friends with someone who hates what I am?"

"He doesn't hate _you_ , Fletcher, he hates his master. You just have to keep plugging away. One day, he'll see you as I do. You're a good man."

Hawke laughed mirthlessly. "I doubt that. Maybe we weren't meant to be friends."

"Now, this is not the Fletcher I know," she gently scolded. "Fletcher Hawke doesn't just give up! Where's the determination, the pig-headedness? This is not like you at all."

"I just can't cope with all the ups and downs, Beth. That blasted elf is playing havoc with my stomach. When he..."

"When he what?"

Hawke clasped Bethany's arms, bringing her to a stop, and glanced anxiously at the others who walked ahead. "You can't tell _anyone_ this."

"Of course, Brother. I won't say a word."

He released her arms and rubbed at his forehead. "Maker, my stomach is doing somersaults even now." He glanced up the path again, seeing that the others were well ahead of them. "Fenris and I have had several arguments, disagreements, whatever you want to call them. He sometimes gets this look in his eyes, like he despises me. When he looks at me like that, it crushes me. On the other hand, I've made him laugh a total of six times, now. Six. And each time he's laughed, it's instantly made everything better. _Everything_. Maker, Beth, I'd do anything to make him laugh."

A soft smile befell Bethany's face. "It looks like Aveline and Donnic are not the only ones who are sweet on each other."

Hawke shook his head briskly. "No chance. He hates me. Every time he looks at me he must see his master."

"He must like seeing his master a lot then--while you were drinking your tea and avoiding eye contact with him, he didn't take his eyes off you once, except when he was looking at Donnic and Aveline."

"I'm sure he didn't. He was probably staring daggers at me."

"That's not what I saw. He looked sorry to me, like he wanted to apologise."

"Well he hasn't, has he? Besides, I'm not sure he _should_ apologise. I'd probably hate mages as well in his position."

Bethany took his arm before they resumed their walk. "You once told me Fenris is a very private man. Would he really make an apology in front of all of us? You wait--I'll bet as soon as we get home, he'll take you off somewhere and say sorry."

"And then what, Beth? I get my hopes up again, only to have them dashed the next time?" He shook his head angrily. "I'm a bloody fool. I need to give this up now, before it turns into something more than a stupid crush."

"Do you really think you could do that? It seems to me it's gone beyond a crush."

He looked up the path, catching sight of Fenris and Donnic, who appeared to be discussing swordplay again. As the two warriors turned around a bend, Fenris glanced back in Hawke's direction and, for a second, their eyes met. The elf then quickly turned and disappeared around the bend.

Hawke's shoulders slumped and he released a shaky breath, his insides turned to mush. "Oh, Beth…"

"Thought not," she said saucily, wrapping an arm around Hawke's waist. "Now listen to your sister carefully. I have a few ideas up my sleeve."

"What did I say to you about your blind optimism, Sister?"

"You told me it's the only kind we have," she said with a chuckle. "Now shut up and listen."


	18. A Rocky Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I also regret some of the things I said."
> 
> "Is that an apology?" Hawke asked, his voice softer.
> 
> "Not at all."

After a long and uneventful journey back to Kirkwall, the group split up, as Bethany and Varric needed to bathe. They all arranged to meet up later at the Hanged Man.

Hawke, Fenris, Aveline and Donnic made straight for the Keep, the two lieutenants eager to bring their account of Jeven's corruption to the Viscount. They entered via the guardsmans' entrance, thus bypassing the huge line of Kirkwallers seeking an audience with the city's leader.

"May I have a key for this entrance?" Hawke asked Aveline cheekily.

With a single look, she answered his question decisively. Hawke laughed, his gaze briefly moving to Fenris to see if he, too, was laughing. He wasn't.

Making their way through the barracks, Aveline and Donnic were stopped a few times by their fellow guards but did not stop to chat. Most of the other guards guessed, incorrectly, that Hawke and Fenris had been placed under arrest for fighting, as both were covered in bruises. Aveline did nothing to disavow them of that assumption, not wanting the true nature of their visit known until she'd spoken with the Viscount.

Thankfully, Jeven's office door was closed when they passed it, although Aveline and Donnic were noticeably tense until they entered the main reception hall, relaxing a little as they walked up the stairs. Aveline was slow on the way up as her hip was still sore, but she bore the discomfort stoically.

Finally reaching Seneschal Bran's office, they quickly greeted the guards posted on either side of the door before Aveline rapped firmly against it. After a moment, the door was opened and a disgruntled Bran emerged.

"I told you I was not to be disturbed," he said to his guards, a note of irritation in his normally-mellifluous voice. "Is this so difficult for you to grasp? I have an appointment."

"I've just made a new one," announced Aveline, pushing past the seneschal and barging into his office, followed by Donnic, who was doing his best not to laugh at Bran's aghast expression. "Excuse us," Aveline said to the nobleman seated at Bran's desk as she pointed to the door.

"Guardswoman Vallen," Bran said in a deceptively calm voice, folding his arms. "This is highly irregular. These kinds of back door shenanigans will not be tolerated in this office. Return to your post immediately. Expect a call from your captain later. I am not pleased."

"Actually, it's Jeven we're here to speak to you about, and it can't wait," Aveline insisted. "We can either have this conversation in front of your friend, here, or we can have it in private."

"I _strongly_ recommend we have it in private," Donnic added.

A slight quirk of Bran's eyebrow belied his indignant stance. He exhaled, unfolding his arms. "Lord Trinder, it appears a situation has arisen that demands my urgent attention. Will you excuse us?"

"But I have an appointment!" the outraged noble protested, springing up from his chair. "I've been waiting for weeks!"

"This will not take long," Bran assured him, holding the door open.

With a frustrated grunt, Trinder sailed out of the office as Bran took a seat at his desk. "Close the door, Guardsman Hendyr," he ordered Donnic. "This had _better_ be good."

"Wait there," Donnic whispered to Hawke and Fenris.

"Good luck," said Hawke as the door was closed.

Hawke filled the resulting awkward silence by examining a painting on the wall opposite the door, while Fenris absent-mindedly brushed non-existent particles of fluff off his armour, a habit of his that Hawke had noticed on several occasions.

With a quiet sigh, Hawke eventually decided to speak. "Bet you'd love to be a fly on the wall in there, wouldn't you?" he asked the elf, still looking at the painting.

Fenris halted his movements and frowned. "A fly on the wall?"

Hawke turned toward him, thumbing at the door. "If you were a fly on the wall you could hear everything that was being said, and they wouldn't know you were there, would they?"

Fenris's frown deepened, and he nodded. "A curious expression, but one that is rather apposite here."

"It is, isn't it?" Hawke turned back to face the painting, although he had no idea what was depicted in the picture, as he'd been staring right through it.

Fenris raised his head and watched Hawke while his back was turned. Since their altercation in the cave, he'd experienced an unpleasant gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. Although he believed his stance on blood magic was correct, he regretted some of the things he'd said to Hawke, and also regretted their angry exchange. It seemed Hawke was as passionate as he about certain subjects, and it was clear they would never agree on the subject of blood magic.

What had also become apparent to Fenris during their argument was that Hawke was someone who looked after, and stood up for, his friends. Fenris knew Hawke was still annoyed with Anders for running out on them after _their_ quarrel, yet Hawke had not hesitated to defend him when Fenris had called him an abomination.

He'd also noticed that, upon their entrance into the Keep, some of the nobles had once again quite blatantly stared at Fenris, and that once again Hawke had fixed every one of them with a hateful glare. It seemed Hawke was not afraid to speak his mind, but the fact he disagreed with one of his friends did not sway his loyalty to them.

Was that what Hawke was, now? A friend? Although Hawke had professed his friendship several times, Fenris had not allowed himself to believe or accept it so far. The man was a mage and, although he was clearly not Danarius, surely one day he would succumb to the innate yearning for power all mages were born with? If Hawke had been born in Tevinter he would no doubt by now be a powerful magister, perhaps even one to rival his former master.

He heard Hawke sigh again. Watching as the mage turned from the painting, still facing away from him, he once again felt an uncomfortable, gnawing sensation deep in his stomach.

At that moment the door to Bran's office was opened. The seneschal, Aveline and Donnic exited, walking across the landing to a set of double doors, through which they disappeared. Aveline very quickly turned to Hawke and smiled as she closed the doors behind her.

"I wonder where they're going?" Hawke wondered aloud.

One of Bran's guards beckoned to him and Hawke approached him, though Fenris remained where he was. "The Viscount's office is through there," explained the guard. "Vallen and Hendyr must have something big to get in there without an appointment. You came in with them--what's going on?"

"It's not really for me to say."

"Aw, go on. We never hear anything interesting stood here all day."

"I'm certain an announcement will be made soon," replied Hawke with an apologetic shrug, _"If_ there's anything to announce, that is."

"Bloody spoilsport," grumbled the guard, assuming his original position. He and his neighbour then began speculating as to what this 'announcement' would be.

Hawke walked away from the guards and stopped a short distance from the double doors. Fenris slowly followed him but kept his distance, still watching him.

"Don't you think we should clear the air?" suggested Hawke, taking the elf by surprise. "I don't like there being a bad atmosphere."

Fenris cleared his throat, stepped a little closer and opened his mouth, but could not think of anything useful to say.

"It was inevitable we'd argue about blood magic. Well, magic of any kind, really," began Hawke. "We both have very strong views on the subject, and we both feel our opinion is valid. I said _valid_ , not right or wrong. I took issue with what you said, but I do respect your opinion. I know it didn't seem like it at the time, but..."

"I did not expect you to say that," Fenris murmured quietly.

Hawke finally looked at the elf. "I _do_ disagree with you, but I also understand why you feel the way you do. I've experienced prejudice against mages my entire life, but most of that prejudice has stemmed from ignorance or fear. You _do_ have a good reason to distrust mages. I didn't mean what I said about you being ignorant, you know. It was just my temper doing the talking." He sighed, shaking his head. "Also... when I called you a coward and a bully... that was a horrible thing to say, and completely untrue. I apologise. I'm a complete _asinus."_

Fenris half-grimaced, half-smiled. "I... also regret some of the things I said."

"Is that an apology?"

"Not at all." Fenris looked into Hawke's eyes, and Hawke was certain he saw a hint of amusement there.

"Well, in that case, I'm not apologising, either," Hawke said, unable to pull his gaze away from Fenris's huge, fern-green eyes, feeling his heart rate quicken.

Fenris's heavy lids blinked once and his eyes moved to the side. "You already did."

Hawke began to laugh, then, and noticed an almost imperceptible softening of Fenris's features. "You're even more stubborn than I am, admit it."

"I will do no such thing."

Hawke's laughter intensified and he felt his eyes moisten. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, he let his head fall back, the tension of the past few hours melting away.

"Perhaps we should not discuss that particular topic again," Fenris ventured.

"No, don't you see? We _should_ discuss it, as much as possible. There's nothing wrong with having differences, but when we don't talk about them, they fester and become blown out of all proportion. I don't want that for… I wouldn't want that to happen with anyone."

"You wish for us to argue again?"

"No, I want us to have a discussion. I… I let my temper get the better of me before, and I _am_ sorry for that. Although you did provoke me a bit."

Fenris shook his head and scowled. "And you didn't?"

"Are we having _another_ argument?" asked Hawke with a smile. "An argument about _having_ an argument?"

Fenris's shoulders shook gently as a hesitant laugh rolled through him. Hawke pressed his lips together to suppress an idiotic grin. "We are fools," Fenris declared.

"We?" Hawke teased. "Watch who you're calling a fool, Elf."

Fenris's right eyebrow shot up. "So now we are arguing over who is the bigger fool. From where I am standing, the answer is incontrovertible... Mage."

"It certainly is... Fenris."

"Glad we agree on something... Hawke."

"My name's Fletcher. Pleased to meet you."

A crooked smile lit up the elf's face. "Fletcher... one who fashions arrows. Interesting. Explains why your humour often flies wide of the mark."

"Ouch!" Hawke crossed his arms. "What does Fenris mean, then?"

"Wolf."

Hawke nodded, a glint in his eyes. "Interesting. Explains all the growling and whining."

Once again Fenris laughed, but this was the kind of laugh that would have him spraying tea, had he been drinking it. Hawke's delighted grin faded a little as Fenris immediately covered his mouth with his hand.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do… what?"

"Cover your mouth when you laugh. You shouldn't, you know." _You have a lovely smile_ , he almost said.

Fenris moved his hand away from his mouth and stared at it. "I was not aware... I do not know why."

They stepped apart, having realised how close they were standing to each other, as the double doors opened.

Donnic stepped out, heading for the twosome. "Just thought I'd let you both know you won't be needed to give evidence," he told them. "Apparently, the Viscount's office has been keeping an eye on Jeven for some time. The Viscount's taking mine and Aveline's word for it."

"That's wonderful!" Hawke clapped Donnic on the shoulder.

"You two may as well go for now," Donnic said. "Bran's going through a load of files. This is going to go through the magistrate's court, so evidence will need to be gathered, but with the Viscount behind us, Jeven will be going away for a long time." He held out his hand to Hawke, who shook it firmly, and then offered it to Fenris, who stiffened and hesitated.

"He's injured his hand," Hawke said quickly, thinking on his feet. "Shaking it's probably not a good idea."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm going to have a look at it now. Heal it, I mean."

"Well, I'll have to shake your hand another time, then," promised Donnic. Fenris nodded once. "I'd better get back. Thanks again for all you've done. Come back a bit later, all right? Hopefully everything will have been cleared up by then."

"I will," replied Hawke. "I need to give Aveline some advice on that hip. It'll be stiff for a while, and I can recommend some exercises to her."

"Thanks for looking after her," Donnic said with a soft smile before clearing his throat. "I'd better go." He turned and disappeared back through the double doors.

"Well, Fenris, if I didn't know better, I'd swear Donnic also has a bit of a soft spot for Aveline."

Getting no answer from Fenris, Hawke turned slightly to face him.

"Why did you do that?" Fenris demanded, his face hard.

Hawke's smile instantly vanished. "Do what?"

"You told him I'd injured my hand. Why the deception? I can speak for myself."

Hawke's heart sank as he realised he'd offended Fenris again. "I just… I could see you were uncomfortable when he asked to shake your hand." He sighed before speaking again, his voice softer and full of uncertainty. "I-I didn't mean to speak for you. I'm sorry. I was trying... oh, just forget it." He walked away and started to head down the stairs, shaking his head, his stomach in knots.

Without looking back, he exited the Keep and quickly walked along the Viscount's Way, feeling a pressing need to use a latrine. Before long, he heard soft footsteps behind him.

"Wait."

Hawke halted and turned around, finding Fenris behind him.

Upon seeing the hurt in Hawke's eyes, Fenris hung his head. "I… when Danarius was entertaining guests, I was not permitted to speak without his leave. Often, he spoke _for_ me. When _you_ spoke for me just now, my initial reaction was one of relief and gratitude, but I also felt resentment and anger. It… reminded me."

"I should have realised." Hawke looked away from them, his eyes glazing over.

"No." Fenris positioned himself in front of the mage. "You were not at fault. I see now that you were… being a friend. I am not accustomed to others standing in my corner, and sometimes I appear ungrateful when in fact the opposite is true. I… appreciate what you did, and I apologise for my reaction. I hope…" He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I do not know why you… why you are still here."

"Why I'm still your friend, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Because I like you," Hawke said simply with a shrug. "Sometimes, anyway."

Fenris opened his eyes and glanced up at Hawke. "I cannot imagine why."

"As you once told me, I'm a very strange man."

Fenris glanced at the floor. "You are indeed."

Hawke took a deep breath and continued walking, as did Fenris. "Well, I need to get home. Will you be at the Hanged Man later?"

"Perhaps. I will see."

Hawke nodded, his face blank as they reached the main square. "I'm going this way," he said with a nod to his left. "I might see you later, then." His face still expressionless, Hawke walked away in the direction of Lowtown. Fenris watched him until he was out of sight, once or twice tempted to go after him, but what would he say if he did? 'Sorry' again? What good would that do? He took a slow walk back to the mansion, the hot gnawing in the pit of his belly stronger than ever as he wondered if he'd pushed Hawke too far this time.

~o~O~o~

Arriving home, Hawke laid his staff against the wall and was greeted by Bethany, who was bent over their rickety dining table, writing.

"Hello, Beth. Just you at home?"

"Yes, Gamlen's gone out. Didn't ask where. Mother's out shopping. There are a couple of letters here for you."

He frowned, took a seat opposite her and examined the letters, both of which bore the Chantry's seal. "What are you writing?"

"A list," she said with a crafty smile. "A list of things you need to do to win Fenris's heart."

He burst out laughing. "What, should I take him some flowers? I can imagine where they'll end up, and it won't be in a vase, I can tell you, unless it's a Fletcher-shaped one. And it won't be my mouth he shoves them into."

"Now, now, Brother," she clucked. "Faint heart ne'er won fair maid… I mean, fair elf."

"You're daft, you know that?"

"Call me that again and I won't show you my list. I've almost finished it. Read your letters."

Hawke reached for his sister's hand and kissed it before opening the first of his letters.

_Messere Hawke,_

_Once again the Templar Order is in your debt. Please visit the Gallows at your earliest convenience for your reward._

_Knight-Captain Cullen._

Hawke placed the letter down and stared at it. Once again, he was being offered a reward for helping capture apostate mages, the very thing he'd sworn he would never do. Yes, those mages had attacked them, and their leader had very nearly killed Aveline, but still the idea did not sit comfortably with him.

Hearing a quiet squeak from the corner, he was rudely reminded of exactly what that money would mean as a rat darted across the room. Bethany leapt to her feet and ran to the opposite wall. "Oh, Fletcher, get rid of it!"

Hawke chased after the rat, trying several times without success to stomp on it. "All right, you asked for it, you bastard!" Seizing his staff, he pointed it at the rat and uttered something under his breath. The creature promptly burst into flames but continued to dart around the room, its squeaks now shrill and vociferous.

"Oh, I can't stand it!" wailed Bethany, grabbing her own staff and turning the rat into a block of ice. "Fletcher, I hate living here!"

"I know, I know," he said softly as he kicked the ball of ice across the room and out of the back door. "I'll bury that later. Better still, I'll leave it for Gamlen. This _is_ his house, as he keeps reminding us." He closed the back door and moved to Bethany's side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Sister, I'm going to do everything I can to get this money together. We just need to wait a bit longer."

"I know you're doing your best," she replied, "and I'll do everything I can to help."

"Go and finish your list," he told her with a forced smile. They both walked back to the table and sat down. He pocketed Cullen's letter, deciding that his conscience would have to be put on hold for a while.

Opening the second letter, his eyes went to the name at the bottom and he frowned. "Who?"

_Serah Hawke,_

_I write to once again extend my deep gratitude to you and your friends for your help. If you are willing, I dare to impose upon your good nature one more time. It has come to my attention that the Harrimans, a noble family of Starkhaven, were responsible for the murder of my family._

_I find it difficult to believe that the Harrimans, who I have known for my entire life, could have perpetrated this atrocity. I cannot ignore the claim, however, and intend to investigate, but cannot do so alone._

_You will be well-compensated for your assistance should you decide to render it. I would appreciate your answer as soon as you are able. You will find me in the chantry most of the time, or you may leave a message in my absence._

_Maker watch over you and your loved ones._

_Sebastian Vael._

"Who in the Void is Sebastian Vael?" mumbled Hawke, his brow furrowing.

"Wasn't it that prince fellow, the one with the amazing blue eyes?"

"No, his name was Stanley, or something… I think. Maker, I've done so many jobs for so many different people I can't remember them all."

Bethany took the letter and read it. "Yes, it's him. You met him at the chantry before, remember? His family were murdered? The Flint Company?"

"The Flint Company." Hawke snapped his fingers in realisation. "Hm, he paid us quite well, as I remember." He folded the letter and pocketed it along with the one from Cullen.

"You don't seem so enraptured by his amazing eyes now, do you?" Bethany teased. "Probably because you know someone with amazing _green ones_ , now."

"Thinking too much gives you wrinkles, you know."

"Twaddle, I say. Now, are you ready to go through my list?"

He rolled his eyes and groaned. "All right then, Sister. What have you come up with?"

She cleared her throat and leaned forward a little. "First, you should invite him here for a meal. I don't mean tea and biscuits, I mean a proper meal, with Mother and me, preferably when Gamlen's out. That way he can get to know us, and he'll see we're just a normal family, and that mages don't spend all our spare time making blood sacrifices and howling at the moon."

"You want me to invite him here for a meal with my family? The only way I could be more obvious would be by tearing my robe off and hurling myself at his feet."

"I don't see how. Anders has been here for a meal, and so's Varric. Neither of _them_ think you fancy them, do they?"

"Bloody hell, I hope not." He shook his head. "What's next on the list?"

"Onto the second order of business." She tapped her list sharply against the table. "You were saying you and Fenris have nothing in common, so you need to _find_ something. You need a shared interest or a goal you can work towards together."

"Now that _is_ a good idea, Beth, but believe me, I've wracked my brain trying to think of something we have in common. Besides the fact we both breathe air, that's about it."

"Be positive! You both have eyes, a nose and a mouth as well! No, you need something to talk about, discuss. What about books? You like a good story, don't you? Fenris seems an intelligent man to me. Ask him what he likes to read."

Hawke slowly rose to his feet, staring at the far wall. "You know… you could be onto something there." A smile slowly crept onto his face and he glanced down at her. "You, Sister, are a little genius."

"About time you acknowledged that," she said immodestly, then giggled. "Why don't you take him some of your favourite books? You could read them together."

"Well, the thing is, he can't actually read."

Bethany looked surprised for a moment before nodding. "I suppose that would make sense, as a former slave."

"I _could_ offer to teach him. What do you think?"

"Oh, what a wonderful idea! And learning to read isn't something that can be done overnight. This could be the goal you work towards together!"

"I don't know, though, Beth." He groaned and turned away from her, sitting on the edge of the table. "He might be offended if I offer, might see it as charity. He strikes me as being very proud."

"Then have him do something for you in return," she suggested, throwing him a stern glance as he turned and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, trust you! No, nothing like that. I don't know… maybe he could teach you a few moves with his sword?"

Hawke's eyebrow crept even higher. Bethany threw a screwed-up piece of paper at his face.

"Ow, that hurt," he moaned, rubbing the tip of his nose. He pushed away from the table and grabbed his staff, slipping it through the straps on his back. "I'll be back later. I've got to go to the chantry, the Keep, and maybe somewhere else in Hightown," he finished with a wink.

"But Brother, I haven't finished reading my list!"

"Keep it handy. This could very well go tits-up." He opened the door and stepped outside. Just before he closed it, he popped his head back through. "You're the best, Sister, you know that?"

"Of course I know." She chuckled. "Off you go, and best of luck!"

~o~O~o~

Hawke stood at the foot of the dreaded steps leading up to Hightown, deciding where to visit first. It was probably too early to check back with Aveline, as she was most likely still with the Viscount. He'd have to pass the chantry on the way to the mansion, so could visit there first. Or should he visit Fenris first? The thing was, if he and Fenris ended up arguing again, he'd be in a foul mood for the rest of the day. The chantry first, then.

But he _wanted_ to see Fenris first.

He growled under his breath in frustration. "Let's just get these blasted steps out of the way first," he said aloud, eliciting a strange glance from a passer-by. "Once a day, and I'll become accustomed to them."

He made his way up the steps, taking a couple of short breaks on the way up when his legs started to ache. He finally reached the top and felt his stomach rumble, realising he hadn't eaten since earlier that morning. "So, I can go all the way to mid-afternoon without feeling hungry? Interesting."

He turned and headed all the way back down the steps before again standing at the bottom, looking up. "Twice a day," he resolved. "And this time, no breaks on the way up. It won't hurt me to lose a bit of weight."

~o~O~o~

Two sisters ran forward as a panting, beetroot-faced Hawke staggered into the chantry.

"Oh, you poor man!" one of them gasped, taking his arm. "Do you require succour?"

"Eh? You want to suck my what? Oh! You mean… whatever you mean, thank you but no. I-it's those sodding steps..." He slapped a hand over his mouth and cringed. "I'm so sorry. Those _troublesome_ steps." He waited a moment until his breathing slowed. "I'm looking for Sebastian. The prince?"

"He's at the altar, praying. So dedicated to the Maker is he."

Hawke nodded. "Thank you very much. I'm sorry about... I'll just go, shall I?" He hastily distanced himself from the bewildered sister, muttering under his breath. "You fucking idiot!" He then glanced up at the high ceiling, half-expecting to be struck down by righteous lightning. When he wasn't, he mischievously wondered if he could get away with saying 'fuck' in a chantry again, but a friendly hail diverted his attention.

"Serah Hawke! You received my letter." Hawke turned to his side, the man with the formerly-amazing-but-now-average blue eyes holding a hand out to him. They shook hands. "I thank you for coming to see me again, Serah Hawke," Sebastian began.

"Please, Hawke will be fine. How should I address you? Your Highness? Sir?"

The prince chuckled good-naturedly. "I prefer Sebastian."

"Sebastian it is, then."

"Might I ask if you would be willing to render assistance to me once again? I could hire a mercenary group, but I would prefer not to go down that road, and you and your friends proved most capable the last time. I thought I would approach you first."

"Yes, we'll help. I can't do it until tomorrow, though. I have a few things to take care of today, and I need to get some people together."

"That is even sooner than I had hoped for," Sebastian replied, smiling. "Truly, the Maker sent you to me."

"I don't know what time it will be," said Hawke thoughtfully. "I wouldn't like to give you a time and then be late, but it should be before lunchtime. Is that all right? Shall I meet you here?"

"Come when you will. I will be here all day."

Hawke nodded and looked around. "Do you… work here or something?"

Sebastian shook his head and laughed softly. "Not exactly. I am in the process of preparing to take vows as a brother."

"But I thought you were a prince?"

Sebastian sighed. "It's a long story, perhaps one you do not have time to hear today. Maybe I'll tell you tomorrow, if you're truly interested?"

"All right. See you tomorrow, then."

Sebastian shook Hawke's hand for a second time and bowed. "Andraste guide you, Hawke."

"You as well," replied Hawke, and made his way out.

He stood outside the chantry for several minutes, looking at the steps leading to the Hightown Estates. So, he was about to ask a proud, prickly man who hated mages if he would like to be taught to read. By a _mage_. Nothing intimidating about that, oh, no. Nothing at all. Should Hawke just come out and say it? Maybe he should approach the subject obliquely? Perhaps not. Fenris appreciated directness. But Hawke couldn't just ask him as soon as he opened the door, could he?

"This was a stupid idea," he grumbled to himself. "What was I thinking? Whatever I do, it's not going to end well, is it?"

He trudged down the steps leading away from the chantry. As he turned in the direction of the Keep, he collided with a startled Fenris, who dropped a small sack he'd been carrying. "Shit! I'm sorry! Are you all right?"

Fenris picked up the sack and dusted himself down. "Hawke… I did not expect to see you here again."

"Oh, I've just been to the chantry," he said casually. "What's in the sack? Anything nice?"

"I've purchased some provisions." Fenris opened the bag for Hawke to inspect. Inside were some potatoes and a small joint of meat.

"Fed up of porridge and biscuits, eh?"

"A little, yes," Fenris answered with a rueful shrug. "Would… would you care to… I mean, there is too much here for me. Have you eaten?"

"Not since our porridge this morning, and you'll probably hear my stomach growl in a minute to prove it."

"You travelled up the steps on an empty stomach?"

"I know. I'm weak as a kitten."

Fenris's eyes crinkled slightly. "Then, if you have no other plans, I would gladly share my food with you… if you would like."

Warmth spread through Hawke's centre but he kept an impassive expression. "That's very decent of you. I gratefully accept your kind offer. Maybe after we've eaten, you could accompany me to the Keep if you want to? I'd quite like to know what's gone on with Aveline."

"As would I. Yes, I will accompany you. Please." He gestured towards his borrowed home. Hawke followed him to the mansion, doing well to hide a triumphant grin.

"Do you know how to make gravy?" Hawke queried as they started up the steps.

"No, I don't."

"I know it involves the juices from the meat and a bit of flour, but I'm sure there's more to it than that. There are bound to be some recipe books in that library of yours."

"I'm sure there are. We will have a look upon entering."

"Perfect," Hawke replied, offering a silent 'thank-you' to his genius of a sister.


	19. It's All Gravy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke glanced at his palm, and then looked through the doorway and down the corridor. Fenris had gone. "He touched me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my sincere thanks to all of you following this story, and for your kudos and kind comments :-)

"Ah, here it is. 'Recipe for Traditional Gravy'."

Hawke ran his finger down the page of the dusty book, screwing his face up as he reached the bottom. "I've got to make some stock? Oh, I can't be bothered with all that. Fenris, what kind of meat did you buy?"

"Beef."

Hawke's frown transformed into a smug grin as he snapped the book closed. "I know what we can use for stock. Any of that wine left?"

"There are several bottles in the cellar."

"Perfect. When it's convenient for you, would you fetch one, please? We don't need it straight away, though, not until the meat's done."

"I will go now," Fenris said with a nod.

"Bring two up, actually. We can drink the other one."

Fenris cocked his head, looking puzzled. "Will the wine in the gravy not suffice? If we drink two bottles between us we will become inebriated, and we _had_ planned to visit the Keep."

Hawke laughed. "No! The alcohol in the gravy will burn off, it's just for flavour. We can't get drunk on it."

"Oh, I see." Fenris sighed. "You must think me quite… benighted."

"I have no idea what that means, but why would I think that? You don't cook very often, so how would you know? I only know because Mother told me. If she hadn't, I'd be chugging gravy all the time instead of wine to get drunk--gravy tastes a lot better, and slips down nicely."

"You… _drink_ gravy?"

"Certainly not," Hawke replied quickly--a little _too_ quickly, Fenris suspected. "I don't drink custard or pickle juice, either. I mean, why would I?"

"Why indeed?" asked Fenris, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't lick the bowl when Mother's made a cake, either. And I've _definitely_ never eaten flowers while drunk. That would be stupid, wouldn't it? If I _had_ done any of those things, you'd be quite right to look as disgusted as you do about now."

_"... Flowers?"_

"Oh, only nice ones, no weeds or anything like that. I think it was nasturtiums. Not that I ever _did_ eat them, of course. These are hypothetical nasturtiums, you understand."

"I believe I do," said Fenris drily. "Two bottles, you say?"

"Red wine, please. I'll meet you back in the kitchen," Hawke said with a slight grimace. Fenris nodded before leaving the library. Hawke fancied he heard a quiet snort, but couldn't be certain. "Maker, Fletcher!" he hissed quietly to himself. "What is the matter with you? He's going to think you're a complete arse! _If_ he doesn't already!"

Glancing down at the book, his stomach flipped over. Somehow he had to slip the subject of reading into their conversation, and also had to offer to teach Fenris to read without offending him. A tall order at the best of times, but Hawke was not exactly at his urbane best today--more like a nervous wreck. He tucked the book under his arm and headed for the kitchen, where Fenris had left his groceries after Hawke had offered to cook.

Fenris arrived in the kitchen a short time later to find Hawke peeling potatoes while the joint of beef sizzled in a skillet he'd suspended above the fireplace. Fenris placed the two wine bottles on the counter and glanced at the fireplace. "Shouldn't a joint be roasted or boiled?"

"I'm just sealing it," Hawke replied, dropping some of the peeled potatoes into a small cauldron. "Keeps the juices in."

"Do we not need the juices for the gravy?"

"Some of them will still come out, don't worry," Hawke answered with a bright smile. Fenris nodded and watched as Hawke began to add some herbs to a small bowl of flour. "This is to coat the potatoes with," Hawke explained. "When they're half boiled, I'll dip them in the fat, roll them in this, and then stick them in the oven."

"You've prepared a similar meal before, then?"

"Oh yes. I always used to do the Sunday roast at home... in Lothering, I mean. I know it's not a very manly thing to do, but I don't care. I enjoy cooking. It gave Mother a rest as well. Bethany always helped prepare the veg and she made the gravy. That's why I had to look it up."

"'Sunday Roast'? That is what you call this meal?"

"Yes, I know it's not Sunday today, but that's generally what it's known as in Ferelden." He pointed to the open cookbook, feeling a flutter in his belly. "That's what it's called in here--Sunday Roast."

"Then it is fortunate you are here. I would have just boiled everything," Fenris confessed.

"It tells you in the book how to prepare the meat, potatoes and all the trimmings," said Hawke, crossing over to the fireplace to turn the meat over. He walked back to find Fenris looking at the illustrations in the book. "Have you ever considered learning to read?" he asked nonchalantly, doing his best not to cringe as he spoke.

"I have never needed to."

"Have you ever _wanted_ to, though?" asked Hawke, scratching his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of flour behind.

Fenris shrugged. "I do not see a need for it," he replied, evading Hawke's question.

Hawke turned his back on the counter and leaned against it, crossing his legs. "Then you're missing out. There are so many wonderful stories out there. I find reading's a good way to relax at the end of the day. I often fall asleep with a book in my hand."

Fenris smiled faintly, but said nothing.

"Being able to read could save your life as well," Hawke added. "Let's say… let's say you wanted to take a shortcut across a field but couldn't read the sign that warned of the bull, or the vicious dog. You'd need to be a bloody fast runner in that case."

"I can run."

"What if you slipped on a cow pat?"

"That seems unlikely," scoffed Fenris, still smiling.

"You never know," warned Hawke, waggling his index finger.

"Henceforth, I will ensure I do not take shortcuts across fields."

"That was just an example." Hawke moved to the fire and wrapped a cloth around his hand, removing the skillet from the fire and placing it into the stove. He turned back to Fenris.

"Your nose... there's flour," the elf pointed out.

"Oh." Hawke rubbed his nose with his fingers.

"Now there is more," Fenris told him, amused. "There was flour on your fingers, also."

Hawke gave him a mock-stern look and, for a split second was sorely tempted to smear Fenris's nose with flour. Instead, he reached for his cloth and scrubbed at his own nose, turning his head from side to side for Fenris to inspect.

"Gone?"

"Gone."

"Anyway," resumed Hawke, realising Fenris had changed the subject, "I can't imagine not being able to read. Reading a story's a great way to escape from everyday life. I can get lost in a book and forget everything else that's going on."

"Even our arguments?"

Hawke grinned widely. _"Especially_ our arguments."

"A pity. I am... too old to learn." Fenris also leaned against the counter a few feet away from Hawke. "I am an adult, not a child. Besides, I do not have the coin to hire a tutor. I am glad to hear you derive such pleasure from reading, but I do not think it would be possible for me to learn now."

"That's nonsense, you're never too old. And you wouldn't _need_ a tutor. I mean, um…" Hawke cleared his throat and started fiddling with his fingers. "If you wanted, maybe _I_ could teach you to read."

Silence, punctuated only by the spitting of the joint, descended on the kitchen. Hawke didn't dare look up from his hands.

"You would… teach me?"

Hawke nodded, still not looking up from his fingers.

"Why?"

"Because I'd like _you_ to experience the pleasure of reading as well. Also, I'm a bit of a bookworm, and it would be nice to have someone to talk about books with."

"Does Anders not speak with you of books? He always has a tome of some kind under his arm."

"Those books of his are written in Tevene, and I can't read that," Hawke explained, raising his head to look at Fenris. "Actually, that didn't even occur to me. Would you want to read in Tevene or Thedosian? I can't help you with Tevene, I'm afraid."

"I have no wish to read anything from Tevinter," Fenris said shortly, anger creeping into his voice. "All of Danarius's books were written in Tevene."

This time, Hawke did cringe. "Oh. Um… maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all. I-I just thought I'd offer. You're pretty much the most intelligent person I know, and it seems a shame you can't read, that's all."

"I am the most intelligent person you know?" scoffed Fenris. "Clearly, you do not know many people."

"Stop that!" Hawke said in irritation.

"Stop... what?"

"Stop putting yourself down. My brother Carver used to do that all the time, and it drove me mad. There are plenty of people in this world who are willing to put you down without you doing it to yourself." Realising how angry he sounded, he turned away and began tidying up the counter, his shoulders heaving as he drew a few steadying breaths.

Fenris stared at Hawke's back, lost for words, the horrible gnawing sensation in his stomach returning. Hawke had just offered to teach him to read, something he'd always dreamed of but had never thought possible, and Fenris had done his best to push him away. Why did he always do this? Why could he not just see the gesture for what it was, and accept it gratefully?

Was it too late to do that now?

"I'm sorry, Hawke," Fenris said quickly, sighing. "I seem to be acquiring a habit of apologising to you." He watched as Hawke's movements slowed a little. "I'm grateful for your offer, which I gladly accept, if it is still open."

Hawke turned to face Fenris, a look of uncertainty on his face as his stomach roiled. "Well… of course it is."

Fenris took a step forward and held his hand out to Hawke, who stared at it in pretty much the same way Fenris had once stared at his. He reached forward and gently shook the elf's hand, which was unclad, a warm hum travelling upward from the base of his spine as Fenris's skin touched his.

"I will set the table." Fenris released Hawke's hand and left the kitchen without another word, leaving a slack-mouthed mage to stare after him.

Hawke glanced at his palm, and then looked through the doorway and down the corridor. Fenris had gone. "He touched me," he whispered. He looked down the corridor one more time, walked to the far side of the kitchen, and fist-pumped the air.

~o~O~o~

A little later, and after showing Fenris how to make gravy, Hawke dished up and they carried their plates through to the dining room, where Fenris had done a fine job of laying the table. Hawke placed his plate down and rubbed his hands together with glee as he took his seat, his stomach rumbling loudly in anticipation.

"I'd like to propose a toast." Hawke picked up his filled wine glass. Fenris, taking his own seat, did the same. "Actually, I'm rubbish at toasts. Can _you_ think of anything to say, Fenris?" Hawke was actually quite good at toasts, but wanted to give Fenris the opportunity.

"To fine food, and fine company," the elf declared. Hawke repeated the toast as their glasses clinked together.

As they began to eat, Hawke told him of his plans for the following day. "I'm going to the Gallows and then I have a job to do with… oh, wait, you don't know him. His name's Sebastian, and apparently he's a prince." Hawke nodded as Fenris's eyebrows rose in surprise before continuing. "His family were unfortunately killed and he wants a few of us to help him find the culprits. Fancy coming? You won't need to go far. We're to meet him at the chantry."

"Yes, I will come," Fenris agreed, and pointed to his plate with his knife. "This is... very nice."

"Oh, good, I'm glad you like it. Better than everything boiled, eh?"

"Indeed. You are a man of many talents, Hawke."

"Not really. We all had to pitch in at the farm. All the men in the house knew how to cook, and the women sometimes worked in the fields at very busy times. We never let them do the really backbreaking work, though."

Fenris nodded and took a sip of wine. "Why must you visit the Gallows?"

"To collect the reward for turning those mages in," he said quickly, not wishing to linger on the subject. "I'll get your cut to you when I find out how much the reward is."

"No rush." 

"Actually, I'm thinking Justice should get a cut from that job instead of Anders, seeing as Justice saved our arses and Anders sodded off. What do _you_ think?"

A warm smile lit up the elf's face and he shook his head. "How would one compensate a spirit?"

"I dunno," mused Hawke with a shrug. "Maybe Anders has a little coin slot on his belly or something? That way, I could pay Justice directly."

"Wha-" Fenris's knife clattered against his plate as he covered his face with his hands, his body trembling.

Hawke gasped and stared at him, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. "Are you laughing or crying?" he asked, laughing himself. "Please don't cry! It wasn't _that_ bad, was it?"

Fenris shook his head, still covering his face, and Hawke could see that beneath his hands, Fenris's face had turned red.

"Do you think Justice would give me change?" Hawke joked, sniggering.

Fenris bent forward and clutched at his stomach, wheezing with laughter. "Stop it! I cannot breathe!"

"Perhaps it's best if he _doesn't_ give change," Hawke mused, trying to keep a straight face. "I _dread_ to think where it would come from."

Fenris pushed his chair back and strode out of the dining room. Hawke, creased up with laughter, followed him out. Fenris was leaning unsteadily against a wall in the vestibule, his hands braced on his knees, his rich, deep, beautiful laughter like music as it reverberated off the walls. "Don't-don't come any closer!" he warned Hawke, holding a flattened palm out. "I cannot take any more!"

Hawke covered his mouth with one hand and bit his bottom lip in utter delight as Fenris fought valiantly to regain his dignity. Once or twice, he appeared to have succeeded, but as soon as he looked at Hawke, he turned away, his body once again trembling.

"I cannot do this if you are watching me!"

"All right, going into the dining room." With one final glance at the elf, he walked back into the room where they'd shared their meal and took his seat, laughing to himself, his insides glowing.

Listening carefully, he heard Fenris clear his throat and take a deep breath. The sound of bare feet padding against the stone followed, and Hawke became aware that Fenris was standing in the doorway behind him. He heard another sharp intake of breath as Fenris slowly walked back to the table, taking his seat with consummate elegance and poise.

"Do not look at me," Fenris commanded, his own eyes fixed firmly on his plate as he picked up his knife.

Hawke, however, _did_ look at him. His face was blotchy and his eyes red. Hawke also noticed that Fenris's eyebrows were pushed together in deep concentration.

"You're dying to laugh."

"I am _not."_

"Are too."

"If you continue to--" Fenris paused as an almost pained expression came over him. "D-do not persist with--"

"You're right, Fenris," said Hawke in an apologetic tone. "I won't persist. That wouldn't be _just,_ would it?"

Fenris swivelled in his seat, turning away from Hawke, and once again his shoulders began to tremble. "Stop it! My-my stomach hurts!"

Hawke, also laughing, resumed his meal. "Stop messing around! Your dinner's getting cold," he teased.

Fenris took several deep breaths and slowly turned back. "Please, Hawke. I really cannot take any more."

"I promise," chuckled Hawke. "No more."

Fenris nodded and very cautiously began to slice his meat, expecting Hawke to break his promise at any moment. "You do realise that I will not be able to look at him from now on without--"

"Without laughing?" ventured Hawke. "That'll go down a treat, especially with a certain spirit, who shall remain nameless."

Fenris bit his lip, suppressing his laughter, and finally glanced at Hawke, who flashed a brilliant smile at him. "Hawke, I have not laughed like that since… in fact, I do not ever remember laughing like that."

"Well, if my terrible sense of humour makes you laugh, you'll be doing it a lot more from now on."

Fenris nodded and took a bite of meat. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Hawke took up his wine glass and raised it towards Fenris. "To friendship, and to making Fenris laugh."

Fenris picked up his own glass and tapped it against Hawke's. "To friendship, and to making me laugh."

"I'm going to remember this moment the next time we have an argument," Hawke said. "Which probably won't be too far away."

"As will I, Hawke." He once again tapped his glass against Hawke's, and they shared a smile before finishing their meal.

~o~O~o~

Agreeing to start Fenris's reading lessons the following day after dealing with Sebastian's problem, the two men cleared away the dishes and washed up. Some beef was left over, which Hawke recommended Fenris use for sandwiches with a spot of mustard.

Feeling pleasantly full, they headed for the Keep to check on Aveline's progress with the Viscount. On the way, Hawke noted that fewer nobles were staring at Fenris and, with a sneaky glance at the elf, surmised that perhaps it was because Fenris wasn't scowling today, and allowed himself a satisfied smile.

Upon entering the barracks, they were greeted by Donnic, who appeared to have assumed Aveline's role and was issuing orders to some of the guards.

"Ah, there you are," he said cordially, walking up to them both and shaking Hawke's hand. "Is your hand better, Fenris?" he asked the elf.

Fenris quickly glanced at Hawke before extending his own hand to Donnic. "It is, thank you."

Although Fenris was now wearing his gauntlets, Hawke felt he would burst with pride as they shook hands. "Hawke," said Donnic, pointing at Jeven's office, "Aveline wants to see you. She's in there with Bran."

As Hawke nodded, one of the other guards, spotting Fenris, walked up to them. "Ah, so you're the one who thrashed Donnic's arse, are you? Well done, mate!"

Watching in bewilderment as the laughing guard walked away, Fenris turned back to Donnic. "You… _told_ him I defeated you?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I?"

"You see no shame in being bested by an elf?"

"I don't follow you," Donnic said, frowning. "There's no shame in being beaten by a better man. Being an elf has nothing to do with it."

Fenris hung his head modestly. "I… well, I am honoured."

"I'll leave you to it," Hawke said, smiling. "You can talk about swords or something."

"We certainly will," replied Donnic. "Come on, Fenris, I'll show you around the barracks."

"No trying to recruit him!" Hawke warned.

"Damn!" Donnic snapped his fingers, and Hawke laughed before turning to enter the office.

"Ah, Hawke, you're back," Aveline said as he entered. "Bran, this is Hawke, the one I told you about."

"How do you do?" Hawke said in greeting.

Bran looked Hawke up and down, nodded once, and turned back to Aveline. "I will take my leave." With that, he departed.

"You know, I'm sure I've seen him somewhere before," Hawke mused, his eyes following the seneschal as he glided out of the office. "Ah, I know. Anders's clinic. Caught the clap off some whore down at the docks, I think."

"Shhh!" Aveline sniggered, rushing to close the door. "You must be mistaken, Hawke. Bran wouldn't lower himself."

"No, I'm telling you, it was him. I think I've seen him twice, actually." As Aveline leaned against the desk, Hawke glanced around the room. "This is Jeven's office, isn't it?"

"No, Hawke. It's mine."

"But…" Hawke scratched his head. "Since when have you had an office?"

Aveline groaned. "Since I was made guard-captain."

Hawke blinked. "What?"

"Jeven's out," she told him. "Apparently he was up to his eyeballs in debt, and decided to make some quick coin by selling confidential documents from the Viscount's office. And by selling, I mean arranging for the guard who was carrying the satchel containing those documents to be pummelled, and the documents 'stolen'."

"Well, we'd already figured that out."

"Indeed we did, and now we have proof." She pushed away from the desk and took a step closer to Hawke. "The Viscount rewarded me by giving me Jeven's post. I couldn't have done this without your help, Hawke. I won't forget it."

"So… _you're_ guard-captain, now?"

"That's what I said."

"Wow," Hawke mumbled. "Aveline from Lothering, eh?"

"Well, I wasn't _originally_ from Lothering."

"Now, don't ruin my chance to boast that I knew Guard-Captain Vallen back in the day."

"All right, I owe you that much, at least."

"I'm proud of you," Hawke said sincerely. "If that means anything, that is."

"Of course it does, Hawke. It means a lot."

Hawke turned away from her and sighed. "Aveline, I've been… I've been a real prick to you."

"No you haven't," she protested. "You've been a great help to me."

"When we first got here, I mean," he said, turning to face her. "I…"

"None of us were at our best when we first arrived. We'd both lost someone very important to us."

"I blamed you for that," Hawke confessed. "For a long time I blamed you for Carver's death. You were distracted because Wesley was injured."

Aveline lowered her head and nodded. "I thought as much."

"That was… terribly wrong of me," he admitted, his voice wavering. "All I cared about at the time was Carver. No, actually, all I cared about was _me_. How _I_ felt. You lost Wesley as well. I'm-I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about Wesley."

They stood in silence for a few moments before Hawke spoke again. "I don't blame you now. I was wrong. I blamed myself as well, but I don't even--" He shrugged. "The darkspawn were to blame. _They_ took Wesley and Carver from us."

"I appreciate you saying that, Hawke. For a long time, I blamed myself for both of their deaths, but time is a great healer, as they say. I don't feel that way anymore, either. Not a day goes by when I don't think about Wesley, and I'm sure it's the same for you with Carver, but neither of them would want us to stop living our lives."

Hawke drew a deep breath, pushing against the wave of grief that crashed into him. "I should have told you this sooner. I've had a chip on my shoulder Carver would have been proud of, but lately… I don't know. I feel… more at peace. Do you understand that?"

She smiled thinly. "I do. Apology accepted, although it does seem strange you made it on the day I was promoted to guard-captain."

"Didn't work, then?"

"Not for one second. You _still_ don't get special treatment."

"Come here." They embraced.

Aveline pulled away and sighed. "Now get out of here before we both start blubbing."

"As you order, Guard-Captain." Hawke laid his fist across his chest and bowed.

"If you need me, Hawke, you know where I am."

"Same goes for me, Aveline."

"And leave the door open when you leave," she instructed him. "Jeven always kept the door locked. I want everyone to know there'll be no secrets in this office from now on."

"I really am proud of you," he told her before departing, leaving the door open.

~o~O~o~

After Fenris's tour of the barracks, during which Donnic _did_ unsuccessfully try to recruit him, he met up with Hawke, who offered to buy him a drink at the Hanged Man. Fenris accepted, and Hawke made sure they took their time getting there, wanting to make the most of their pleasant discourse.

Upon entering the pub, Fenris hesitated at the door after noticing that Anders and Isabela were seated with Varric and Bethany.

Sensing his reticence, Hawke turned back a little and mumbled, "Don't worry. If Anders gives you any lip, just think of the coin slot. And how painful it will be for him when the _change_ comes out."

Hearing a quiet snigger from Fenris, Hawke grinned and walked to the table, noticing Anders whisper something to Isabela before he leapt out of his chair.

"Hawke! There you are! We were just talking about you."

"Oh?" Hawke intoned as Anders swallowed him in an enthusiastic hug, completely ignoring Fenris.

"And if it isn't my _favourite_ elf," drawled Isabela, sauntering over.

"Isabela," Fenris said with a curt nod.

"Come and sit down, Hawke," Anders said. Hawke took a seat, saying a quick hello to Varric and Bethany. "Your sister told me you have a trip to the Gallows planned," Anders said brightly, plonking himself down next to Hawke.

"That's right," said Hawke, glancing at Fenris, who had been led--or dragged--to the bar by Isabela.

"When? Tomorrow?"

"What? Oh, yes. Do you want to come?"

"Definitely. I'd be very interested to have a look at that place."

"Well, don't forget you need to wear something…unmagey," Hawke reminded him.

"Oh, I know. I already have an outfit ready."

"I wouldn't have expected _you_ to be so enthusiastic about that place, Blondie," opined Varric.

"No, me, either," muttered Hawke, distracted by the fact that Isabela had slipped her arm through Fenris's and was stroking his hair. Although Fenris was clearly uncomfortable with her attention, there was no hint of the terror Hawke had seen in the elf's eyes when _he'd_ touched Fenris.

"Well, you know what they say," chirped Anders, "you keep your enemies close. And I'm not too big to admit that I could be wrong about the place. I won't know until I've seen it, will I?"

"You've changed your tune, hasn't he, Hawke?" asked Varric.

"Yes," Hawke said stiffly, wondering if he should step in and rescue Fenris, but then decided against it, suspecting Fenris might not appreciate such a gesture. He continued to watch as Isabela ran a manicured finger down Fenris's arm, and felt his stomach drop as the elf forced a strained smile.

Of course. How could he have been so stupid? It all seemed so clear now. Fenris was attracted to _women_. Why in the world would he be attracted to men, anyway, after what Danarius had done to him? Feeling like a complete idiot, Hawke felt an unpleasant fluttering in his chest and swallowed hard. "I, um… I'm going home," he announced, standing up.

"But you _will_ meet me here, tomorrow morning?" pressed Anders.

"Yes, of course."

"Brother?" asked Bethany, concerned.

"I can feel one of my headaches coming on, Beth. I'll be fine. See you later." With a nod to Varric, he quickly made his way out. As he did so, Bethany's eyes wandered to where Isabela and Fenris were standing by the bar.

Hawke quickly made his way through the stalls of Lowtown, ignoring the merchants' calls to sample their wares. He knew he'd been rude to leave like that, but he didn't care. He felt like a complete fool. His afternoon with Fenris had been so wonderful and had given him so much hope. Why hadn't it ever occurred to him that Fenris might not be interested in men, in him? And he _was_ a mage, after all. Perhaps he'd have to settle on Fenris's friendship and nothing else. He should be grateful to have that, at least, he told himself.

"Hawke?"

Fenris's voice.

Hawke slowed his pace a little, wondering if he could get away with pretending he hadn't heard, but that idea became moot as Fenris appeared in front of him, blocking his path.

"Fenris."

"Why did you leave?" asked the elf, clearly confused.

"Sorry, I should have let you know I was going," replied Hawke, his eyes wandering around the market.

"What's the matter?"

"I, um, I have a headache," he claimed, rubbing his forehead for effect. "Probably the wine. I thought you were busy with Isabela, anyway. I didn't want to interrupt you."

"More like she was busy with me," muttered the elf.

"But I thought… you didn't seem to mind." Hawke paused, giving himself a warning not to sound _too_ concerned.

Fenris sighed. "I did not wish to be impolite. I have no prior memory of my life before receiving the markings, but there seems to be something in my make-up that forbids me from being violent towards women. Those who don't merit it, anyway. Perhaps that is how I was raised?"

"As a gentleman." Hawke remembered how polite and respectful Fenris always was with Bethany, as well as his mother on the one occasion they'd met. "I'm sorry. I did say I'd buy you a drink."

"That is unimportant," countered the elf. "I was hoping we could discuss my first reading lesson, what it will entail, but if you are unwell, I will not trouble you further."

"Oh, well, it's not _too_ bad, now I've had a bit of air," Hawke protested weakly. "I'm certain you must have a lot of questions. Well, let's go back, then. We'll have to sit at a separate table, though, if you don't want anyone else to know."

Fenris shook his head. "I have no desire to be _pawed_ again by that woman."

"Well… we _could_ go to my house. It's not far, and there's all the tea you can drink."

One side of Fenris's mouth curved upward. "Will there be… shortbread?"

"I'm certain I could find some," Hawke answered with a gentle smile.

"Then lead the way, Hawke," prompted Fenris.


	20. When The Morning Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anders? Are you talking to yourself?"
> 
> Anders startled before quickly assuming a smirk. "Of course! It's the only way I get an intelligent conversation."
> 
> Hawke nodded, ignoring a slight shiver that travelled down his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Shakespira for brainstorming with me :-)

Even the hard, draughty floor of Gamlen's bedroom could not keep Fletcher from blissful sleep that night because Fenris had stayed for supper at Leandra's insistence. With Bethany home as well, a very pleasant meal was had by all. Fenris had been quiet and achingly polite throughout but, as he'd relaxed a little, the occasional quip or witty comment had left his mouth. By the time Fenris was ready to depart, Fletcher noted with pleasure that he'd never seen the elf so at ease. That thought was what gently lulled Fletcher to sleep that night, pushing the niggling doubt of how long this happiness would last firmly to the back of his mind.

As his eyes flickered open the following morning, however, that niggling doubt was now the _only_ thing on his mind, and the lightness of body and spirit he'd enjoyed the day before was long gone, his limbs leaden as he reluctantly pushed himself up.

Trudging into the main room, he was greeted by Leandra, who was laying the table for breakfast.

"Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"

"Mm," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "You?"

"Oh, quite well. What would you like?"

"Whatever's easiest for you, Mother." Hawke slumped into a chair at the small dining table. "Do you need a hand?" he asked lethargically.

"No, I'm fine, Beth's helping out. Tea?"

He nodded wearily.

Leandra's gaze lingered on him for a second before she entered the kitchen. "Bethany, my dear," she said to her daughter, sidling up to her. "Fletcher doesn't seem himself this morning."

"Well, that's surprising," Bethany replied with a frown. "I would have thought he'd be in good spirits after last night."

"So would I," answered Leandra thoughtfully. "Go and find out what troubles him, Daughter. He always confides in you."

Bethany placed a hand on Leandra's arm. "You know that's only because he doesn't want to worry you."

"Yes, I know, dear. Do go and talk to him, won't you?"

"I will." Bethany ladled some porridge into a bowl and poured a mug of tea, taking them through to the main room.

"Good morning, Brother," she said brightly, a careful eye on him as she placed the bowl and mug in front of him.

"Morning, Beth. Aren't you having anything?"

"I've already eaten." She took a seat next to him. "Last night went well, didn't it? It seems Fenris ended up having a meal with us after all. That was my idea, you know."

Hawke nodded and picked up his spoon but, instead of eating his porridge, he stirred it and sank back in his chair. "Yes, it was a good night."

Feigning ignorance, Bethany frowned. "Did things not go as you'd have liked last night? You don't seem very enthusiastic about it."

"Sorry, Beth," he said heavily, his head falling back. He stared at the ceiling for several moments while Bethany waited for him to continue. "I had a... _visitor_ during the night," he whispered.

"A visitor? Oh, do you mean…Synia?" she asked, also lowering her voice.

Hawke closed his eyes and nodded.

"And what did _she_ have to say?" Bethany demanded, her voice souring.

"Oh, the usual. She has a new reason to torment me, now--she went on and on about Fenris. How he'd butcher me if ever he found out I was a blood mage, that sort of thing, and why am I wasting my time on a filthy knife-ears? Fucking bitch loves it, doesn't she?" He threw his spoon into the porridge and stood up, walking to the tiny window at the front of the room.

Bethany slowly followed and stopped next to him, taking his hand. He looked down at her hand and then glanced out of the window, not looking at anything in particular.

"How does she even know about Fenris?" asked Bethany.

He took a deep breath, releasing it in a shaky sigh. "Probably because I… I've had a couple of dreams about him. And no, you don't want to know what happened in them." He released her hand and walked back to the table, leaning on it and shaking his head.

"How long has it been since she last visited you?"

"Not since… while we were on our way here, when we were on the ship. She got a kick out of… oh, it doesn't matter." He didn't think Bethany needed to hear that Synia, the demon he had a contract with, had taken great pleasure in reminding him how much pain Carver must have endured before he died. "Do you think I should tell him?"

"I don't know." She returned to his side and pulled a chair out for him. He sat, as did she. "It's not up to me. Only you can make a decision like that."

"I want to tell him, Beth. I don't want to keep something like this from him, something so… _big_. I know something about him that--" He took a deep breath and straightened up in the chair. Bethany quirked an eyebrow but didn't press him for details. "I _can't_ tell him though, can I?" he continued. "Not if there's ever to be a chance of…"

"…Romance?" she finished, and he shrugged. "From what I've seen of his reaction to blood mages, you could be right. I hate to say this, Fletcher, but perhaps it would be best if you didn't pursue a romance with him at all--it could save you both a lot of heartache if ever he did find out. I know how much you like him, but maybe it's better that you feel a bit bad now, instead of being heartbroken later on."

He slumped onto the table and rested his chin on his folded arms. "I don't even know if he likes men. I mean, how do you ask someone something like that? It's so much easier for men who are attracted to women. If they try to chat up a woman, the worst they can expect is a slap or an ale bath. If _I_ were to chat up a bloke, I'd risk a knife in the ribs for my trouble, or a beating at the very least." He sat up and turned to Bethany. "The thing is, I don't know if I _can_ just forget about him. He's so different from everyone else. He's so… I don't know. There's just something about him. I can't stop thinking about him."

"Tell me why," she prompted. She hadn't known her brother to be in love with anyone since he was fifteen, and wanted nothing more than to see him happy. She also needed to know if Fenris was a serious contender for Fletcher's heart--if so, she and her brother would need to come up with a strategy to avoid future hurt... for both men.

Hawke let out a long sigh, settling back in his chair. "He's ridiculously intelligent. Witty, erudite, well-read, despite not being able to read." He chuckled at his quip. "Cautious, elegant, yet courageous. He's everything I'm not."

"Don't do yourself down, Brother."

"I'm not. I'm speaking the truth, and you know it. He's also... gentle and vulnerable. I know you might be surprised by that, but I've seen glimpses here and there. He's very passionate, too--some of the arguments we've had have been awful, and I feel horrible afterwards, but at the same time I feel... _alive_. For the first time in ages. And Maker, he's beautiful. He's a Full House*, Beth."

She nodded, satisfied that her brother was set on this man. "Then you can never tell him, and he must never find out. Who else knows?"

"Besides you, only Varric and Anders. Justice knows, but he doesn't seem inclined to tell anyone. Varric, I trust completely, and he couldn't care less anyway. It's Anders I'm the most concerned about. Under normal circumstances I do trust him, but he has a tendency to run his mouth off when he's het up about something."

"Well, you need to keep Anders away from Fenris, then."

"You mean not take them on jobs together?"

"That's exactly what I mean. I doubt either of them would object to spending less time together."

Hawke considered this, and then frowned. "I _could_ do that most of the time, but there'll be a problem in the future. Anders is a must for the expedition, as is Varric. I wanted to take Fenris as well. I think we'd be quite vulnerable without him."

"Do you think it's likely you'll encounter any demons or blood mages in the Deep Roads?"

"Probably not, no."

"Then hopefully Anders won't get worked up enough to shoot his mouth off. And you could always take Aveline in place of Fenris, if she's free."

He sighed. "You make a lot of sense, Sister. She just… rattled me, that's all."

"That's exactly what she wants, Fletcher. She can see you're happy and she doesn't like it. Ooh, how I wish I could enter your part of the Fade and kill that bitch!"

"I wish I could as well. Only, part of our agreement was that my powers are suspended whenever she visits me. I'm not stupid at all, am I?"

"You were young, Brother."

"That doesn't excuse what I did."

"You don't know that was your fault," she said firmly. "You seem to be the only one who blames _you_ for what happened."

"Why else would he have killed himself?"

"There could have been any number of reasons!"

"Bit of a coincidence though, wasn't it? The very next day? After--" He stood up and pushed his chair back. "I don't want to talk about this. I'm going to get dressed."

"Fletcher, wait."

"I'm sorry, Beth."

He entered his and Gamlen's shared bedroom and closed the door, leaning against it, his mind wandering back to one of the darkest episodes of his life.

Fletcher had been fifteen, and Carver and Bethany thirteen, when one day, over breakfast, a clamour had erupted outside their farmhouse. Fletcher recalled he and his family venturing outside to see what all the shouting was about. The first thing he'd seen was his neighbour, Mrs. Bradshaw, falling to her knees and screaming hysterically.

By now, half of the village had gathered around the barn that the Hawke and Bradshaw families shared. Fletcher's father, Malcolm, had joined the small crowd, wanting to know what had happened. As Mrs. Bradshaw was carried off, still screaming, by some of the villagers, an ashen-faced Malcolm had returned to his family, placing his hand on Fletcher's back.

"Son, I have some bad news about your... friend, Dalton. You should prepare yourself."

"What is it, Malcolm? What's happened?" Leandra had asked.

"Mrs. Bradshaw's son was found… hanging in the barn." He carefully watched his son, protectively standing before him to hide his reaction from the villagers.

"But he was only seventeen!" gasped Leandra.

"He was my friend as well, in case you'd forgotten!" Carver had interrupted.

"We know, dear," Leandra had told him softly, placing one arm around his shoulders, and her other around Bethany, who was crying. "It's just that he and Fletcher were especially close."

"They were bloody close, all right," Carver had sniped before facing his older brother. "I saw you both sneaking into the barn last night! What did you do to him? Did you show him some of your magic tricks? I'll bet you let him play with your staff, didn't you?"

"P-please, Brother... don't." A hot tear slid down Fletcher's cheek as horror held his numb body in place.

"Show some damned respect, Carver, or I'll beat it into you!" Malcolm had given his younger son a thunderous look before turning to his eldest. "Let's get you inside," his father had said quietly, seeing that Fletcher was trembling. "We can't have you weeping out here. You can do it inside, in private." He'd turned to his wife. "I need to go and find Tom, he's out in the fields. I should be the one to tell him. Take care of Fletcher until I return."

Leandra had nodded, and released Carver, holding her hand out to Fletcher. "Come on, darling."

"That's right, give _him_ all the attention!"

"You're for the belt when I get home, lad!" Malcolm had threatened, pointing at Carver, before heading for the fields.

"Stop it, Carver!" Bethany had shrieked. "Everything's always got to be about you! Dalton is dead!"

Fletcher's legs gave way and Leandra caught him, holding him up as he wailed against her bosom. "All of you stop it," she'd said firmly, blinking away her own tears. "We mustn't make a show of ourselves. We must be strong for the Bradshaws. They're going to need us."

"Tell _him_ that, then!" Carver had said as they'd gone back inside the house, turning to the stricken Fletcher once they were inside. "I hate you _and_ your blasted magic! This is all your fault. Everything's always your fault!"

"Well I hate _you!"_ Carver recoiled as his twin sister slapped him hard across the face. "You spiteful shit!"

"Up to your rooms, both of you!"

Leandra had watched the twins depart before turning back to Fletcher. She burst into tears at the piteous sight of her eldest son on all fours on the floor, gasping for breath. "Fletcher, darling..." She knelt beside him and held him as best she could, rocking him back and forth like he was still an infant.

"I loved him, Mother! Why? _Why?"_

~o~O~o~

If Hawke hadn't already arranged to meet Anders, he wouldn't have bothered going to the Gallows at all, much preferring to find a rock to crawl under and die, but he finally managed to dress himself in a tunic and trousers that he'd bought second-hand. They didn't feel any more comfortable than Gamlen's clothing, but at least they didn't look like they'd come out of the Blessed Age.

He'd left the house silently, leaving his staff propped against the wall to let Bethany know he'd gone. He didn't remember walking to the Hanged Man, but would never forget the sight that greeted him when he arrived. Anders was already waiting outside the pub for him, wearing a doublet and shirt, boots and breeches that looked like they'd been painted onto him. His hair was loose.

"Going riding, Anders?" Hawke had asked drily, his eyes wandering to Anders's groin. "Blimey, they don't leave much to the imagination, do they?"

Anders shrugged. "Not my fault a pair of trousers hasn't yet been made that can contain the _beast."_

"You'll be giving those templars ideas, you know," Hawke snorted as they made their way to the docks. "That Cullen seemed a bit uptight to me. Probably missing out on something."

"Cullen? You must be joking! He used to turn into a drooling wreck if one of the apprentices so much as winked at him. Which, of course, only made them wink more," he added with a wink of his own.

As they reached the docks and waited for the boat that would bear them to the Gallows, Hawke felt glad he'd decided to meet with Anders after all. Anders was in a chirpy and sarcastic mood, which always cheered him up, and he felt slightly guilty as he glanced at his ebullient friend.

"Anders… I'm sorry we haven't seen much of each other lately."

"Not your fault, Hawke. I've been busy at the clinic, and after what happened… our argument, I thought I'd better lie low for a bit. I am sorry about that, you know."

Hawke sighed. "Me, too. Do you need any help at the clinic? Is it getting too much for you?"

"No, things are slowing down now. I only got busy because of the ship that arrived from Ferelden. I should be more available from now on, although I do have a few things to do after we've been here."

"That's all right. Have you considered getting some help at the clinic? I mean, I'll help out when I can, but couldn't you find someone to help you regularly?"

"Maybe I should ask the Templars if they have any healers to spare," Anders quipped as the boat arrived from across the harbour. They embarked, Hawke slipping a few silvers to the boatman.

"Or I could advertise," Anders continued. "Let's see... what do you think of this? 'Apostate healers wanted. Long hours, filthy conditions, no pay and the constant fear of being captured by the Templars.' I should be inundated!"

Hawke finally laughed, the first time he'd done so that morning. "I think you need to work on your sales pitch."

"You're probably right. No, it's a nice thought, Hawke, but I don't exactly have healers breaking down my door. I'll manage."

"Actually, I've been thinking," began Hawke.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that! Are you feeling all right?"

"Piss off!"

Anders burst out laughing, as did Hawke, finally feeling the knot in his stomach loosen. "No, I, erm, I was thinking of maybe becoming a full-time healer, once the expedition's out of the way. I know I'm not as good as you, but maybe I could work at the clinic with you? Learn from the best," he added with a cheeky grin.

A dazzling smile lit up Anders's face. He looked genuinely touched by Hawke's proposal. "That would be great! And you're a perfectly good healer, Hawke, you just didn't get the education I did. I'll teach you. I'd be happy to."

They shook hands, and Anders wrapped his arm around Hawke's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "That is, assuming we don't get eaten by the darkspawn in the Deep Roads."

"They _eat_ people?"

"Oh, yes. Most of them carry a little cruet set and a knife and fork, just in case."

"Idiot," growled Hawke, shrugging off Anders's arm.

By the time they'd been rowed across, Hawke's disturbing encounter during the night was all but forgotten, and he quietly resolved to make more time for Anders from now on, although he realised that could be tricky, as he also wanted to see more of Fenris.

"We're here to see Knight-Captain Cullen," Hawke told the templars outside the gate.

"Name?"

"Hawke."

After a short wait, they were escorted to where Cullen was stationed at the foot of the steps leading up to the old prison. As they approached him, Anders plastered a broad smile across his face.

"Cullen! Been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Anders," Cullen said tersely, folding his arms.

"Told you the Tower couldn't hold me, didn't I?"

"You have your friend here to thank for your continued liberty, Anders," Cullen told him laconically. "Were it my choice, you would reside here."

"I see you've grown a stick up your arse since the last time we met! Good for you!" retorted Anders sarcastically.

"Why don't you go and visit some of the stalls?" Hawke suggested, knowing Anders wanted to look around, but also hoping to avoid any unpleasantness.

"Yes, I think I will," chirped Anders. "I can do whatever I like!" With a mocking grin at Cullen, he turned and headed towards a group of Tranquil merchants.

Cullen sighed heavily. "It was not easy to convince my fellows to leave him alone. I would recommend he curbs his… _exuberance_ while here."

"You have a reward for me?" said Hawke, getting straight to the point.

"Indeed I do. Wait here."

Cullen walked up the steps and went through a gate, disappearing around a corner. A short time later, he returned with a small coin purse, which he handed to Hawke.

"Your work is appreciated, Messere Hawke," said Cullen with a glance at Anders, who was standing a short distance away. "That is the only reason Anders walks free. You would do well to remind him of that. Now, I must go. Until we meet again." With a nod, which Hawke returned, Cullen headed back up the steps, still watching Anders, who was now in the middle of the square.

As Hawke turned toward Anders, he opened the coin purse and allowed himself a small smile. It contained ten sovereigns. As he neared Anders, however, he recalled that they had turned ten mages over to the Templars. Was that the value the Chantry placed on one mage? A sovereign?

Slipping the bag into his pocket, he glanced at Anders who was a few feet ahead, apparently having a quiet conversation with himself.

"Anders? Are you talking to yourself?"

Anders startled before quickly assuming a smirk. "Of course! It's the only way I get an intelligent conversation."

Hawke nodded, ignoring a slight shiver that travelled down his arms. "Well, I'm ready to go, are you?"

"Yes, I think I've seen all I need to see."

"What do you make of the place?" Hawke queried as they made their way to the boat. "Was it what you expected? Anything like Kinloch Hold?"

"It's _worse_ than Kinloch Hold." Anger flashed in his eyes and then he took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "Anyway, I need to get back to the clinic. Thanks for bringing me here."

"All right," Hawke replied, his eyes narrowing a little as they embarked the small vessel.

In sharp contrast to his ebullient mood on the way over, Anders was very quiet on the way back. After a few attempts on Hawke's part to engage him in conversation, he gave up, and they travelled back to the mainland in silence.

"Might see you at the Hanged Man later, Hawke," Anders said once they'd arrived back in Lowtown.

"Yes, probably. Anders… are you all right?"

"Me, Hawke? Always!" Anders offered his hand and Hawke shook it. "Have a good day."

"You too." Hawke watched his friend walk away, whistling to himself.

Hawke made his way home to change, finding that, on the way, Anders would not leave his mind, although he didn't know why. Something… Hawke shook his head, hoping to dismiss the sense of vague unease that lingered on the periphery of his thoughts.

When he arrived home, he was relieved to find no one there and quickly donned a robe, took up his staff, and headed for Hightown.

~o~O~o~

Hawke met with Varric and Sebastian at the chantry just before lunchtime. After a few pleasantries, they walked down the steps and waited in the square for Fenris, who had also promised to meet them.

"Does the elf know what time he was to meet us?" Varric asked Hawke after they'd waited for a while.

"Yes, we arranged it last night. I told him we'd meet him here at twelve bells. What time is it now?"

Sebastian glanced up at the bell tower atop the chantry. "By my reckoning, it's close to half past twelve."

"It's not like Fenris to be late," mumbled Hawke, frowning.

"Perhaps we could call on him?" suggested Sebastian. "Where does he reside?"

"Hightown Estates."

"Well, that's where we need to go, anyway. Shall we?" Sebastian walked ahead, Hawke and Varric following him up the steps.

"This is where Fenris lives." Hawke indicated the first building on the left.

 _"That_ old place?" said Sebastian, raising his eyebrows. "I'm surprised anyone lives there. It's a little dilapidated, isn't it?"

"It does him just fine," Hawke snapped, annoyed by Sebastian's apparent snobbishness, but more troubled by the hot fluttering in his chest that told him something was wrong.

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it, Serah Hawke," Sebastian replied pleasantly. "My apologies."

"Right, um, yes… sorry," mumbled Hawke, regretting his waspishness.

"Want us to go on ahead, Hawke?" asked Varric, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, I'll… _we'll_ catch up to you."

"The Harriman estate is second on the left, around that bend," Sebastian told Hawke, pointing the place out to him.

"Right."

"Come on, Choirboy," Varric instructed Sebastian, who laughed softly.

"Choirboy? My, that's a new one!" he chortled, following the dwarf.

Hawke waited until they were out of sight before approaching the front door of the mansion. He knew there could be several reasons why Fenris was late. Fenris, however, had never been late in all the time Hawke had known him, except once: the time Hawke had found him in unconscious in his room.

Releasing a breath, Hawke made a fist and rapped hard against the door. If Fenris _had_ collapsed in a stupor again, Hawke had no idea how to enter the mansion now that a lock had been fitted on the door, unless he ran after Varric and asked him to pick it.

He felt his heart start beating again as a quiet shuffling sound came from behind the door, and then a click. The door was opened by a pale, bleary-eyed elf, clothed in a long, white nightshirt which was obviously human-sized. Under any other circumstances, Hawke would have laughed at the sight.

"Yes, Hawke?"

"You're not dressed yet?" Hawke asked in consternation. "We were to meet at the chantry, remember?"

"Oh," Fenris mumbled, slurring his words. "Is that the time already?"

"Have… have you been drinking?" Hawke took a step closer to Fenris, who backed away, and sniffed at the air.

"Of course I've been drinking," protested the elf. "Drinking is vital to one's survival."

"I _meant_ alcohol! I can smell it on you!"

Fenris closed his eyes for a moment, bracing his hand against the door when he swayed slightly. "I am... terribly sorry, Hawke. I will be out shortly." Fenris went to close the door but Hawke pushed it back and stepped inside, firmly closing it behind him.

"What's going on, Fenris?"

Fenris shook his head and turned away. "You-you would not understand."

"You're right, I don't. I thought… I thought we'd had a good day yesterday. What's changed since then? Has something happened?"

"No." Fenris's shoulders slumped and Hawke noticed how delicately Fenris was built without his armour on, feeling like a lumbering giant next to him, even though he was only a few inches taller than the elf.

"Allow me to dress," mumbled Fenris as he trudged up the stairs.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes," Fenris lied, not wanting Hawke fussing over him. "I will not take long."

Hawke watched as Fenris disappeared into his room, closing the door softly behind him, and took a seat on the settee where he'd previously slept. Worry, confusion and anger in combination assaulted his thoughts. When Fenris had left his home the previous night, it had been with a smile on his face. He'd been happy, relaxed, at ease. Had something happened to Fenris on the way home? Hawke had offered to walk him home but Fenris had declined, telling him a mage was much more at risk on the streets at night than he was. Why hadn't he insisted? He quickly stood up and began to pace, all manner of scenarios running through his mind.

After a short while, Fenris emerged, fully-clad in his armour with his sword at his back. "I apologise for my tardiness," he said as he made his way down the stairs with great care, pausing once or twice when he felt dizzy. "Let us be off."

"You're not going anywhere in that state."

"I can fight. That is why you want me to accompany you, is it not?" argued the elf, although there was no heat in his voice.

"I wanted you to come with me because you're my friend, and I like having you around, that's why," Hawke replied, frustration creeping into his voice. "And, because I'm your friend, I'm concerned about you. Talk to me. Did something happen to you on the way home last night? Did someone attack you? Insult you?"

"No… nothing like that happened," Fenris mumbled quietly, staring at the floor.

"Then I don't understand. Last night you seemed so happy when you left. We had a nice day, didn't we? Or am I wrong?" Hawke wracked his brain, trying to recall a moment when he'd slipped up and had said something to offend Fenris. "Did I do something wrong? Please tell me, because I'm really having a hard time figuring this out."

"You did nothing wrong," Fenris assured him, his eyes still firmly on the floor.

"Then what? Was I… was I a bit loud last night? Or was it when I told Donnic he wasn't allowed to recruit you? I was only joking, you know. I wasn't trying to speak for you or anything. If you want to join the Guard, then go ahead. I can't tell you what to do, nor would I ever try. It was just a joke."

"I do not wish to join the Guard." Fenris raised his head and, as his eyes met Hawke's, the sadness in them almost stole Hawke's breath away.

"Fenris… what's the matter?" Hawke asked in an unsteady voice, and cleared his throat as the elf slowly walked to the settee, removed his sword from his back and sat down, meshing his fingers together in his lap.

"I am not certain you would understand."

"I don't understand _now_. I'm confused. I thought… I thought we had a good day yesterday."

"We did." Fenris closed his eyes and forcefully released his breath. "Yesterday was… probably the best day of my life, at least that I can remember."

Utterly confused and devastated that such a seemingly-mundane day would mean so much to Fenris, Hawke turned his back on him and rubbed his face hard, feeling a lump form in his throat.

A brief, humourless laugh escaped Fenris and he took a deep breath. "I know that you and I quarrelled briefly, but after that… when I defeated Donnic and we returned to the barracks… he introduced me to all of his friends, who lauded my abilities. And then, you and I dined together, and we laughed, and you invited me to your home and I dined with your family… never before have I felt so… welcome, so accepted."

"Then what's wrong?"

"It's… it's all a lie, isn't it?"

"What do you mean by that?"

Fenris stood up, a scowl darkening his features, but he did not look at Hawke. "I am an elf, a former slave and a fugitive. Yesterday I believed… I forgot all of that. I forgot what I was. Yesterday, I was a warrior who was admired by the guards. I was a former slave who would learn to read--such a thing is unheard of in Tevinter. I was a friend to someone. I dined with a family and felt for a short time that I was part of that family, so welcoming were they."

"Fenris--"

"But none of that belongs to me, does it? The family is not mine. Even this house is not mine. This _life_ is not mine. What is the point of teaching me to read? Sooner or later, Danarius will come for me and this _lie_ will collapse like a house of cards in a gale. And sooner or later, Hawke, _you_ will pay the price for considering me a friend."

He turned and sat back down on the settee, his head in his hands. Hawke cautiously neared the settee, standing at the side of it. "May I sit with you?" he asked the elf.

Fenris scooted to the far end of the settee, leaning away from Hawke. "If you wish."

Hawke took a seat on the settee, leaving as much space between the two of them as he could, not wanting to make Fenris feel crowded. "What do you mean when you say I will pay the price?"

"When I escaped from Danarius, I was taken in by a group of rebels who called themselves Fog Warriors. They were good to me, and before long I became… fond of them. I even started to believe after a time that they felt the same about me. I remained with them for a few months, and life was good. I admired them. They were strong and answered to no one. And then..." His voice broke with his last word and he fell silent, staring at the far wall.

"Let me guess. Danarius found you?"

"He found me. The rebels refused to let him take me."

"What happened?"

The sadness returned to Fenris's eyes and he glanced at Hawke briefly before his gaze returned to the wall. "Danarius was wounded by the rebels. He-he knew he could not prevail against them, and so ordered me to kill them."

A sickening feeling came over Hawke, then, but he did his best to keep his voice steady. "And… what did you do?"

Fenris's body slouched, and his hands fell limply into his lap. "I killed every one of them."

Hawke blinked several times, and the rustling sound as Fenris fidgeted on the settee became almost deafening against the absolute silence that pervaded the room. "Why?" Hawke asked after a while. "Why would you _do_ that?"

"It felt inevitable. My master had returned, and that lie was over. Just as _this_ is a lie. Danarius will come for me, eventually, and when he does, I do not want to think what will happen."

"But you're not a mindless puppet. You have free will. You don't have to obey him anymore."

Fenris shook his head. "You don't understand. Danarius is… charismatic, persuasive. Perhaps it is a magical ability of his. I find myself compelled to obey his commands." He once again looked at Hawke, his eyes wide. "I have known you for a matter of weeks. If I could kill those I'd known for months..."

"I don't believe you'd kill me."

"Why not? I _am_ a killer. That is what he made me."

"We're _all_ killers, and there's a lot more to you than just that. And when Danarius does come for you, I _will_ be here. That bastard deserves to die twice, especially after what--" He huffed and glanced at the fireplace.

"After what?"

Hawke stood up, moved to the fireplace and stood with his back to Fenris, stroking his beard. "I… I know what he did to you."

Silence hung between them again, and Hawke heard the creak of the settee as Fenris stood up. "Perhaps we should depart. This… Sebastian is in need of our assistance," said Fenris, hefting his sword onto his back.

"I'm sorry, Fenris, I shouldn't have--"

Fenris walked to the door, holding it open. "Are you ready?"

Hawke slowly turned to face him and nodded. "Will you be all right?"

"Speaking of Danarius is curiously sobering," said Fenris flatly. "Let us go."

"When we've finished with Sebastian, we _are_ going to start your reading lessons," Hawke said firmly. "I won't take no for an answer. And that's not me ordering you to do anything. It's me being a stubborn arse."

"You are that," Fenris replied quietly and walked through the doorway, leaving Hawke to follow. Once outside, Fenris locked the door.

Hawke walked a few feet in front of him and, as they rounded the bend that led to the Harriman estate, Hawke said under his breath, "Taunt me all you like, bitch. I'm not giving him up. It's too late for that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *See chapter 31, 'Full House', for an explanation of this.


	21. Hawke The Negotiator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So… what do you think, Fenris? Was the lesson all right? Do you think you'd like to continue?"
> 
> Fenris set the bowl down onto the counter and seemed to consider Hawke's words seriously. "Not particularly," he remarked with a slightly impish smile, "but there _is_ your health to consider."

After discovering that a desire demon had been responsible for the slaughter of Sebastian's family and, after killing her, Fenris, Hawke and Varric accompanied Sebastian back to the chantry as he wished to pray for the souls of the Harriman family. Before they parted ways, Sebastian compensated Hawke generously for his aid, pledging his assistance to Hawke and his companions if ever they needed it.

Although Hawke thought Sebastian went on about the Maker a bit much, he seemed a decent enough fellow, and was deadly with a bow. Hawke asked him if he'd be interested in joining their expedition into the Deep Roads, and Sebastian readily accepted, promising to make himself available when the time came.

"So, what are you kids up to this afternoon?" asked Varric as they reached the bottom of the steps outside the chantry. He'd noticed some tension between Fenris and Hawke or, if it wasn't tension, they were both rather subdued, and he'd made an effort to lighten their mood, having limited success. He'd also noticed that Fenris had appeared unsteady on his feet a couple of times, although the elf hadn't wavered when it had come to protecting them all from the demon.

"Well, firstly, I thought I'd offer Sebastian a permanent job," Hawke quipped. "It's about time we had a decent archer in our little gang," he added with a sly glance at Varric.

"Hey, say what you like about me, Hawke, but don't hurt Bianca's feelings."

"I wouldn't dream of insulting Bianca. I _did_ say the archer, not the weapon."

"Well, I hope you and Choirboy will be very happy together," Varric said in the easy, mellow voice he always spoke with. Hawke had never heard the dwarf so much as raise his voice, or sound annoyed. "How about you, Elf?" Varric asked Fenris. "Anything exciting on the agenda?"

Fenris, who had turned one of his feet inward and was examining it carefully, started a little and stared at the dwarf. "I beg your pardon?"

"I asked if you had anything exciting planned this afternoon?" Varric repeated, watching Fenris expectantly.

"Actually… Hawke is going to attempt to teach me to read." Noticing Hawke's head snap in his direction, Fenris turned to Fletcher but did not look at him. "I am not ashamed."

"Well, good for you, Elf!" sang Varric, unthinkingly clapping Fenris on the shoulder, who stumbled a little, quickly correcting his posture. "Sorry about that," muttered Varric, his eyes moving to Hawke.

"How about you, Varric?" asked Hawke.

"Thought I'd spend a little time with Sunshine. Actually," he said in a quieter voice, "I wanted to speak to you. Maybe later?"

"Everything all right?" Hawke asked in concern.

Varric's easy smile immediately reassured him. "Everything's perfect. Let's talk later, okay?"

"Sure, Varric." They shook hands and, as Varric turned away, Fenris called him back.

"Dwarf." Fenris took a step forward, proffering his hand, and Varric shook it, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

"I wanted to shake your hand, Elf, but I wasn't sure… anyway, you two enjoy your lesson. I'll catch you both later." Releasing Fenris's hand, he walked off, leaving Hawke and Fenris alone.

"It's great that you can shake hands with people now, Fenris," Hawke said quietly. "I'm really pr-well, shall we get started?"

Fenris nodded mutely and they took the short walk to the Hightown Estates, a strange mood settling over them both now that Varric had gone. Fenris seemed to have no desire to talk at all, which only made Hawke feel an acute need to fill the silence with prattle.

"As you're, um, a bit, well, _oiled_ ," Hawke began, "our first lesson might not quite stick in your mind as well as it normally would, so we'll repeat it tomorrow. Would that be all right? If, I mean, we had a lesson every day? It would probably be best or, if you liked, you could take a break now and then. It's up to you, Fenris. I'm sure you don't want me hanging around you all the time."

As Fenris gave a vague nod, Hawke cleared his throat, realising he was wittering. He knew he had an uphill struggle to convince Fenris that it _was_ worth learning to read, and also of convincing Fenris that he was _capable_ of doing so.

"We'll just start off nice and simply today," he continued as they reached the top of the steps leading to the old mansion. As the taciturn elf produced his key and opened the door, Hawke had to fight off the temptation to grab him by the arms and shake him.

_Talk to me! Maker, Fletcher, why did you have to go and tell him that you knew? I know he knew that I knew, but why did you have to say it? Idiot!_

"I will make some tea," Fenris said quietly as they entered. "Where do you wish to conduct the lesson?" Although Fenris had little enthusiasm for his reading lesson, he knew that Hawke had enough for them both. He was also aware, after talking to him the evening before, that Hawke had gone to a lot of effort to prepare, so didn't want to appear ungrateful.

"How about the dining room?" suggested Hawke. "That big table will come in handy, although you might want to cover it. I wouldn't want to ruin the nice polished surface."

"The table does not belong to me. Do with it what you will."

Hawke released a long sigh and waited until Fenris had gone before entering the dining room. He opened the drapes and a couple of windows. His father, who had taught him his letters and how to read, had always insisted that fresh air was healthy and conducive to learning. Hawke had no idea whether that was true or not, but did what his father would have done, nonetheless.

He opened the small bag slung across his hip and took out a small stack of papers, some parchment and several sticks of charcoal. When Fenris had left his house the previous evening, Hawke had retrieved a few chunks of the charred wood from the fireplace, carefully breaking it into small sticks.

When Fenris arrived with the tea, Hawke was seated at the table with his papers spread out in front of him. "You have gone to a lot of trouble," observed Fenris, setting the cups down. "You should not have-"

"We're going to do this properly," said Hawke as Fenris took a seat opposite him. "Uh… it would be best if you sit next to me. You don't want to learn to read upside-down, do you?"

Fenris sighed softly through his nose and stood up, bringing his tea to the other side of the table. Hawke pulled out the chair next to him and Fenris took his seat, leaning slightly away from Hawke on his elbow.

"Right," began Hawke. "The very first thing we need to do is to teach you your letters." Remembering what his father had done when he was young, he took the small stack of papers and removed the top five pieces, placing them in a line on the table; each had a letter of the alphabet written on them. "Today, you're going to learn the first five letters of the alphabet. I'm not suggesting that you aren't capable of learning more than that in one day, but if we keep things simple, they'll be more likely to stay in your head."

Fenris glanced at Hawke and nodded.

Taking the first piece of paper, Hawke placed it in front of Fenris along with a piece of charcoal. "There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet, and this is the first, 'A'."

"'A'," Fenris repeated.

"You can speak the common language, so you should be able to name a few things that begin with 'A'," Hawke prompted, looking around the room. "Can you do that for me?"

Looking uncertain, Fenris glanced around briefly and shrugged.

"'A' can be pronounced in three different ways," Hawke told him. "There's 'A', which is a short, sharp sound, there's 'Ay', and there's also 'Ah'."

Fenris's brow creased for a moment as he thought hard. "Armour?" he asked, pointing to his chest.

"That's right," Hawke said with a bright smile. "Anything else?"

Fenris sat up straight in the chair and looked around the room again. "Armoire."

"Very good," Hawke encouraged. "What else?"

Fenris scanned the entire room, looking up at the ceiling and behind him, and Hawke allowed himself the small hope that Fenris was beginning to take an interest. "I cannot see anything else," said Fenris, shaking his head.

"Well, neither can I," agreed Hawke. "Try to think outside of this room. "What other things have you seen that begin with 'A'?"

"Is this really necessary?" asked Fenris quietly.

"Of course! It will reinforce the letter in your mind. Every time you look at the armoire, or your armour, you will know that they begin with the letter 'A'."

"But I already know that."

"Who's the teacher here, you or me?" Hawke teased.

"Very well," Fenris agreed with a sigh, and rested his head on his hand as he began to think.

"'A', 'Ay', and 'Ah'," Hawke repeated.

"Apple," Fenris said after a moment and, with an enthusiastic nod from Hawke, came up with a few more examples.

"Well done, Fenris," said Hawke, hoping he didn't sound condescending. He pushed the piece of paper closer to his pupil. "That is the letter 'A'. Look at it. I want you to think of one word beginning with 'A' that you could associate it with."

Fenris thought about that for a moment. "Well, as I usually wear armour, I would choose that. Is that… correct?"

"There's no right or wrong answer. It's _your_ word. Whenever you look at your armour – if you're not in the middle of a fight, that is – I want you to think of the letter 'A' and remember the shape of the letter, how it's formed. Can you do that?"

Fenris nodded. "I can do that."

Hawke reached for a piece of blank parchment and his own stick of charcoal. "Now, I'm going to show you how to write the letter 'A', and then, _you'll_ write it."

"Write?" asked Fenris sharply. "You did not mention writing."

"But you have to learn to write as well as read. The two go hand in hand with each other."

Fenris stared at the small piece of paper in front of him and pushed his chair back, walking to the window. Hawke, unsurprised, remained in his seat and took a deep breath.

"You did not say anything about writing, Hawke. I cannot do both at the same time," Fenris said irritably.

"If I'd mentioned writing as well, you never would have agreed to do this in the first place."

"So, you know what I am thinking, now?"

"It sounds a lot, doesn't it? Learning to read _and_ write? But I never would have offered to teach you if I didn't think you were capable." Hawke turned in his chair a little, half-facing Fenris. "I'm going to make a confession, now, which might embarrass you a little, but here goes," he began. "I… sort of look up to you."

"What?" the elf laughed in derision.

"It's true. Not only can you speak two languages, which I can't, but you have the largest vocabulary I think I've ever heard in anyone before. I have to admit, once or twice you've said a word I didn't know the meaning of, and I've had to look it up when I got home, although I'd never have embarrassed myself by admitting _that_ in front of everyone. That word you used yesterday… knighted?"

" _Be_ nighted," Fenris corrected.

"Right, that one. I don't have a clue what that means, although I think I caught its meaning in the context of the conversation. Does it mean stupid, or something similar?"

Fenris turned to face Hawke and sat upon the window sill. "It means… ignorant, unenlightened."

"Well, you're hardly that. I meant what I said. You really are the most intelligent person I know. I don't waste my time with insincere flattery. If I say something, I mean it."

"And yet, I cannot read or write."

"Which is not your fault," Hawke insisted. "Reading and writing are just basic tools. You already have the intelligence, which will make our task that much easier. You just need to work on your confidence, that's all. I know you can do this, Fenris. I wouldn't waste my time on a thicko."

"A… 'thicko'?"

"Ha! I've turned the tables on you!" Hawke laughed. "I said a word that _you_ don't know the meaning of." He poked his tongue out at Fenris, who shook his head and snorted softly.

"I doubt that is a word at all, but I think I caught its meaning in the context of the conversation," answered Fenris, his posture relaxing a little.

"Well then, there you go." Hawke turned back to the table and picked up a stick of charcoal. "Shall we continue?"

Hawke waited for a few minutes and, eventually, Fenris sat next to him, apparently having decided to resume. Hawke took a sip of his tea and Fenris did the same, watching as Hawke produced two small objects from his bag, both of them wrapped in clean napkins.

"Here you go," said Hawke, passing one of them to Fenris. "Something to go with our tea."

Fenris glanced askance at Hawke before slowly unwrapping his small gift. "Cake," he said with a wry smile. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Hey, I haven't had anything to eat, today!" Hawke protested. " _And_ I've walked up the steps. I don't think a bit of cake's going to hurt."

Fenris raised the cake to his nose and smelled it.

"It's fruitcake," Hawke explained. "There was no shortbread left. _Someone_ finished it off last night."

Fenris pressed his lips together, failing to hide an embarrassed grin. "That would explain it, then. What is this?" he asked, pointing to a thin, yellow crust on the slice of cake.

"Marzipan," Hawke replied with his mouth full, crumbs falling into his lap. "It's made from almonds."

Fenris sniffed at the cake again before taking a small bite. "It's very rich," he remarked, taking another sip of tea. "I like it, but I prefer shortbread."

"You know…" Hawke cast a crafty glance at Fenris. "If you sit through this lesson with me, _and_ if you pass the test at the end-"

"Test?"

"Yes, a test. You'll breeze it. _If_ you do that, I'll show you how to _make_ shortbread. It's easy, and you have everything you need in the kitchen."

"I could make my own shortbread?"

"You could make as much as you like. You could eat _nothing_ but shortbread if you wanted, although I wouldn't recommend that. You'd end up as fat as me."

"You are not fat," Fenris argued, peeling the marzipan off the cake and taking another sniff at it.

"I'm at least a couple of stone over the odds, and these robes hide all manner of sins."

"Perhaps you merely need to be more physically active," suggested Fenris, taking a tentative bite of the marzipan, his eyes lighting up as he quickly took another bite.

"Well, if you also agree to have a reading lesson every day, that means I'll be walking up the steps at least once a day, which will help. So, if you refuse to have regular lessons, you'll be causing considerable damage to my health."

"You are attempting to blackmail me," Fenris accused with a mite of amusement in his voice.

"That's such an ugly word! Tell you what, I'll sweeten the deal. I'll show you how to make marzipan, as well. You seem to like it."

"Blackmail," Fenris repeated.

"Although we would have to purchase some eggs and almonds for the marzipan. I don't think you have any of those in the kitchen," said Hawke thoughtfully.

"Hawke?" asked Fenris. "'Almonds' begins with 'A', doesn't it?"

"It certainly does," Hawke confirmed, smiling. "Now, the sooner we get this lesson, and your _test_ finished, the sooner Fenris will have shortbread in his belly again. Let's get started."

~o~O~o~

Having passed his test with flying colours, Fenris was led to the kitchen by Hawke as promised. "This is the easiest thing to make, ever," Hawke told him, assembling some of the ingredients together. "You need one part sugar, two parts butter and three parts flour. What could be simpler?"

"That's all?"

"That's all. Some people put spices in the mixture, but personally, I think that ruins it. You could try it, though, that's the best thing about cooking. You can experiment, make the recipe your own."

"I do not wish for the recipe to be altered."

"All right, then." Hawke tipped some sugar into a large mixing bowl and added some butter. He then passed the bowl to Fenris with a fork.

"What must I do with this?"

"Just mash it all together, and when the butter starts to soften, stir it so it goes all creamy. Name me two things that begin with 'B'."

"What?"

"Oh, the lesson isn't over, Fenris. Learning is a constant process, you know."

Fenris paused, and then looked at what Hawke had just passed to him. "Butter… bowl?"

"Correct. I'll go and fetch some flour."

When Hawke returned, he measured out a quantity of flour into another bowl and placed it on the counter next to Fenris. "Now that the butter's all creamy, you slowly stir the flour in. Just a bit at a time, though, otherwise you'll get lumps."

Fenris nodded and added a small amount of flour to the mixture. "While you were gone, I thought of a few more words."

"Oh, yes?"

"Bread, counter, ceiling, creamy, board… chopping board? You said that the letter 'C' could also sound like 'S' or 'Tch'."

"Very good, Fenris," said Hawke with a proud smile. "I knew you'd have no trouble with this."

"And, although we have none at present, 'eggs' begin with 'E'."

"Well, now you're just showing off!" Hawke laughed.

Fenris hung his head bashfully and, for a moment, Hawke was seized by an impulse to clasp Fenris's chin and raise his head, and then... Instead, he cleared his throat.

"So… what do you think, Fenris? Was the lesson all right? Do you think you'd like to continue?"

Fenris set the bowl down onto the counter and seemed to consider Hawke's words seriously. "Not particularly," he remarked with a slightly impish smile, "but there _is_ your health to consider."

Hawke placed his hand over his heart. "Well, I'm honoured that you would make such a sacrifice for the sake of my health. You have a deal. Put it there."

Hawke held out his hand and was delighted when Fenris shook it with little hesitation.

~o~O~o~

After the shortbread was made and, after sampling several pieces of it to ensure that Fenris had 'used the correct technique', Hawke invited Fenris to the Hanged Man for a drink. Fenris politely declined, telling Hawke that he had not yet undertaken his daily sword training. Hawke resisted the temptation to ask if he could stay and watch, and they arranged a time the following day to conduct Fenris's next lesson.

Hawke left the mansion with a spring in his step, and tried very hard to ignore a few more nagging doubts that had planted themselves into his mind, uninvited. Not that he thought Fenris was lying, but had he used the sword training as an excuse? Did he think he was seeing too much of Hawke? Was Hawke being overbearing? Fenris _was_ very polite, after all. Would he really tell Hawke that he was making a nuisance of himself, if that were the case?

There was also the thought of what tomorrow would bring. Hawke and Fenris had spent another pleasant afternoon together, which pleased Hawke immensely, but also worried him. Fenris had obviously spent a restless night going over what had happened the day before. He'd been made to feel accepted and welcome several times that day, which was clearly something he was not used to, as it appeared to have greatly disturbed him.

Something else that Hawke had noticed was that Fenris, for all of his promises to make Danarius suffer and to give him a slow death, was genuinely frightened of his former master's return, and felt powerless against him, almost fatalistically so. A heaviness settled in Hawke's stomach at that thought, and also at the thought of Fenris spending yet another night alone at the mansion. Fenris was a very capable warrior, and fought with a vigour and passion that belied his wiry frame, but could he really hold off a magister who was possibly capable of mind control among other things, as well as his henchmen?

The heaviness in Hawke's stomach turned into a sinking feeling, and for a few moments he seriously considered returning to the mansion that night to check on Fenris and to offer him some kind of reassurance, but he knew deep down that he couldn't do that. He didn't want Fenris to feel suffocated by him, nor did he want to give his own feelings away. Fenris had opened up to him that morning by telling him about the Fog Warriors and, as much as Hawke wanted to know more about Fenris's past, he knew the one thing he must not do was push too hard.

A thought occurred to Hawke as he walked along. Although he'd promised to speak to Varric, he knew that the dwarf would be at the Hanged Man later that evening and, as Hawke was still in Hightown, he decided to make a detour to the barracks.

As Hawke hadn't made an appointment to see anyone at the keep, he had to wait in line, and then had to wait again for Aveline as she was in the middle of a briefing. When he was finally shown into her office, she immediately apologised.

"Sorry about all the waiting, Hawke. I've told the guards at the front that your name is to be permanently put on the list. At least that way, even if I'm busy when you call on me, you can wait inside where it's a bit warmer."

"I've told you what to do, Aveline. Just give me a key."

Aveline gave Hawke her sternest look as she rifled through several documents on her desk. "You _know_ that's not going to happen."

"Well, let me cut in line, then," he suggested cheekily.

Aveline straightened up and folded her arms.

"All right, all right," he laughed. "It was worth a try. How are you getting on?"

She sighed and took a seat at her desk, inviting Hawke to sit in the chair opposite. "Jeven left a right bloody mess for me. It's going to take a while to sort out. My highest priority at the moment is the patrols."

Hawke gave his best approximation of a sage nod, and fidgeted slightly in his chair. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something about the patrols," he said casually.

"Did you?"

"Yes. I was wondering how well-protected the estates in Hightown are at night."

"Hightown? Why do you need to know that? You live in Lowtown, don't you?"

"I'm just curious, that's all."

"Hawke," she said, leaning across the desk. "I can't give out details of the patrols to just anyone, you know. Not without a very good reason."

"But I'm not just anyone, am I?" he answered with a charming smile. "Look, I'm not planning anything illegal, if that's what you're worried about."

She looked at him for a moment with slightly-narrowed eyes. "What's this about, Hawke?"

He shrugged and then sighed. "Fenris lives in one of the houses on the Hightown Estate."

"I'm aware of that. What's that got to do with anything?"

Hawke sat back in his chair and examined his fingers for a few moments. "I'm concerned about his safety. For the Maker's sake, _don't_ tell him I told you that," he added quickly.

"Why, Hawke? Have you heard something?" she asked seriously, taking up her quill.

"As you don't know Fenris very well, you might not know this, but somebody's after him."

" _After_ him? Is it an authority of some kind? Because if it is, I don't think I can interfere in that, Hawke."

"Authority? No! It's someone who wants him dead, and I want to know how strong your patrols are in Hightown, okay?" he demanded with more heat in his voice than he'd intended.

Aveline held her hands up. "All right, Hawke, calm down. I need a name and a description."

"I don't know what he looks like," answered Hawke, releasing a long breath. "I only know that one day he's going to come for Fenris, and he's on his own in that place." Hawke started to bite his thumbnail, and Aveline could see that he was genuinely worried.

"Who is he, Hawke, and what does he want with Fenris?"

"I'll tell you, Aveline, but this stays between us." Aveline nodded, and Hawke told her about Danarius - although he left some details out - Fenris's markings, and a few other things he considered pertinent. "Danarius is a magister and blood mage. He's very powerful, and I'm just… if he ever did return, I don't think Fenris would stand a chance. Every time I call on him at the mansion, I half expect him not to be there."

Aveline sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "Do you have any indication as to when this Danarius might show up?"

"None. It could be today, tomorrow…" Hawke stood up and sat on the edge of the desk. "He could be there right now for all I know." He released his breath in a sharp burst. "I know I'm asking a lot, Aveline, but I just want more of a presence in Hightown. From what I've seen, the patrols there are very few."

"There's never been much need for a strong Guard presence in Hightown," she explained. "Most crime occurs in Lowtown or Darktown. Those steps certainly are a deterrent."

"Danarius won't care about the blasted steps when he comes for Fenris!" Hawke insisted heatedly, pushing himself away from the desk. He rubbed his forehead and sighed, turning back to Aveline. "I'm sorry. I'm… he's all alone there. I'm worried about him."

"Yes, I can see that," she replied evenly. "Thing is, Hawke, would a couple of extra guards really make a difference against a magister?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hawke said wearily, his shoulders sagging. "I don't want to place your guards in danger, Aveline, but…" He shook his head and sat back down, resting his head on his hand.

"You know, we do have a few ex-templars on the books," she mused. "They're posted in Darktown at the moment because of the apostate underground movement, just in case there's any trouble. Not that the Templars have ever discovered the whereabouts of the movement's base. They're bored out of their minds down there."

"Templars?" asked Hawke, his eyes widening.

"Hmm," mumbled Aveline. "I suppose they'd appreciate a change of scenery. They're not really doing any good in the Undercity, anyway. I suspect the apostates know their patrol routes like the back of their hands."

Hawke sat up straight. "You'd… you'd move them to Hightown?"

"This is a big favour you're asking, Hawke, but I can see it's important to you." She stroked her chin. "I'll have to come up with a reason for them being there, although I daresay the nobles won't complain. Mind you, the nobles _always_ have something to complain about. I think they should all spend a week in Darktown to see what _real_ life is like. All right, Hawke. I'll sort that out for you."

Hawke sighed, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Oh, Aveline… I can't thank you enough, really."

"I want a favour in return, though."

"Anything," he answered, grinning like an idiot.

She noisily cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. "I, um…" She beckoned him closer and he leaned across the desk, intrigued. "You'll be at the Hanged Man later, won't you?"

He nodded.

"Well, I want you to, uh… you know Donnic, don't you? Yes, of course you do, you _did_ come to the coast with him. Of course you know him. Tall fellow with dark hair?"

"Aveline, stop babbling and tell me what you want me to do."

"I am babbling a bit, aren't I? I do that sometimes, although you wouldn't think it. It's a bad habit of mine-"

"Aveline!"

"All right, all right. I… want you to invite Donnic out for a drink. Tonight. At the Hanged Man."

"Why?"

"Never mind why! Just do it, all right?"

"Aveline, if you want to ask him out for a drink, why don't you ask him yourself?"

She shrugged. "I can't, Hawke. It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Says who?"

"Says me," she insisted. "I just want to sort of bump into him, you know?"

A huge grin spread across Hawke's face. "I _knew_ you were sweet on him."

"Shhh!" she hissed, glancing at the door. "I'm not exactly sweet on him, I just want to get to know my guards a bit better, that's all."

"Uh-huh," mumbled Hawke. "So, you want me to ask the rest of the guards out for a drink, then?"

"One at a time, Hawke," she answered, unable to meet his eyes.

"I see."

"Hawke, just tell me whether or not you'll do it," she snapped.

"I'll do it," he answered with a chuckle. "Anything to help the spirit of _camaraderie_ among the guards."

Aveline smiled lopsidedly and absent-mindedly shuffled a few papers around her desk. "Thanks, Hawke."

He stood up and stretched. "Is he here?"

"No, he's on patrol at the moment in central Lowtown."

"Thank the Maker for that! I thought for a moment you were going to say he was at the bloody Wounded Coast or something."

"I wouldn't have put you through another walk there, Hawke," she answered with a warm smile.

"About eight bells?"

She nodded. "Thanks again, Hawke."

"No, thank _you_ , Aveline. I really can't tell you how much I appreciate your help. And thanks for understanding."

"The former templars come on duty at six bells, so I'll give them their new assignment then. I think they'll be quite pleased, actually."

"You're the best, Aveline. I guess I'd better go and find Donnic, the first person on your… list," he said with a wink. "I'll see you later."

"I'll be there, Hawke," she promised, and saw him out of the office.


	22. Something Beginning With 'Q'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris looked back up but averted his eyes when they met Hawke's. "Whenever magic is cast upon me, it reacts with my markings. Danarius… Danarius often used magic upon me as a means of control. Even healing magic is painful."

On his way out of the keep, Hawke was distracted by a commotion at the top of the stairs in the main reception hall. A harried-looking Seneschal Bran was surrounded by several rough-looking types, all of whom wanted his attention at the same time. Hawke wondered how they'd been granted entry into the keep in the first place and, his curiosity getting the better of him, he moved a little closer, standing at the foot of the stairs.

From what Hawke could gather - after listening for a while - the rough types were mercenaries, either individuals or groups, and all seemed to be vying to secure a job on behalf of the viscount, with some offering bribes to the clearly-disgusted Bran.

"The viscount's office will not grant exclusivity to any one party," Bran told them haughtily, fanning his hand in front of his face, presumably because of the pungent aroma of sweat and beer hanging in the air. "The reward will be paid to the first person, or persons, to bring back the viscount's son alive and _safe_. You will _leave_ , now."

The mercenaries, finally getting the message, began to depart and, as some of them glanced at their rivals, their pace increased as they neared the foot of the stairs where Hawke was standing. One woman, who looked to be in need of a good bath, bumped Hawke's shoulder as she barged past.

"Guardsman Braddock," Bran called from the top of the stairs, and one of the guards at the door stepped forward. "See these… _people_ out."

"Come on, you lot!" commanded Braddock and Bran, who by now looked quite pale, took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it over his nose and mouth, and turned toward his office.

"Seneschal Bran?" Hawke asked, taking the stairs two at a time to catch the administrator before he disappeared. Bran stopped, turned around slowly, and shot Hawke a look of pure disdain.

"Yes?"

"I couldn't help hearing something about the viscount's son and a reward. I might be interested in helping."

Bran shook his head. "There are quite enough of your kind already involved in this matter. Your _help_ is not required." He turned on his heel and strode toward his office.

"Oh, fair enough," Hawke said brightly. "Guess I'll see you the next time you visit the clinic. With that… _problem_ of yours that seems to keep cropping up. Be seeing you!" Hawke also turned on his heel and started down the stairs, hearing a slight choking sound from behind him.

"One moment."

Hawke bit back a laugh and put on his most solemn expression as he turned around. "Yes?" he asked, echoing Bran's patronising tone.

Bran took a few steps forward, uncertainty in his narrowed eyes. "You are the one who assisted Acting Guard-Captain Vallen, are you not?"

" _Am_ I?" asked Hawke with exaggerated innocence.

Fighting to restrain himself in the face of this impudent upstart, Bran folded his arms and stretched his lips into an insincere smile. "Perhaps someone with a little more class is called for in this matter."

"And what matter would that be?"

"The viscount's son, Seamus, has… misplaced himself. His last known whereabouts were somewhere along the coast. The viscount has not ruled out foul play. The swift and safe return of his son is imperative."

"I'll need a description of him," said Hawke, and Bran provided him with one. "Any idea where on the coast he'd be?"

"No. Perhaps you could ask the people who have just left? I'm certain you would find them _most_ helpful," Bran offered sarcastically.

"That's very decent of you," Hawke replied with equal sarcasm. "And I'm sure you'll find Anders _most_ helpful the next time you have your little _problem_."

Bran shifted uncomfortably and his false smile turned into a grimace that made the man look constipated, and Hawke sailed down the steps, grinning from ear to ear. Knowing that other parties would also be attempting to rescue Seamus, Hawke decided to gather as many of his friends together as possible, and returned to the mansion to call on Fenris.

After Hawke had knocked and waited for a short time, Fenris opened the door. He'd obviously been in the middle of some intensive training, as he was drenched in sweat and his hair hung in damp strings around his face. He had removed his breastplate and wore only leggings and a thin white shirt, which was soaked through and clung to the contours of his chest, offering a tantalising glimpse of dark nipples beneath. For a moment, Hawke completely forgot what he was going to say, and stood staring at Fenris with his mouth gaping open.

"Is... something wrong?"

Hawke blinked. "No! Uh, I-I'm sorry to interrupt your training, Fenris, but a big job's just come up, and I wondered if you wanted in? It's on behalf of the viscount, so it should pay well. I know I said I'd see you tomorrow, and I didn't want to disturb you again, but I didn't want to leave you out, either."

"Must we leave immediately?" asked Fenris, pushing his damp hair out of his eyes.

"As soon as possible."

"I would like to change, first."

"Of course. Tell you what, I'll run to the chantry and see if Sebastian wants to come along. Meet me there when you're ready?"

Fenris arched an eyebrow. "You are going to _run_ to the chantry?"

"Well, there's no need to be like that!" Hawke laughed, and Fenris smiled lopsidedly. "I'll _walk_ very quickly to the chantry, then."

"That sounds more realistic," remarked Fenris and, as he closed the door, a beaming Hawke strolled to the chantry, first taking a few calming breaths.

Sebastian agreed to help and they waited for Fenris in the square. When Fenris arrived, they went to Lowtown and called in at the Hanged Man, hoping to find Varric or Isabela, but unfortunately neither of them were there. Remembering that Varric had said he was going to spend some time with Bethany, Hawke decided to leave them to it. Their next stop was the alienage, where a very eager Merrill joined them, and finally, they travelled to Darktown in the hope that Anders would be free.

Upon entering the clinic, Anders was tending to a woman with a minor injury, but appeared to have no other patients. When he'd finished treating her, Hawke introduced him to Sebastian and explained the job, asking if he was free to help out.

"All right, Hawke… the coast, you say?" Anders took Hawke aside so the others couldn't hear. "There's a series of tunnels beneath Darktown, one of which leads to the coast. It's just that, well, it's part of the _underground_ ," he whispered. "We _can_ use it, but I don't want the others knowing what it's used for."

Hawke shrugged. "They don't need to know, do they? It's just a tunnel."

Anders grinned and relaxed a little. "Thanks, Hawke. It should shave a bit of time off the journey, and it would mean that we don't bump into those other mercenaries on the way."

"That's a great idea, Anders," said Hawke, and they joined the others. "Anders knows of some tunnels that will take us directly to the coast. They'll be dark, though, and there will probably be a few rats about. Anyone have a problem with that?"

" _Rats_?" Merrill exclaimed, aghast. "Eww. I don't know if I fancy that."

"Between you and me, Merrill, I'm not over-fond of them, either," Hawke told her with a wink, and she smiled nervously.

"Well, _I_ don't mind rats," said Anders. "I'm used to them, living down here, and I'll need to go in front, anyway. Hawke, I suggest you take the rear, and we can both light up the tunnel. Merrill, you can go in the middle, if it makes you feel better."

Merrill, surprised that Anders was being friendly to her, smiled a little. "Oh, well, that's very thoughtful of you, Anders. Yes, I'd like to do that, if it's all right with everyone else?"

Her male companions nodded. "I will walk behind you, Anders," volunteered Sebastian. "If there are any rats ahead, I'll pick them off with my bow," he said with a kind smile at Merrill.

"I think that's settled, then," Hawke declared, pleased that for once his companions seemed to be getting on well, and he made a mental note to take Sebastian along on future jobs, as he'd fitted in well and seemed very amicable.

Anders extinguished the lamp that hung outside the clinic, indicating that he was out, and led the group to a secluded corner of Darktown. "This is where we need to go," he whispered, pointing at a wooden trapdoor. He glanced around and raised the hatch, lowering himself down. "We'll have to crouch for the first hundred yards or so, but it opens out after a bit." As Anders bent down and disappeared into the tunnel, a faint white glow followed him as he produced some light with his staff. Sebastian went after him, followed by Merrill, Fenris and finally, Hawke, who closed the trapdoor behind him.

"Ooh, this is proper spooky," Merrill muttered as soon as the hatch was closed. Hawke tapped the ground with his staff and a faint halo of light appeared around him to match that of Anders's.

"Better, Merrill?" he asked, summoning a wisp and instructing it to stay close to her.

"A bit. Thanks, Hawke."

"The tunnel will open out in a little while," Anders called from up ahead.

"Fenris," whispered Hawke, and the warrior turned his head back a little. "Name me something beginning with 'D'."

"Dark," Fenris answered immediately, and Hawke chuckled.

"Now, name me something beginning with 'B'."

In the dim light, Hawke noticed Fenris's shoulders shake a little. "Black?" he guessed.

"Very good!" Hawke joked. "Well, that's me out of ideas."

Fenris laughed quietly, and Hawke watched as the pale light reflected off Fenris's white hair, noticing how soft it appeared to be. And, although Hawke had never noticed any discernible odour to Fenris before, due to their close proximity, Hawke occasionally caught the faint tang of fresh sweat from the elf, following his training session. Something stirred inside of Hawke, deep in the pit of his belly, and he took a slow, deep breath, his grip on his staff tightening.

"I have one," ventured Fenris. "Something beginning with 'C'."

"Are you two playing 'I spy' back there?" asked Sebastian.

"Something like that, yes," answered Hawke, shifting his focus back to the game. "'C', eh? Hmm. Let me think…"

"Cold," Merrill guessed.

"Incorrect," answered Fenris.

"Cavern? Cave?" asked Anders.

"No. Your time is running out."

Hawke grinned to himself, delighted to see Fenris joining in with the others. "Hang on, Fenris! Give us a bit longer."

"Cramped," Sebastian ventured.

"You are correct, Archer," Fenris called out.

"Aw, _I_ was about to say that!" moaned Hawke.

"Too late, my friend," Sebastian teased.

"It's opening out, now," Anders told them, and they all straightened up as they emerged into the main tunnel.

"All right, I have another one," said Hawke. "Something else beginning with 'D'."

"Dangerous. Depressing. _Doomy_ ," stated Merrill.

"'Doomy' isn't a word!" Hawke asserted.

"Actually, I believe it is," Fenris corrected him.

"All right, Mr. Smarty-Pants With the Huge Vocabulary," Hawke sniped.

Once again, Fenris's shoulders shook and Hawke laughed along with him. "Well, whether it's a word or not, which it _isn't_ , it's not the one I want."

"It _is_ a word," Fenris uttered quietly, smiling as Hawke harrumphed from behind him.

"I'm turning left," called out Anders, and the rest of them followed him.

"My feet are getting wet," Fenris said. "I know what your word is. 'Dank'."

Hawke didn't answer.

"Well? Am I correct?" asked Fenris, turning back to face the mage.

"No," Hawke answered quickly, looking dead ahead.

"Oh? And which word _were_ you thinking of, then?"

"I'm not telling you that until you guess correctly," Hawke answered with a shifty glance at the elf.

"I believe I already _have_ guessed correctly. You are attempting to stall me so that you can think of _another_ word beginning with 'D'."

"How _dare_ you," Hawke accused, his laughing eyes betraying him. Fenris affected a disappointed expression and shook his head, a brief smile dancing across his face as he turned away.

"Actually, the word I wanted was… 'dim'," claimed Hawke.

"Bollocks, it was," Anders muttered from up ahead.

" _Please_ , serah, there is a lady present here," Sebastian scolded.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

"What does 'bollocks' mean?" Merrill asked innocently.

"Over to you, Sebastian," said Anders.

As Sebastian spluttered out a refusal to speak of such matters in front of a lady, a faint hissing sound could be heard from the rear of the group as Hawke tried unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter with his hand. "Sorry, Fenris. I neglected to mention that word during our lesson. You _were_ learning the letter 'B', after all."

"And glad I am of it," Fenris replied drily.

"Well, now you _do_ know that word. So, every time you look at your-" He sniggered and cleared his throat. "Well, I'm sure you'll remember it, anyway."

"Childish. _Very_ childish," remarked Fenris, his shoulders trembling slightly as he faced away from Hawke.

"Well, if _I'm_ childish, then so are you - you _are_ laughing," Hawke retorted.

"I am doing no such thing."

"Take no notice of them, Sebastian," joked Anders. "They don't get out much, and they get a bit overexcited when they do."

"I know exactly how they feel!" agreed Merrill effusively. "It _is_ exciting to go out, isn't it?"

Hawke failed to hear what Merrill said as Fenris turned back slightly and cast an amused glance at him before once again facing forward, causing Hawke's stomach to somersault.

~o~O~o~

By the time Hawke's group had exited the tunnels and located Seamus, they realised they were too late. From their hiding place among the dunes they spied a young man matching Seamus's description surrounded by one of the gangs Hawke had seen at the keep. Seamus was on his knees next to the body of an enormous warrior, and the woman who'd looked like she needed a bath stood next to him, with half a dozen men keeping watch.

"What in the Creator's name is _that_?" asked Merrill, referring to the fallen warrior.

"It's a Qunari," Anders answered quietly.

"Not necessarily," Fenris disputed. "He may be one of the Tal-Vashoth, namely, one who has turned his back on the Qun."

Although Hawke had seen a Qunari before, in Lothering, most of Fenris's sentence was lost on him, but he nodded anyway. Merrill, however, made no such pretence at understanding.

"What the bloody hell are you going on about, Fenris? What's a Qunari when it's at home? Or a Tal... whatever you said."

"They are heathens," opined Sebastian. "Their kind has been at war with the Chantry for ages. A Qunari contingent arrived in Kirkwall only recently, but so far their intentions are unclear."

"They are a proud and mighty race," countered Fenris. "Whatever your opinion of their beliefs and values, that fact cannot be denied."

"I certainly would not deny that, Fenris," Sebastian answered with an apologetic bow.

"Well, what shall we do now?" Hawke asked the group. "The mercenaries have won fair and square. Looks like we've wasted our time."

"Wait, Serah Hawke," said Sebastian. "That woman appears to be threatening the young lad."

Sure enough, as Hawke turned his attention back to Seamus, the grubby-looking woman cuffed the boy around the head and waved a dagger at him.

"That's the viscount's son, Hawke!" Anders exclaimed in alarm.

"Looks like we'd better step in, then. Sebastian, Merrill, Anders, spread out and keep yourselves hidden until you're needed. Fenris, come with me."

As the others began to spread out as instructed by Hawke, Fenris turned to him. "You should also conceal yourself, Hawke. You are not sufficiently protected."

"Sorry, Fenris, I'm not letting you face them on your own."

"I will not be alone," argued the elf. "I have dealt with many of their kind before. I do not fear them."

"I _know_ you don't fear them, but even _you_ would struggle against half a dozen of them. It only takes one arrow. Remember that night at the coast? That was too close."

"You would be better placed to prevent any attacks upon me from a concealed position," Fenris insisted with a hard edge to his voice.

Hawke shook his head. "No. I won't allow you to go in alone unless you let me protect you."

"You will not _allow_ me?" Fenris demanded with a scowl. "Who do you-"

"I'm _not_ arguing about this."

They glared at one another, neither prepared to back down. From the corner of his eye, Hawke spotted Anders's head bobbing over the top of the bush he was hiding behind, as a different argument broke out between Seamus and the woman who was threatening him.

"You vashedan bitch! What did he ever do to you? My father will hear of this, and when he does-"

"Just get going, you snotty little shit!" the woman ordered, pointing the dagger at his chest. "I couldn't give a rat's arse what your father thinks, so long as we get our money!"

"Hawke, _do_ something!" Anders hissed from his hiding place.

Hawke, his eyes still locked with Fenris's, folded his arms. "Decide quickly, Fenris. Time's wasting."

"Pertinax asinus!" growled Fenris, his scowl deepening.

"Asinus? Are you calling me an arse?"

"I am calling you a stubborn ass, because that is precisely what you are!" hissed Fenris. He growled again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How will you protect me?" he snapped.

"Just a quick spell, one that will increase your awareness and your resistance to injury."

"Do it quickly, then," Fenris ordered with displeasure, "but do not touch me."

Hawke stretched one arm out toward Fenris and placed his other hand over his eyes, whispering to himself. Fenris immediately felt his skin tighten and all of his senses became heightened. He could hear Hawke's breathing, could see the fine pores on his face, and could smell the soap he'd used that morning.

"It's done," Hawke told him, removing his hand from his eyes.

With a final withering look at the mage, Fenris turned and stalked into the clearing where Seamus and the woman were still arguing.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" demanded the woman upon spotting the elf.

"Release the boy," commanded Fenris, and the woman and her lackeys burst out laughing.

"Please, Ser Elf," pleaded Seamus, "these thugs killed my friend." Fenris glanced down at the dead man and quirked an eyebrow. "And now they're going to claim some sort of reward for finding me. They cannot be rewarded for murder!"

"They will _not_ claim their reward," Fenris said with a cold smile, readying his sword.

"And you're going to stop us on your own, are you, you knife-eared bastard?" challenged the uncouth woman.

"He's not on his own, you stupid cow!" called Merrill from behind a dune.

"Spread out!" the woman commanded, and her lackeys looked around in confusion, not knowing which direction to go.

"Paralyse them!" ordered Hawke.

As Anders, Merrill and Hawke began casting, Sebastian shot a warning arrow that glanced off the woman's boot. She immediately grabbed Seamus and held a dagger to his throat. "Back off!" she snarled as Fenris began to circle her.

"You will not harm him," sneered Fenris as the woman's lackeys were turned into statues by the three mages, and Sebastian emerged from his hiding place, an arrow trained directly between the woman's eyes.

"You won't even have time to blink if I release this arrow," he threatened. "Now, unhand the boy at once."

"Hoy! That's our bounty!" called a voice from further up the path and immediately, all eyes turned in its direction - all eyes, that was, except for Fenris's.

"Shit! Another group of mercenaries has arrived!" guessed Hawke. "Merrill, come with me, we'll distract them! Anders, Sebastian, stay with Fenris!"

As Hawke and Merrill ran up the path, Fenris took advantage of the woman's lapse in attention and lunged at her, sending Seamus sprawling onto the ground. She staggered and slashed wildly with her dagger, inflicting a severe gash to Fenris's cheek.

"Run!" Fenris commanded Seamus, who scrambled to his feet and darted for cover. At the same moment, an arrow whistled through the air and pierced the woman's shoulder; she yelled in pain and dropped her dagger, falling to her knees.

Sebastian immediately nocked another arrow and strolled into the clearing, followed by Anders, who renewed the paralysing spell on the thugs. "Fenris, are you all right?" asked Sebastian.

Fenris touched his cheek and glanced down at his bloodied hand, rubbing the crimson liquid between finger and thumb, a murderous glint in his eyes as he began to charge up the path.

"Fenris, that needs to be healed!" protested Anders, to no avail.

"Holy Andraste!" exclaimed Sebastian as Fenris's markings blazed. "What-what's happening to him?"

"It's a unique ability of his," Anders said with a shrug. "Don't worry, the others will be quite safe now he's gone to help them. Keep an eye on this lot," he instructed Sebastian as he walked to where Seamus was hiding to check the boy for injuries.

"Anders, can you do something for this woman's pain?" asked Sebastian. "I know she attacked us, but she's suffering a great deal."

"In a minute," called Anders as he beckoned Seamus out. "We need to tie them up, first."

As Sebastian looked around the makeshift campsite for rope, loud cries from up ahead pierced the air as two hearts were ripped out of their chests, and then silence fell. After a few moments, Hawke, Merrill and Fenris entered the clearing, and Merrill ran to assist Sebastian in securing the thugs, leaving Hawke and Fenris to continue bickering.

"I _need_ to take a look at that, Fenris!"

"It is fine. The bleeding has almost stopped."

"It'll scar if it's not healed immediately, just-"

"Then it will scar."

Hawke gasped in astonishment. "And you call _me_ stubborn?"

"You _are_ stubborn!"

"Pertinax asinus!" spluttered Hawke, and Fenris came to a dead stop, his eyebrows slowly rising as he glanced at the mage.

"You remembered."

"Of course I remembered! It's a perfect name for you!"

"I used it first."

Hawke placed his hands on his hips, furious with his mouth for smiling against his wishes. " _Now_ who's being childish?"

"I see only one person, Hawke."

"I could throttle you sometimes, do you know that?"

"Is that a healing technique of yours?"

Hawke started to snigger and Anders - who, having checked Seamus over and had begun to heal the bound leader of the mercenaries – watched them with interest.

"A special technique, just for you, Fenris," Hawke laughed. "It's a cure for _stubborn bastarditis_. Now let me see to that cut on your face."

A look of uncertainty came over Fenris, then, and he glanced at the rest of their companions.

"Fenris, when are you going to get it into your head that I'm not going to hurt you?" Hawke asked gently.

Fenris sighed and walked a short distance away from the group, and Hawke followed him.

"I do not believe that you would injure me on purpose," Fenris told Hawke when they were out of the others' earshot.

"What is it, then?"

Fenris looked down at his feet and shrugged. "Magic… magic causes me pain."

"What?"

Fenris looked back up but averted his eyes when they met Hawke's. "Whenever magic is cast upon me, it reacts with my markings. Danarius… Danarius often used magic upon me as a means of control. Even healing magic is painful."

Hawke's face dropped like a stone. "Shit... why didn't you say something?"

Fenris shrugged again. "Clearly, you were not going to back down. Action needed to be taken to aid the boy, so I acquiesced."

Hawke clutched his forehead and closed his eyes. "Oh, Maker. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"Of course you had no idea. I had not told you."

Hawke took a deep breath and released it slowly, opening his eyes. "Does healing magic cause you a lot of pain?" he asked Fenris. "Because that cut really does need to be healed. I… wouldn't want you to have a scar."

"It does not cause as much pain as other spells, no, but it is still uncomfortable."

"Will you let me heal you? I promise to be as quick as I can." Hawke tilted his head slightly and imagined Fenris with a huge, ugly scar running across his cheek, the thought of which sickened him. "That face of yours shouldn't have a scar on it."

Suddenly realising what he'd said, Hawke released the breath he'd been holding and turned away from Fenris, expecting a strong reaction from the elf.

"If you are quick, then."

Hawke's heart hammered in his chest as he turned around and he fumbled in his small pack for a clean piece of cloth and a small jar of purified elfroot extract to clean the wound with. "It needs to be cleaned, first," he said quietly, unable to look at Fenris as he moistened the cloth with the clear liquid.

"I will do that," Fenris offered and Hawke passed him the cloth, toying with his fingers while Fenris dabbed at the cut until the blood was removed from his face.

"I, um… I need to touch your face, Fenris,"

Hawke heard a sharp intake of breath, and the elf nodded but did not speak.

"Ready?"

Fenris nodded again, his eyes glued to the ground, and Hawke raised a slightly-trembling hand to Fenris's face, gently resting his fingers against the elf's cheek. Hawke closed his eyes and sternly reminded himself that he was a healer and that he must act professionally, although his need to run his hand through Fenris's hair and claim his lips almost consumed him, and his stomach burned fiercely as those two needs warred within him.

"Here goes."

Swallowing hard, Hawke opened the Fade and banished all other thoughts from his mind as he concentrated. Warm, soothing energy flowed from his fingers onto Fenris's skin, and Hawke willed the flesh to close, picturing it in his mind. After a few seconds, he heard a quiet hiss from Fenris and doubled his concentration, determined to cause Fenris as little discomfort as possible.

Hawke retracted his hand with great effort, almost feeling as though it was magnetised with Fenris's skin. He blinked his eyes open and stepped away from Fenris, whose gaze remained upon the ground.

"Was that all right?" he asked anxiously.

Fenris raised a hand to his face and stroked his healed cheek. "It was… fine. Thank you," he said in almost a whisper before clearing his throat. Without another word, he headed back to the clearing, leaving Hawke with almost-liquefied insides.

~o~O~o~

After a long journey back to the keep, Hawke and his friends turned the mercenaries over to the city guard and collected a generous reward for Seamus's safe return from the viscount himself. Hawke gave everyone a cut, keeping a few sovereigns back for the kitty as he always did.

Remembering that Varric wanted to speak to him, Hawke asked the others if they'd like to join him at the Hanged Man. All of them accepted with the exception of Fenris, who again politely declined but didn't give a reason.

As they all exited the keep, Fenris looked at Hawke and held his gaze when the mage looked at him.

"You lot carry on, I'll catch up in a bit," Hawke told the others.

"What are you drinking, Hawke?" Sebastian asked.

"Whatever you're having," he replied with a grateful nod.

"I don't drink alcohol, Hawke."

"Of course you don't," Hawke laughed. "I'll have an ale, then, thanks."

"Ale it is," said Sebastian and he, Merrill and Anders walked away, although Hawke was aware that Anders's gaze had lingered on him for a few seconds before he'd departed.

"Everything all right, Fenris?" asked Hawke and, not knowing what to expect, his belly fluttered.

"I have been thinking," began the elf. "This morning, when I told you about the Fog Warriors-" He paused, searching for the right words. "You reacted in a way I did not expect."

"How so?"

"Well, you did not react at all, or at least you appeared not to," Fenris said thoughtfully. "I expected you to react with fear or disgust, but you did neither. I was… surprised."

"I don't believe it was your fault."

"I took their lives," insisted Fenris. "Their blood is on my hands." He shook his head as Hawke began to protest again. "What I am trying to say is… you did not judge me. What I did was shameful at best, and yet, you…you did not reject me."

"We've all done things we're not proud of. I'm no exception."

"Perhaps," Fenris mused quietly. He looked up at Hawke, although he didn't quite look directly into his eyes. "I wanted to thank you. You have proven to be a good friend."

Hawke smiled softly. "Well, I'm honoured that you consider me a friend. You can… you can talk to me about anything, you know."

Fenris nodded and straightened his posture. "Well, I shall see you tomorrow, for our lesson?"

"Are you sure you don't want to come for a drink?"

"I am not one for crowds," Fenris said with a thin smile. "Perhaps another time."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Of that, Hawke, I have no doubt." In a gesture that touched Hawke each time he did it, Fenris held out his hand, and Hawke shook it warmly.

"See you tomorrow, Fenris," Hawke said as he released the elf's hand. "I hope you sleep well."

"You, as well, Hawke." With a single nod, Fenris turned and walked away.

Hawke watched him until he was out of sight and sighed to himself, a little reassured that at least there would be a stronger Guard presence in Hightown that night. After waiting a few more minutes, he began to walk in the opposite direction, the feel of Fenris's skin against his own replaying in his mind over and over again as he walked along.


	23. You're Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you and I are both still single when we're old and grey, I'll marry you. You'll just have to do without the sex bit, that's all, although we'll probably both be too knackered to even think about that."
> 
> "Careful, Hawke," Aveline warned. "I might take you up on that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Shakespira for her beta services!

By the time Fenris had returned to the mansion, the sun had begun to set and the property was in semi-darkness when he entered. Locking the door, he let his head fall back and rotated it several times, allowing his tense muscles to relax. He then proceeded to perform a sweep of the mansion, as he did each night before retiring, starting on the lower level.

When Varric had fitted the lock to the front door, he'd taken a tour of the mansion with Fenris and had offered several suggestions on improving security. The windows in rooms that were not currently in use were firmly locked, Varric smearing the catches with an acidic coating which would badly burn any intruders coming into contact with it, even after it had dried. Another suggestion that Varric had made was to coat all of the door handles with a fine dusting of flour, and to leave a small line of it outside each internal door; that way, it would be obvious if any doors had been opened without Fenris's knowledge, and the flour would leave a trail of footprints.

Thankfully, none of the flour had been disturbed and, after completing his check, Fenris went to the fireplace in the main vestibule of the mansion. He always kept a fire lit there; not for warmth, but to save him the task of constantly having to rekindle the fire for candles, which was a time-consuming and sometimes painful process: the constant striking together of two pieces of flint made his hands hurt and sometimes caused them to seize up.

He took a few candles from atop the mantelpiece, lit them, and set them down again before throwing a few faggots of wood onto the fire. He then began to close the drapes around the mansion, first in the dining room, then the vestibule. Finally, he took one of the candles up to the room at the top of the stairs where he spent most of his time and closed the door, setting the candle down on a small table.

In one corner of the room sat his bathtub, towels and soap. He'd already drawn water from the well and filled the tub before he'd begun his training session earlier, and the water was as cold now as it had been then.

Removing his sword and breastplate and setting them down, he moved to the window and looked out over the square, as he also did each night. Routine was important to Fenris. Not only did it keep him disciplined, but it also helped him to remember. The thought that all traces of his life up until three-and-a-half years ago were gone forever was something Fenris did his best not to dwell on, as the very thought of it troubled him deeply. Without his memories, he had no identity besides that of being a slave. What kind of person had he been before he'd received his markings? Had he been a good man? Had he been evil or cruel? Had he ever loved anyone or had anyone loved him? Did he have a family?

His new circle of acquaintances spoke of their past so easily, so casually. Anders often talked about his time at the Circle in Ferelden and his life on the run; Hawke and Bethany reminisced about when they were children and their time on their farm in Lothering. The only person he didn't really know anything about was the dwarf, Varric, but then _nobody_ seemed to know much about him. In some ways, the dwarf was the person Fenris felt most at ease with; the others had no idea how difficult it was for Fenris to hear them speak of their families, their friends, their pasts. Although Fenris always listened to their tales politely, he found he had nothing to bring to those conversations, which only exacerbated his feelings of isolation and of being at odds with everyone else.

He found Hawke to be easy company as well as Varric, but in many ways, Hawke made him feel more confused and lonely than anyone else did. Although he and Hawke didn't always see eye-to-eye, Fenris had to admit that, during the few weeks he'd known the mage, he'd laughed and smiled more than he'd done in the preceding three years. Hawke was a very confident person - or at least appeared to be - who made friends very easily. Fenris wasn't and, although he admired Hawke's ability to fit in with most people and into most situations, he also found that very quality a little intimidating.

Hawke was also a very generous man who took care of his friends and family. That much had been evident from their first meeting, although Fenris had at first suspected Hawke's motives. And now, only a short time later, Hawke was teaching him to read, and bringing him small gifts of food; he'd also been behind Varric improving the security of the mansion.

Hawke had also listened to Fenris's confession about the Fog Warriors without judging him. That had been the first time Fenris had spoken of it to anyone. Fenris found Hawke very easy to talk to, and that was no doubt one of the reasons Fenris had confided in Hawke, although if he was honest with himself, he'd also wanted to gauge Hawke's reaction. Surely all of this generosity on Hawke's part must mean he wanted something in return? So, he'd decided to tell Hawke one of his darkest secrets, fully expecting the mage to show his true colours and react with the disgust that Fenris felt he deserved.

Hawke, however, had not shown his true colours. Or had he? Was this kind, thoughtful and understanding Hawke the _real_ Hawke? When Hawke had listened to his tale earlier that morning, the answer had been so clear; Hawke's soft voice and kind eyes had convinced him, albeit for a short time, that Hawke understood and accepted him. And, when Fenris had called Hawke a friend, he'd meant it. When Fenris was with Hawke, everything seemed clear, straightforward.

It was when Hawke wasn't around, though, that Fenris felt confused. It was when Fenris returned to the empty, chilly mansion each night that uncertainty would settle over him. Hawke was no longer there, and his comforting words seemed a distant memory. Fenris had been alone, and had learned to do without others, for so long that he wore his loneliness as a shield, something that would always be there for him and would never let him down. Lately, though, that shield had begun to feel uncomfortable, cumbersome, like it no longer fitted properly.

Something else that Hawke had said had given Fenris pause. Hawke had vowed to stand at Fenris's side and help him put an end to Danarius when the time came, despite the fact they were both mages. Had Hawke really meant that? Didn't all mages stick together? Fenris then cast his mind back to the time at the coast when Hawke had turned the blood mages over to the Templars, despite fierce opposition from Merrill and Anders. Perhaps Hawke really did judge others by their actions, and nothing else? Was it about time Fenris did that? _Could_ he do that?

Although Fenris now had a friend – at least someone who _appeared_ to be a friend - he still felt out of place pretty much everywhere he went. How could he _not_ feel out of place, when he had no identity, when even _he_ didn't know who he was? Would he ever feel settled? Would he ever find somewhere he could call home? Would he ever really be free?

With a sigh, he closed the drapes and began to undress. Until he'd met Hawke, the shirt and pair of leggings he wore had been the only ones he'd owned. Now, though, thanks to his regular earnings, he'd been able to buy a few more from a trader in the alienage, and could now afford to pay a woman in Lowtown to launder his clothes - a small decadence he allowed himself.

Although his clothes were dirty, he still folded them carefully, placed them on the back of a chair, and moved to the bathtub. He eased himself in, hissing as his bottom made contact with the frigid water. Slowly, he lay down in the tub and let the water lap over him, shuddering until he became accustomed to the temperature. He still felt an echo of Hawke's magic lingering along the edges of his markings, which the water eased a little. He reached for the soap and worked up a thin lather in his hands, not an easy task in cold water. When he'd finished soaping himself he splashed cold water over his body and heaved himself out, shivering as he wrapped a towel around his shoulders.

After drying himself, he sat on the edge of his bed and placed his right foot on his left knee. This was the foot he had the most trouble with for some reason and, as often happened, the heel had cracked and was bleeding; thankfully, the skin on the soles of his feet was so hard he felt little pain. Although all clothing he wore caused him some discomfort, he'd found it impossible to wear boots or any kind of footwear since receiving his markings; it was just too painful for his feet to be confined for long. As a result, he was forced to go barefoot, and had to check his feet constantly for cuts or scratches.

Lying down on the bed, he reached for a small jar of ointment he kept on his night stand. He sat up and opened the jar, scooping out a little of the gloopy substance and smearing it on his heel. He used a lot of this ointment, which had antiseptic properties and stopped the bleeding. He'd learned the formula from the Fog Warriors, and was now able to craft his own.

He allowed himself a wry smile. Hawke, who always travelled with a veritable apothecary of potions and ointments in his pack, would no doubt find it ironic that Fenris made his own ointment. He then looked down at the small jar and thought of the Fog Warriors, as he did frequently. Allowing grief and shame to wash over him, he sighed, stood up, and looked down at the bed.

Since receiving his markings, Fenris hadn't slept for more than an hour or so at a time. Either his markings would begin to hurt after a while, or he'd be woken by nightmares - well, memories, really, of his time with Danarius and the magister's apprentice, Hadriana. Also, he'd been conditioned to rise early, and no matter how tired he was, he could not get back to sleep after a certain time. He both welcomed and dreaded bedtime; sometimes his slender body felt close to collapse, and he'd want nothing more than to crawl into bed but, more often than not, the very act of sleeping was exhausting in itself.

He looked at the bed again and decided he couldn't face it just yet. He walked to his dresser and retrieved a clean shirt and pair of leggings and, once dressed, he strapped his breastplate on and picked up his sword. He then made his way to the front door of the mansion, hesitating for a moment. With a glance up at his room, he thought of his bed again, shook his head, and opened the door, locking it behind him.

~o~O~o~

Fenris paused outside the Hanged Man for a few minutes and nodded at some of the regulars who greeted him on their way out. Although they didn't know him, they were sure they'd seen him somewhere before so erred on the side of politeness, as did Fenris.

When they'd gone, Fenris, still not really sure what he was doing there, took a deep breath and entered the pub, lingering in the doorway as he scanned the room. To his relief, he couldn't see Isabela or Anders anywhere, but neither could he see Hawke or Varric. Realising he was in the way of a few more punters who were on their way out, he turned to leave.

"Fenris? Did you change your mind about coming?"

He turned to see the archer from the chantry approaching him. "Sebastian," he said with a nod.

"Are you coming in?" asked Sebastian, arriving beside him.

Fenris smiled awkwardly and glanced around the packed room. "I, um… perhaps not. I am not certain why I came."

"For a drink, I assume," said Sebastian with a chuckle. "Come on, my shout. What do you drink? Ale?"

"No," Fenris replied quickly, remembering what had happened when he'd sampled Bethany's ale. "What is that you have there?"

Sebastian raised his mug. "Oh, this? Ginger beer. A _real_ man's drink," joked the archer. "This'll put hairs on your chest."

"That is unlikely," Fenris answered with a smile, feeling a little more at ease.

"Are you here to see Hawke?" asked Sebastian, leading Fenris to the bar. "He's in the corner with Varric. I think they're discussing something private, so I left them alone. I've been getting to know some of the regulars in here. They're quite an interesting bunch."

Fenris nodded, his eyes wandering to a small table in a corner where Varric and Hawke appeared to be having a serious discussion.

"What'll it be then, Fenris?"

"Um, red wine, please."

As Sebastian ordered his drink, Fenris continued to watch the dwarf and mage at the table, wondering what they were talking about. He then turned away and shook his head, scolding himself. It was none of his business.

"Here you go, Fenris." Sebastian passed Fenris his wine, and the elf nodded in gratitude. "So, tell me a little about yourself. We didn't have an opportunity to talk earlier, except during our game of 'I spy'."

"There is not much to tell," Fenris said modestly. "I am not very interesting."

"I understand from Hawke that you're a former slave who escaped from his master. I'd call that _very_ interesting. You must have quite a story to tell."

Fenris hesitated, and Sebastian shook his head. "Forgive me, serah. I did not mean to pry."

"No, it is all right. You are not prying. It's just-"

"I understand," said Sebastian with a small bow. "You came here to relax. My apologies once again, Fenris. I will not speak of it again."

Feeling a little guilty, Fenris was about to tell Sebastian that he didn't mind discussing it, just not here, when his attention was diverted by someone calling his name from the entrance. Fenris turned and nodded as Donnic squeezed his way through the crowd to the bar.

"Fenris! Don't often see you here of an evening," said the guard, reaching for Fenris's hand and shaking it.

"Good evening, Donnic." Fenris turned to Sebastian. "This is Donnic, of the city guard, and this is Sebastian-" He paused, not knowing Sebastian's family name.

"Vael," finished Sebastian, reaching for Donnic's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You, as well," replied Donnic, quirking an eyebrow. "Vael, you say? You're not one of the Starkhaven Vaels, are you?"

Sebastian laughed easily, but didn't answer Donnic's question.

"Have it your way, then," said Donnic good-naturedly. "Have either of you seen Hawke? He's the one who asked me here."

"He's over there with Varric," Sebastian explained as Donnic called for a pint of ale. "They shouldn't be much longer. Why don't we see if we can find a table?"

Fenris and Donnic nodded their agreement and, drinks in hand, made their way through the throng.

~o~O~o~

"So, let me get this straight…" Hawke put on his sternest expression and folded his arms. "You want to take my sister, my _baby_ sister, to that stretch of the coast where all the canoodling couples go? At _night_?"

"Oh, Hawke, you make it sound so sordid," protested Varric. "I just wanted to… look, the only places I ever take her are on jobs where we wind up killing people – lots of 'em – or _here_. I just wanted to take her someplace different, that's all. And don't all the girls go in for that moonlight and stars crap?"

"Why are you asking me? What makes you think _I_ know what girls like?"

Varric rolled his eyes. Although he knew Hawke was teasing him, he played along. "All right, then, smart ass. You must know what your own sister likes."

Hawke shrugged. "I suppose she would appreciate that. What _I_ want to know, Ser Dwarf, is what your intentions are."

"Get outta here! You know me better than that."

Hawke's lips twitched into a half-smile before he affected a solemn expression. "Very well, you have my permission to escort my sister to the coast. Just… don't take her on a Tuesday, that's all."

"Why's that, Hawke?"

Hawke grimaced a little and leaned forward on the table. "Tuesday is… _men's night_. And they don't go there for the moonlight and stars, I can tell you. Just something I… _heard_."

" _Heard_ , huh?" Varric asked knowingly, and Hawke started to laugh. "Gotcha, Hawke. Tuesday nights are out, then." Varric took a deep breath and also leaned a little closer to Hawke. "Well, now we've gotten that out of the way, I wanted to ask you something else. Something serious."

Hawke frowned a little and took a gulp of ale. "All right, Varric, what's on your mind?"

"Well, with all the money you've brought in lately, the kitty's getting pretty full - we have thirty-five sovs, now, so it won't be long before we can take it to Bartrand. Ha! I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees _you've_ gotten the money together, after he rejected you!" Varric then sighed and his face dropped slightly. "What I want to know, Hawke, is… are you planning on taking Sunshine along?"

"No," Hawke answered immediately, and Varric exhaled, easing himself back into his chair. "We've discussed this with Mother. Bethany wants to go, but it's too risky for both of us to go. We don't want to put Mother through the worry, and we just don't know what we'll find down there. She's disappointed, but she understands.

"I've already decided who's going. Well, sort of. You and me, obviously; Anders, as he's a Warden, and Sebastian. I'm hoping Fenris will come as well, but I haven't asked him yet. I'm not asking Isabela or Merrill. I don't want _any_ women going into the Deep Roads. Anders has told me a few stories. I wouldn't let Bethany go down there irrespective of her being my sister."

"I'm not sure I _want_ to hear those stories, but… thanks, Hawke. I know you didn't do it for me, but, well, thanks, anyway. I didn't want her going down there, either."

Hawke stood up and grabbed their empty tankards, knowing that prolonged conversations of a serious or emotional nature made Varric uncomfortable. "My round, then. Get the cards set up. I'll even ignore your cheating tonight."

"I don't _need_ to cheat, Hawke," Varric chortled. "Even a blind man wouldn't need to cheat against you."

"All talk, these dwarves," Hawke shot back, shaking his head. "I thrashed you last night, and I intend to do so again tonight."

"That was a fluke," Varric muttered as Hawke left the table, grinning.

Hawke pushed his way through to the bar, and while he waited for his drinks, took a look around the lounge, wondering when Donnic and Aveline were going to show. _If_ Aveline was going to show, that was. He also wondered where Sebastian had got to; he knew that Anders and Merrill had left after having a couple of drinks, but as far as he knew, Sebastian was still here.

It didn't take long for Hawke to spot him, as his distinctive armour made him stand out. Paying for his drinks, Hawke carried them to the table where Sebastian was seated with two other people, one of whom was Donnic. As Hawke emerged through the crowd, his heart jumped in his chest as a shock of brilliant white hair caught his eye.

Firmly suppressing an idiotic smile, Hawke forced a casual expression and plonked himself down at their table. "Fenris? You changed your mind?"

Fenris, who was by now much more relaxed, shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you did say you would hold me to my promise. I thought I would save you the trouble of goading me," he said with a hesitant smile.

Hawke's face lit up before he reminded himself where he was and, leaving the tankards on the table, he stood up. "Hold on, I'll bring Varric over. We're getting a card game set up, and it'll be better with more people. You have a bigger table, anyway."

"Serah Hawke?" asked Sebastian, touching Hawke's arm. "Will you be playing for money? If so, I'll sit this one out. I don't gamble, you see. I'd be quite happy to watch."

"Well, we usually play for money, but we don't _have_ to, although I daresay Varric will have something to say about that. I'll be back in a sec. And stop calling me 'serah'."

Sebastian smiled and dipped his head, and the three men shuffled their chairs along a little, with Donnic taking an empty chair from a neighbouring table for Varric.

When Hawke arrived with Varric, the dwarf grinned wickedly and rubbed his hands together. "Ah, fresh meat for Tethras to feast upon!"

"We're playing for fun tonight, Varric," Hawke told him as they took their seats, Varric sitting next to Sebastian, with Hawke in between Varric and Donnic. Fenris was seated between Donnic and Sebastian.

" _Fun_?" the dwarf spluttered. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Look at it this way, Varric," said Hawke, "you won't be skint at the end of the night."

"Ha!" scoffed Varric.

Hawke briefly glanced at the entrance, by now convinced that Aveline wasn't going to show. "Do you all know how to play Brag*?" he asked the others.

Sebastian nodded and a slightly evil-looking grin appeared on Donnic's face. Fenris glanced around at the others and fidgeted in his seat.

Hawke stood up again. "Donnic, swap seats with me. Fenris and I will play together. I'll not have you bastards fleecing him."

Donnic burst out laughing, got to his feet and changed seats with Hawke, so Hawke now sat next to Fenris.

"I see Hawke's started trash-talking already," Varric observed.

"Yes," agreed Donnic. "Sign of nerves, that is. Who's going to deal?"

"Sebastian," Hawke insisted, passing the deck to the archer. "I don't trust you two," he told Donnic and Varric with narrowed eyes, and the guard once again laughed.

As Sebastian began to deal, Hawke quietly explained a few basic rules to Fenris. "We'll get three cards. _Don't_ show them to anyone else. The aim of the game is to get the best combination of cards, but that doesn't necessarily mean you'll win. You also have to outwit your opponents. Just watch a few hands being played, and I'll explain as we go along."

"We need _something_ to bet with, Hawke," said Varric. "You can't teach him the game without him learning the intricacies of placing a bet."

"Hmm," mumbled Hawke, reaching into his pocket. "All right, I have two sovereigns in change, here. I'll share it out, but I get it back at the end of the game."

Varric also reached into his pocket and removed some change, sharing it out among the others, so each player had a total of eighty silver. "Same deal for me," he told them.

"Are we going to have a pot?" asked Donnic. "How about five silver?"

The others nodded and each placed five silvers at the centre of the table.

"This is the pot," Hawke explained to Fenris, pointing to the small pile of coins. "We all put a little money in, which will increase the amount that is won at the end of the hand."

Fenris nodded and watched as the others examined their cards. Hawke picked up their cards and showed them to the elf. "I'll explain the value of the combinations at the end. What you must _not_ do is let the others know how good or bad your cards are. If you get a good hand, don't smile, and if you get a poor hand, don't frown. Just look at those beautiful faces," he said with a grin, waving his hand around the table. "Completely inscrutable, even jolly old Sebastian."

"I believe I understand," Fenris said quietly.

"We're going to _destroy_ them," boasted Hawke, and Fenris laughed briefly, looking around the table for a sign of laughter from the others, finding none. This was clearly a serious business.

"I'm in for five," said Sebastian, throwing a coin into the pot.

"We're in." Hawke also added a silver to the pot.

Donnic shook his head. "Pass."

Varric grunted and added a silver of his own to the pot.

"Can we pause for a minute while I explain this to Fenris?" Hawke asked the others, who nodded. "Everyone except Donnic has placed a bet," he said to Fenris. "Why do you think Donnic passed?"

"Perhaps he has a poor hand?"

"That could very well be the case," Hawke agreed. "On the other hand, he could have the best cards out of all of us. This is what I meant by outwitting your opponents, Fenris. Donnic may be bluffing."

"So, he could have a very good hand, but is attempting to convince the others that it is poor?"

Hawke nodded. "Or, it _could_ be a genuinely bad hand. Isn't that right, Donnic?"

Donnic's eyes briefly flitted over to Hawke and Fenris, but his expression remained unchanged.

"This is an intriguing game," Fenris said, leaning forward slightly.

"It certainly is," Hawke concurred. "Ready when you are, Sebastian."

"Ten," Sebastian said confidently, placing his bet.

"Now, this is interesting," Hawke told Fenris. "Sebastian has increased the amount of his bet - he's upped the ante. If someone has upped the ante, no one is allowed to pass in that round. If we want to stay in the game, we'll have to match the bet." Hawke picked up ten silver and placed them into the pot. "I'll see you, Chantry Boy," he taunted humorously.

Donnic growled and threw his cards onto the table. "I'm out."

Fenris glanced at Hawke and smiled. "Donnic was _not_ bluffing."

"No, he wasn't," laughed Hawke.

"I'll see your ten," said Varric, "and I'll raise you five."

"A _very_ confident showing from the stumpy-legged one," Hawke teased. "He's upped the ante even further."

"But _he_ may be bluffing, also," guessed Fenris.

"You're getting the hang of this," Hawke said brightly, before he was distracted by Aveline entering the pub. Their eyes met briefly and Aveline shook her head, making a hasty exit.

"Shit," Hawke muttered. "Fenris, I'll be back in a minute." He stood and leaned down, cupping his hand over Fenris's ear, catching the scent of soap on his skin. "We have a really, _really,_ terrible hand," he whispered to the elf and, as he reluctantly pulled himself away, his hand briefly brushed against Fenris's hair, which really was as soft as he'd imagined, and he hoped Fenris couldn't hear his heart battering against his chest.

Fenris nodded, keeping his expression as blank as the others', as Hawke handed him the cards and made a dash for the exit.

As Hawke burst through the doors, he spied Aveline disappearing around a corner and went after her. Fortunately, she was wearing her armour so couldn't run very fast. Hawke quickly caught up to her and grabbed her arm, stopping her.

"Hawke, _don't_ ," she said tersely, coming to a halt.

"Aveline, what's going on? I asked Donnic along as you wanted - he's in there, you know."

"I know. I-I just don't have time tonight, Hawke, I'm needed at the barracks."

Hawke folded his arms and snorted in disbelief. "Do me a favour, Aveline. If you were that busy you wouldn't have had the time to walk here from the keep, would you?"

Aveline's shoulders sagged and she hung her head. "I can't do it, Hawke. I've been thinking about it, and it's too soon. After Wesley, I mean."

"But it's been almost eighteen months since Wesley died," Hawke said softly.

"Sixteen months and four days, to be precise," she replied. "That's no time at all."

"Says who?" argued Hawke. "Is that really how you feel, Aveline, or is that how you _think_ you should feel?"

"Does it make a difference, Hawke? You're still grieving for Carver, aren't you? You still miss him, don't you?"

"Of course I do, but that hasn't stopped me from living my life. Neither of them would want us to stop living, Aveline - your own words."

She moaned softly and leaned against a wall in the alley where they stood. "When I walked in there, Hawke…I saw him. I saw Wesley on the face of every single man in there. I just couldn't do it."

Hawke went over and leaned against the wall beside Aveline, and they were silent for a short time.

"Perhaps it is a bit soon, then," ventured Hawke. "Give it time. Donnic will still be there when you're ready."

"Unless he gets snapped up by someone else before then," whined Aveline.

Although Hawke had suspicions to the contrary, he didn't voice them. "There are plenty more fish in the sea," he counselled. "I'll do a deal with you. If you and I are both still single when we're old and grey, _I'll_ marry you. You'll just have to do without the sex bit, that's all, although we'll probably both be too knackered to even think about that."

"Careful, Hawke," she warned. "I might take you up on that."

"Just come in for one drink," he gently urged.

"No, Hawke. I'd better get back." She faced him and smiled. "Thanks for… well, for putting up with me."

"I've got to look after my fiancée, haven't I?" he joked, and she laughed.

"Is Donnic all right in there? He's not twiddling his thumbs, is he?"

"Actually, he's being thrashed in a game of Brag. Speaking of which…" His eyes widened. "Shit, I've left Fenris on his own in there! That Varric's a real shark. I've got to go and rescue him. Are you going to be all right getting back?"

Aveline cocked her head and gave Hawke a mock-stern look.

"Of course you'll be all right, you're captain of the guard," he sighed as they walked back to the Hanged Man.

"You're a good sort, Hawke," she told him with a smile before sighing.

"You'll be ready one day, Aveline, and when you are, I'll be right there to challenge Donnic to a duel for stealing my bride." He clasped her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

Aveline waved him off. "You'd better get back in there and make sure Fenris hasn't been swindled."

"Crap! I forgot about that!" Hawke spluttered, hastening toward the entrance. "Talk to you soon!"

Aveline shook her head and began the long walk back to the barracks, smiling softly to herself.

By the time Hawke stepped back inside and reached the table, the game was clearly over, as Sebastian was shuffling the cards, and his friends' previously-stony faces had reverted to normal.

"Who won?" he asked, taking his seat.

"I did," Fenris declared with a twinkle in his eye.

"What? How did you manage that?" exclaimed an overjoyed Hawke. "Our hand was bloody terrible!"

"I… out-bluffed the dwarf," Fenris said quietly, doing his best to look modest, but failing badly. Hawke had to steel himself not to sling an arm around Fenris and plant a smacker on the top of his head, so proud was he.

"Beginner's luck," groused Varric sourly.

"Rubbish," Donnic argued, turning to Fenris. "You, my friend, have the stoniest face I've ever seen, and the wits to go with it. You'll have to come down to the barracks on a Friday night, when we play."

"Oh, no you don't, Hendyr," Hawke asserted. "You've already tried to recruit him. You're not having my lucky elf!" He stopped himself then and shot a nervous glance at Fenris, and was immensely relieved to see that Fenris was laughing.

"You do realise, Elf, that the rule Hawke and I have is that the winner buys the next round?" Varric teased.

"Is this true?" Fenris asked Hawke.

"I'm afraid so," Hawke answered apologetically.

"I do not mind," said Fenris, pushing himself to his feet. "I am a gracious victor." Hawke stood and allowed Fenris to squeeze past him.

"I'll give you a hand," Sebastian offered, also rising, and walked to the bar with Fenris. "You must be glad you came in, now, Fenris?"

Fenris leaned against the bar and glanced at the table just in time to see Hawke, who'd been watching the elf with a smile on his face, turn away and start talking animatedly to Varric.

"I am glad, yes," he answered with a smile of his own. "Perhaps I will do so more often."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Brag was a card game that originated in medieval Britain, and is similar to modern-day poker. I might have taken a few liberties with the rules for this story, as I don't claim to know the rules intimately :-)


	24. Something Amiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's all right," Hawke whispered, his eyes moving down to Fenris's mouth. He saw the bob of the elf's adam's apple and felt Fenris's muscles tighten beneath his hands. Without warning, Fenris pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thank you to the awesome Shakespira for her suggestions, wonderful ideas and for beta-ing this chapter not once, but twice :-)

Since ensconcing himself in Danarius's mansion, Fenris had established a daily routine that he rarely deviated from. He always rose before the sun, ate, trained and performed his ablutions. Everything was always in place for him. His clothes were laid out in his room, his cup and plate were always in the same place in the kitchen, and his towels and soap were always left next to his bathtub, along with two buckets, which he used to empty and fill the tub. He knew precisely how many trips to the well he needed to make for his bathwater, and exactly at what time he would need to refresh the fire in the vestibule.

Fenris's routine was one aspect of his life over which he had complete control, one of the few things he owned besides his sword and clothing. Only on a handful of occasions had he allowed his routine to slide: the times when, alone and fearful for his life, he'd turned to alcohol to stop the walls of the mansion from closing in on him, to silence the inner voice that told him he was worthless, to obscure the memories and stop the nightmares.

He'd let his routine slip last night, as well, but not for any sinister reason. After spending an enjoyable night with Hawke, Varric and the others, he'd returned to the mansion feeling light in body and spirit and, after completing another security check, had retired, deciding he would empty and refill the bathtub, and select his clothes, in the morning.

Having done this, and following another sweep of the mansion and a small breakfast of tea and toast, he took up his sword and went downstairs to the main reception area of the mansion, where there was ample room in which to perform his exercises, and began with some basic defensive stances.

Training first thing in the morning was a recent change to his routine. Previously, he'd trained in the afternoon or evening but, following a discussion with Hawke, they'd agreed to conduct their reading lesson at eleven bells each day; unless, that was, they were on a job. As Hawke had no work today, Fenris wanted to be ready for when he arrived.

Moving onto his repertoire of attack moves, he decided that the wingback chair in the corner would be his 'opponent'. Most of the furniture in the reception area was covered in notches and slashes, all except for the settee that Hawke had once slept upon. He walked to the chair, moved it away from the wall, and began his moves. He'd not yet opened the drapes in here, as any passers-by would no doubt think him insane for sparring with a chair. Not that he cared what others thought, but he had no wish to draw unnecessary attention to himself, particularly as it appeared that the Guard compliment in Hightown had increased since Aveline's inception as guard-captain.

Stopping for a short rest, he dashed sweat out of his eyes and took a few deep breaths. This was the second day in a row that he'd started to tire earlier than he usually did during his training session. He wasn't sure why, as the weather hadn't been particularly warm recently. In fact, he'd felt tired in general lately, although that hadn't been due to lack of sleep. He never slept well, and had always managed to get by on a few hours each night.

He resumed his routine, only to have to stop after a few minutes. He straightened up and once again wiped the sweat from his brow, leaning on his sword. Why did he feel so exhausted? He _had_ stayed out quite late playing cards with Hawke and Varric, and had probably imbibed a whole bottle of wine, but wine had little effect on him these days, unless he drank so much of it he passed out.

He steeled himself and once again took up his sword, determined to complete his training. After only a short time, however, he was once again forced to stop. Throwing his sword at the chair in frustration, he held his hands up to his face; they were trembling and his arms felt weak. Perhaps training first thing in the morning hadn't been such a good idea, after all? Deciding to re-attempt his training after Hawke had left, and when he'd had a little more to eat, he left his sword where it was and headed upstairs to take his bath.

~o~O~o~

Feeling a little more lively after his bracing bath, Fenris busied himself around the mansion and left briefly to purchase a few groceries, arriving back a short time before Hawke was due to arrive. He went to the kitchen and put some water on to boil for tea, and then made his way back to the vestibule, as he wouldn't hear Hawke's knock from the kitchen, and sat on the window sill, waiting for him to arrive.

Hawke arrived slightly early and Fenris watched as the mage strolled across the courtyard and paused outside the front door. Hawke appeared to take a deep breath before smoothing down his hair and straightening his robe. He seemed nervous. Fenris released a soft sigh. It was understandable that Hawke would be slightly apprehensive, particularly as the last time the two of them had shared a pleasant day, Fenris had reacted in a negative way the following day.

Well, today was going to be different, he decided. He would greet Hawke politely and would put him at ease. Whatever Hawke's motives, if he had any, he was giving up his own time to do Fenris a service, so the least Fenris could do in return was be civil to him.

Hearing Hawke's distinctive knock, Fenris remained where he was for a moment, not wanting to appear too eager. He slowly walked to the door, opening it as he heard Hawke clearing his throat.

"Good morning, Hawke," he said pleasantly.

"Fenris! Name me something beginning with 'B'," Hawke said breezily, pointing at the elf.

Fenris dipped his head a little, feeling bashful but also secretly pleased with himself. "Brag Master," he said, repeating Hawke's new nickname for him following his victory over Varric the night before. "Come in," he invited, stepping aside to let Hawke in. "I have put some water on for tea. I will go and make it."

"Any biscuits?" Hawke asked cheekily as he entered.

"I will see what I can find," Fenris replied, although he knew he still had some of the shortbread that he and Hawke had made.

"I'll go and set up then, _Fenners_ ," Hawke said with a snigger before quickly disappearing into the dining room.

Fenners. That was another nickname he'd been given by Donnic after they'd had a few drinks. Fenris laughed softly to himself as he made his way to the kitchen. He really had enjoyed himself last night, and found himself looking forward to tonight. Donnic had insisted that Fenris play cards at the barracks with him, and the guard and Hawke had launched into a mock argument over their 'lucky elf', culminating in a race to drink a pint to decide the issue, with Donnic winning.

Donnic had also invited Varric and Hawke along to the barracks, although Varric had declined as he'd planned to take Bethany out tonight. Fenris was relieved that Hawke would be going with him. Although he knew Donnic, he didn't know any of the other guards and felt more comfortable that someone else he knew, a friend, would be accompanying him.

Having made the tea, he placed the cups onto a tray along with some shortbread, and carried it through to the dining room. As he entered, his arms once again felt weak, and he placed the tray down carefully next to Hawke, who looked up at Fenris, frowning.

"Fenris, are you all right? You look hot. I mean… warm, flushed." Hawke tilted his head slightly and stood up. "Are you running a temperature?"

Hawke was a healer, and it would have made sense to tell him that he felt off-colour, but what would Fenris say? That he felt a little tired, a little warm? Hawke would laugh at that, surely.

"I am quite well, thank you," said Fenris, taking his seat. Hawke watched him for a little while longer before taking his own seat next to the elf.

"Are you sure? Your face is all pink," Hawke said with concern, instinctively reaching for Fenris's forehead.

Fenris immediately backed away and Hawke retracted his hand with an exasperated sigh. "I am certain," Fenris replied politely. "Shall we begin?"

"All right, then," Hawke answered slowly and a little defensively, Fenris felt.

"The kitchen is rather warm," explained Fenris, not entirely dishonestly. "I appreciate your concern."

Hawke nodded, apparently accepting Fenris's explanation. "What we're going to do is recap yesterday's lesson, and then today you're going to learn your next set of letters. Is that all right?"

"Of course." Fenris felt his spirits sag a little. Hawke had been so vivacious when he'd first arrived, and was now being polite, wary. Did Hawke know Fenris was lying? Hadn't Fenris once told Hawke he detested dishonesty?

Hawke suddenly sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "You _can_ tell me, you know. There's no shame in feeling unwell."

Taken aback, Fenris hesitated.

"Tell me what's wrong," Hawke insisted.

"It… it's nothing," Fenris said quietly.

"I'll be the judge of that. Now tell me."

Fenris shrugged and clasped his hands together on the table. "I just feel... warm, that's all."

Hawke swivelled in his seat, facing Fenris. "Has this just come on today?"

Fenris shook his head. "Do not trouble yourself over this. I am certain it will pass."

Hawke glanced down at Fenris's hands, noticing that he was clasping them so hard his knuckles had turned white. "Fenris… will you let me examine you? I don't have to _look_ at you, if you know what I mean, but I would have to touch you."

Fenris gulped, feeling heat wash over him. "What would an examination entail?"

"Well, I _would_ need to touch you. That way, I can detect if anything abnormal is going on in your body. It's not a spell, exactly, but it's an ability I have. I have no idea whether it would cause you any pain or not, though."

"I do not think that will be necessary. If it worsens, I will inform you."

"Fenris, your face is _red_ ," said Hawke impatiently. "Something's obviously wrong. You're not going to be a stubborn arse, are you? Are we going to argue about this?"

"I am _not_ going to argue with you, Hawke." Fenris's reply was polite, but firm.

"Well, neither am I, but…" Hawke glanced at Fenris and knew he wouldn't win the argument. He couldn't force Fenris to be examined. Instead, he held his hands up in front of him and started to remove his papers from his pack. "I give up," he muttered quietly.

Fenris, feeling dejected and guilty, slouched in his chair. Although he no longer suspected that Hawke would harm him, he had no intention of allowing Hawke to examine him. When Hawke had healed Fenris's face at the coast, there had been an intimacy to the mage's touch, and attention, that had both frightened and repelled Fenris. What had really dismayed Fenris, though, was when Hawke had completed his spell and had begun to move his hand away, Fenris had almost asked him to keep it there. He had no idea why; he'd gone so long without physical touch that his body seemed to crave it sometimes, and there was no way he was going to allow Hawke to see that. He would not make a fool of himself for anyone.

Hawke was very quiet as he arranged his papers, and Fenris ventured a quick glance at him. He wore a mask of blandness and nonchalance. Fenris, knowing Hawke to be anything but nonchalant, realised he'd hurt his feelings and felt his stomach twist with guilt.

"Hawke… I apologise if I've offended you," he offered. "I did not mean to-"

"You haven't," was the immediate, slightly brusque reply. "Shall we get started? There's somewhere I need to be in an hour's time."

~o~O~o~

That _somewhere_ turned out to be the Hanged Man where, after the lesson, Hawke sat on his own and nursed a pint of ale, staring moodily at a wall. He hadn't invited Fenris to join him this time, but had arranged to meet him in Hightown later that night for their card game at the barracks. He didn't really feel like going, now, but a promise was a promise.

Fenris _had_ hurt his feelings. The whole I-don't-trust-a-mage-enough-to-let-him-touch-me routine of Fenris's, as well as the constant ups and downs between them, were becoming tiresome and draining. Hawke knew he was being unreasonable as Fenris, of all people, had good reason to distrust mages and to fear their touch, but hadn't Hawke done everything he could to make Fenris comfortable, to put him at ease? Why didn't Fenris trust him yet? Would he ever trust him? Was there any point in trying anymore?

Hawke threw a few coins onto the table and left the pub, not really sure where to go. He couldn't go home as his mother would be there, and she would instantly know that something was wrong and would want to _talk_. He couldn't visit the clinic as Anders would also see that Hawke was troubled and would cheer him up. Hawke didn't _want_ to be cheered up. He was feeling sorry for himself and, when he felt like that, believed he was perfectly justified in going off somewhere on his own for a sulk. Where, though?

The docks. He didn't know anyone there, and found a nice quiet spot on the quay where he sat in between some old crates and watched a ship being loaded. After a while, he ceased to notice the stench of rotting fish and let his eyes wander over to the sea, his vision gradually blurring and coalescing with the haze of the sun. Occasionally, his stomach growled. Again, he'd skipped breakfast, and hadn't touched any of Fenris's shortbread, but today he liked how empty the pit of his stomach felt.

~o~O~o~

Hawke did eventually go home once his bout of self-pity had passed. He helped his mother with a few chores and prepared supper, for which Varric and Bethany joined them before their trip to the coast. Leandra had privately asked Hawke a couple of times if he was feeling well, as he seemed rather quiet. Hawke laughed off her concerns, telling her he'd had a late night, and put on a jolly façade during supper. As eight bells approached, however, the familiar roiling and churning of his stomach started.

"So, you'll be off soon with your friend, Fenris?" Leandra asked him with a waggle of her eyebrows. "You've been spending a lot of time with him lately, haven't you?"

"He has indeed," Bethany agreed, smiling slyly. "Maybe the two of you will be taking a stroll of your own along the coast, soon?"

Hawke shook his head briskly. "No. We're just friends, nothing more."

"Are you sure, Brother?"

"Quite sure."

Excusing himself from the table, and with a light-hearted warning to Varric to keep his filthy dwarven hands where his sister could see them, he kissed his mother and sister goodnight and left the house, almost bumping into Fenris on his way out, who was waiting outside the door.

Hawke stared at him, confused for a moment. "I… thought we were meeting in Hightown?"

"The sun has begun to set," Fenris told him, pointing at the darkening sky. "It is not safe for you to travel through Lowtown alone."

As Fenris turned and headed down the steps, Hawke shook his head and flung his hands in the air in complete bewilderment. When Fenris reached the bottom of the steps, he turned toward Hawke, who was still standing next to the door.

"Do you still wish to go to the barracks with me?" asked Fenris.

"Yes…" Hawke sighed and walked down the steps, staying slightly behind the elf as he walked on. Noticing that Fenris appeared flushed, as he had earlier, he considered asking Fenris if he was feeling better, now, but part of him was still sulking and he didn't want Fenris to know that, nor did he want to get into an argument.

"How are you feeling, Fenris?" Hawke squeezed his eyes shut and cursed inwardly as the words escaped his mouth without his permission.

Fenris paused, allowing Hawke to catch up. "I am well, now, thank you."

"Your face is red again."

"It's a warm night."

"It must be. You're sweating."

Fenris wiped his brow but said no more, and they continued through Lowtown, exchanging occasional banal remarks. There was still a degree of tension between them but neither man cared to acknowledge it, and they reached the keep in rather a sombre mood.

The guard at the doors had been apprised of their arrival and waved them through without a word. When they reached the barracks, Donnic and a few other off-duty guards greeted them enthusiastically and ushered them into a side room.

"Will you be playing together again tonight?" Donnic asked them after the introductions had been made. "Fenris is new to the game, but he's a natural," he explained to his colleagues.

"I don't know," said Hawke warily with a shrug. "It's up to you, Fenris. We'll be playing for real money, tonight."

"I would welcome your counsel, Hawke," Fenris said, half-smiling.

They all took their seats,and, after some banter, the first game began. Although Hawke continued to instruct Fenris on the rules and intricacies of the game, and joined in with the soldiers' ribbing of each other, Fenris felt there was something different about Hawke tonight: he seemed distracted, distant, but almost imperceptibly so.

After a few hands had been played, though, Hawke seemed to relax a little, as did Fenris. Nevertheless, Fenris felt certain that he was responsible for Hawke's slightly inhibited mood, and intended to speak to him in private at the end of the game.

The end of the game, however, came sooner than they'd anticipated when Varric and Bethany unexpectedly arrived at the barracks.

"Sorry to interrupt your game, fellas," said Varric, entering the room.

"How did _you_ get in here?" Donnic teased and, as Bethany also stepped into the room, the men all rose to their feet.

"It's something called _charm_ ," Varric answered with a smirk. "I just wanted a quick word with Hawke and the elf. Won't take long."

As Hawke and Fenris stood and joined Varric, Fenris momentarily felt the weakness return to his arms and legs, but didn't draw attention to it. Nevertheless, Hawke shot him a glance, probably aware that Fenris had started to perspire again.

"Aren't you two supposed to be smooching on a beach or something?" Hawke asked Bethany and Varric.

"Yeah, we _were_ ," Varric replied. "We just ran into a little trouble on the way. Rest assured, though, Hawke, that I turned it into a business opportunity. Could be some decent money in this for us, if you're interested."

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a puzzled glance. "Go on," Hawke prompted.

"We ran into this dwarf, name of Javaris Tintop. He and his men were being attacked by spiders, so we stepped in. Turns out, he's doing a job for the Arishok, the guy in charge of the Qunari. This Arishok character wants some rebels destroyed, or something. What were they called…?"

"The Tal-Vashoth?" Fenris asked.

"Yeah, something like that. Anyway, Tintop is looking for some people with more skill than his own men, which wouldn't be hard, believe me. I told him we'd help out, for a price, of course. Ten sovereigns, Hawke. Whadd'ya say?"

"How many of these Tal-Vashoth are there?" asked Hawke.

Varric shrugged. "Who can say? Thing is, we need to go pretty soon. Tintop told me that the Tal… whatever they are, move around all the time. We'll lose them if we don't take care of this now."

Hawke, surmising that the Fog Warriors must have been Tal-Vashoth, turned to Fenris. "How would you feel about this?"

Fenris thought for a moment before answering. "If the Arishok has indeed ordered the elimination of the Tal-Vashoth, then someone will profit from it, and it may as well be us. I must confess, however, that-" He paused, once again deep in thought.

"Fenris, you don't _have_ to come along for this," said Hawke. "And, if you have any major objections to this, then we won't do it at all."

"But Hawke," Varric protested, "the elf just said that we may as well profit from this."

"Fenris has known Qunari in the past," explained Hawke, but didn't elaborate. "This might not be as straightforward for him as it is for us."

"Did this dwarf seem trustworthy?" Fenris asked Varric.

"That, I can't say, Elf. He was quite insistent that he get this job done, and quickly."

"He didn't want to keep the Arishok waiting," interjected Bethany. "He did seem quite genuine, although there's no way of knowing for certain."

Fenris nodded thoughtfully. "I cannot imagine anyone would be foolish enough to risk incurring the Arishok's wrath by making assumptions on his behalf. I will go with you."

Hawke beckoned Fenris away from Varric and Bethany. "Are you sure?" he asked the elf. "I don't know if you're up to this. Do you think I haven't noticed that you've been sweating buckets all evening?"

Fenris knew that Hawke was right. As the evening had gone on, Fenris had felt more and more uncomfortable, but nodded anyway, knowing how much the money for the expedition meant to Hawke. Besides, he wasn't about to let two mages and a dwarf hunt Tal-Vashoth without his protection. "I have endured far greater hardships than a slight fever," he answered.

"I _know_ that, but-"

"I am fit to travel with you. Let us be off."

Hawke stared at Fenris for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. He wasn't entirely convinced of Fenris's assertion, but it also occurred to him that Fenris knew his own body, and its limits, and that it would be patronising of him to suggest otherwise.

"All right," he conceded, walking back to the others with Fenris. "I want Anders along for this," he told them all. "The Qunari are not to be trifled with. I'm not taking any chances."

"I'll go get him," Varric volunteered. "Finish your game. Sunshine, you stay here."

Bethany rolled her eyes. "I've been to Darktown before, silly. Come on." Bethany was already on her way out as she spoke.

Hawke sniggered. "You can see who the boss is there, can't you, Fenris?"

With a smile, partly out of relief that Hawke was joking with him, Fenris nodded. "Indeed."

"The trick is to make her _believe_ she's the boss, Hawke," answered the dwarf with an easy smile. "We'll meet you at Dead Man's Pass. That's where we ran into Tintop."

"Dead Man's Pass?" exclaimed Hawke. "That's not ominous at all, is it? Wait… you took my sister through _Dead Man's Pass_?"

"I'm already gone, Hawke," chuckled Varric, making a hasty exit.

~o~O~o~

After making a brief stop at home to inform Leandra that he and Bethany would be late, Hawke and Fenris took a slow walk to Dead Man's Pass, guessing they would arrive there before the others. On the way, Fenris took the opportunity to talk to Hawke.

"Hawke, may I speak with you about this morning?"

"What about this morning?" Hawke asked casually without looking at Fenris.

Fenris's voice grew a little quieter. "I think I may have offended you when I... shrank from your touch. In fact, I am certain of it."

"I wasn't offended," Hawke quickly cut in, still not looking at the elf. "All right, maybe I was a bit." He sighed loudly and displaced his anxiety by straightening his robe. He really didn't know what to say to Fenris. He certainly couldn't tell him that he'd all but given up any hope that they could ever be more than friends. How could they be, if Fenris wouldn't allow Hawke to touch him? He'd been an idiot to think such a thing was possible in the first place.

"I have lost count of the number of times I have apologised to you," Fenris said, shaking his head. "You have been a good friend, as I have already stated. Perhaps it is time _I_ started behaving like a friend, as well. I'm just not sure how. This is all new to me."

Hawke rubbed his forehead and groaned. "I was just concerned about your health, that's all. That's what I _do_. I'm a healer. I… oh, I wasn't angry with you, Fenris. Let's just drop it."

Hawke walked ahead, his stomach burning. Of _course_ Fenris had reacted the way he had. Why had Hawke just lunged for Fenris's forehead? How else would he have reacted? Fenris hadn't done anything wrong, so why did Hawke feel so frustrated? His thoughts were interrupted as Fenris caught up and stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"I do not wish to 'drop it'," insisted Fenris. Hawke halted. "You were correct. I have not felt like myself for the past few days. If you are still willing, I would appreciate it if you would… examine me, after we are done here."

Hawke's mouth opened a little in surprise and he cleared his throat. "I might not even need to examine you if you just tell me how you've been feeling. I shouldn't have just… well, this morning. I went about things the wrong way. I'm sorry."

"You did nothing wrong," stated Fenris. He looked up at Hawke, his lips twitching slightly. "This friendship business is not easy, is it?"

"No, it's not." Hawke smiled and rubbed the nape of his neck. "Maker, Fenris, I don't know how we haven't killed each other by now."

"You would undoubtedly heal yourself if I attempted that, so I will not waste my time."

Hawke threw his head back and laughed. "I can't heal myself if I'm dead, can I?"

"I will bear that in mind," replied Fenris, and Hawke laughed again. Fenris took a deep breath and glanced around. "If you wish, you may examine me now," he said with a shrug. He wanted to show Hawke that he trusted him, even though the thought of Hawke's touch elicited a strong desire to run.

Hawke continued to walk along with Fenris following. "Just tell me why you've been feeling ill. I may be able to tell from a description alone. I don't want to examine you unnecessarily, just in case it causes you discomfort."

"Well, I have felt hot, as you know. I have also tired easily with little exertion."

"And you've felt like this for a few days?"

"Yes, although today it has been more pronounced. I have also felt… weakness."

"Where? All over? Your limbs?"

"Just in my limbs," Fenris answered. "It was particularly noticeable during my training this morning."

"Any problems with your appetite? Are you eating properly? Any trouble with your stomach, bowels?"

"Nothing like that," replied Fenris, shaking his head. "I feel rather foolish telling you this. These complaints are minor."

"They're not minor if they're interfering in your life. You told me that you train every day, and this is interfering with that." He grasped his beard for a moment, considering Fenris's symptoms. "Have you been sneezing? Coughing?"

"I do not have a cold," Fenris stated. "This feels… different."

As they were talking, they arrived at Dead Man's Pass and waited for the others to arrive. "You know, Anders would be better qualified to examine you than me. I'm good with injuries, but when it comes to illnesses, Anders really knows what he's talking about."

"I would prefer it if you were to examine me."

"But what if I can't tell? Like I said, I'm not the world's greatest authority on illnesses. If I don't know, would you let Anders examine you?"

Fenris's eyes wandered to the ground.

"Well, shall I try, anyway?" offered Hawke, and Fenris nodded. Hawke took a deep breath and positioned himself in front of the elf. "I'm just going to rest my hands on your arms. Do your markings hurt when they're touched?"

"Not if your touch is gentle," answered Fenris.

"I promise it will be. Please tell me if it hurts, and I'll stop immediately. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Fenris straightened up and Hawke raised his hands, softly resting them against Fenris's bare arms. He looked at Fenris's face and noticed that the elf was sweating, and that his cheeks were once again flushed.

Hawke closed his eyes and, for a moment, was unable to concentrate. The feel of Fenris's hard, taut muscles under his hand, and the heat of his markings against the coolness of his skin almost made Hawke forget what he was supposed to be doing. Feeling dizzy and hot, he pushed all thoughts of Fenris's muscles out of his mind and focused on his task. Gripping Fenris's arms lightly, he pulled the Fade open and waited.

Making a connection, he listened as his own heart beat in rhythm with Fenris's, and Hawke felt his body temperature rise to match that of the elf's. He then felt his blood rush into his head and immediately he sensed his own blood pulsating through every vein in his body. The sensation intensified and he broke into a sweat, his arms and legs beset by sudden weakness. He felt exactly what Fenris had been experiencing, and once again his blood rushed around his body, making him giddy.

The blood. That was it - there was something wrong with Fenris's blood.

Hawke's eyes opened and he blinked several times, noticing the look of concern on Fenris's face.

"Hawke… are you all right?"

Hawke blew a strand of hair off his face and steadied his breathing, realising he was panting. "Your blood," he mumbled. "There's something in your blood."

Although Hawke had not yet removed his hands from Fenris's arms, he let them rest there, seeing no distress on Fenris's face.

"My blood? What do you mean?"

Hawke blinked again. "Sorry, Fenris, just give me a sec… this takes a bit out of me. Was it all right? Did you feel any pain? Discomfort?"

"No," he answered truthfully.

"Good." Hawke stared at his hands for a moment and slowly removed them from Fenris's arms. "Your blood. It's…different," he said, shaking his head.

"Different? Explain."

"Well, I've examined and treated elves before, and your blood is different to theirs, that's all. I'm sorry I can't be any more specific than that. Anders would be able to shed more light on it. It's possible that there's a poison or infection at work in your body - that would certainly change the nature of your blood. Have you been wounded by an arrow or dagger lately?"

Fenris shook his head and turned away, concerned by Hawke's words.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Fenris," Hawke said. "I'm really not a very good healer. I didn't have the education Anders did. He'll be able to pinpoint the cause, I'm certain."

Fenris turned back and Hawke could see a hint of fear in the elf's eyes. "Do not underestimate yourself, Hawke. You mended my broken leg, after all."

"Broken bones are surprisingly easy to fix, but with things like this, I'm all at sea. Anders will be here, soon, and I want you to let him examine you."

Fenris shook his head. "No. I would prefer that he does not find out."

"Find out what? That you're ill?"

"No." Fenris glanced at Hawke, fear once again apparent in his eyes. "I have suspected something like this for a long time."

"What?" Hawke asked impatiently.

Fenris grasped his chin and started to pace. "I was told that before I received my markings, Danarius took several samples of my blood and added… other things to them, although what, I do not know. During the procedure, I was forced to drink several concoctions of his, which Danarius claimed would help with the pain, but I felt no such effect." Fenris's eyes fell to Hawke's chest and a pained expression came over him. "I have often speculated that Danarius planted something in me, a security measure, if you will. Perhaps this is it."

Hawke was silent for a moment as he absorbed Fenris's words. "You think he purposely infected you with something?"

"I would put nothing past him," snarled Fenris. "Perhaps he will have the last laugh, after all."

"But that was three-and-a-half years ago," said Hawke, feeling panicked.

"As a mage, you would know whether such a thing is possible," stated Fenris. "Could he implant something in my body that would remain dormant for so long?"

"I-I'm sorry, I have no idea. As I said before, Anders-"

"Yes, as you _said_ , Anders would know, as clearly you do _not_!" Fenris snapped and again turned away from Hawke, releasing a shaky breath and meshing his hands together atop his head. After a moment, he shook his head and slowly turned back to a despondent-looking Hawke. "I… did not mean that, Hawke. Forgive me. You are a fine healer."

"You're really frightened, aren't you?" Hawke asked softly, his voice thick.

"I…" Fenris squeezed his eyes closed and his body sagged, his arms hanging limply at his sides. Hawke took a step closer to him and, without asking, gently placed his hands on Fenris's arms. Fenris flinched momentarily, but didn't move away, not wishing to hurt Hawke's feelings again.

"Fenris, I swear to you that we'll get to the bottom of this. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Fenris nodded and slowly raised his head, his eyes meeting Hawke's. "I know. I am sorry."

"It's all right," Hawke whispered, his eyes moving down to Fenris's mouth. He saw the bob of the elf's adam's apple and felt Fenris's muscles tighten beneath his hands. Without warning, Fenris pulled away.

"I-I'm sorry-" Hawke stammered, but was silenced when Fenris placed a finger to his lips.

"Voices," the elf whispered, moving behind a large rock and gesturing for Hawke to join him.

"It could be the others," guessed Hawke as he crouched down next to Fenris.

"No. The voices are coming from the wrong direction," Fenris told him quietly, and they fell silent, listening carefully.

A moment later, Fenris removed his sword from his back. "It is the Tal-Vashoth," he declared gravely. "I recognise their words. They know we are here."


	25. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I spent most of my childhood wishing I hadn't been born a mage, you know. I still think that way now, sometimes," Hawke admitted to an astonished Fenris.
> 
> "Why would you want that? You have all of this power at your command. Why would you wish to be rid of it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone following the story, and especially for your comments and kudos :-)
> 
> A sincere thank you to Shakespira for another fantastic beta. You'll find her amazing and original stories at : http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2335959/

"You brought Bethany to _this_ place?" Anders asked Varric, chuckling to himself as they entered Dead Man's Pass. "Dwarf, you have a lot to learn about the fairer sex."

"And I guess you're the one to teach me, huh, Blondie?"

"Actually," said Bethany in Varric's defence, "he _was_ taking me to a really nice stretch of the coast. It's supposed to be very pretty at night," she said with a smile at Varric, which the dwarf returned.

"And that's what _he_ told you, is it?" Anders scoffed.

"Hey!" protested Varric. "Aren't you supposed to be teaching me about the fairer sex? Help me out, here!"

"I think you're beyond help," Anders laughed. "Bringing a lady to a desolate, cold and scary place like this late at night? Wouldn't have been my first choice, I can tell you."

Varric halted and bowed low to Anders. "Then I am eternally grateful that I have your vast knowledge of women to draw upon, Blondie. I can see you're beating off the ladies with a stick as I speak."

"Lesson number one, Varric. Sarcastic dwarves are not attractive to the opposite sex," Anders remarked pithily.

"I'm sorry to change the subject," Bethany interposed, looking around, "but shouldn't they have been here by now?"

Varric shrugged his shoulders. "This _is_ where we agreed to meet. Maybe they got held up?"

"We should take a look around," Anders advised, his tone more sober as he readied his staff.

With a grim nod, Varric hefted Bianca from his back and the threesome silently made their way further up the pass, knowing better than to call out for their friends.

As they reached the crest of a small hill, Anders and Bethany stopped dead and looked at each other.

"What is it?" Varric whispered.

"Someone's using magic up ahead," replied Anders. "Bethany? Can you tell if it's your brother?"

Bethany closed her eyes and concentrated hard for a few seconds. "Yes, it's him," she confirmed, her eyes snapping open, and she and Anders started to charge ahead.

"He's healing someone?" asked Varric, struggling to keep up.

"No, and that's what I'm worried about," she called back. "His offensive magic is not very strong. He wouldn't use it unless he was under attack."

Anders broke into a run, quickly followed by Bethany, and Varric cursed his stumpy legs as they disappeared from sight. After a few seconds, he heard Anders yell, "Hoy, you big oafs! Pick on someone your own size!"

The pass was lit up as Anders and Bethany began casting, and Varric arrived next to them as three Qunari ran towards them, one of them frozen in mid-stride by Bethany.

"Varric!" Anders yelled as the other two advanced on them. The dwarf, way ahead of Anders, let fly two bolts, both of which struck the Qunari warriors, slowing them long enough for Bethany to immobilise them.

Further up the path, Anders could see a clearly-weakened Fenris defending Hawke from two Qunari. Hawke seemed to be injured or incapacitated as he was on all fours, his staff lying discarded on the ground next to him.

Anders opened the Fade, bestowing his most powerful protective magic upon Fenris, and the elf momentarily glanced in Anders's direction, his face twisted with rage. As another bolt from Bianca slammed into one of his aggressors, Fenris regained his focus and once again engaged the nearest Qunari, his neighbour quickly turning into a block of ice courtesy of Bethany.

The three new arrivals joined the fray, with Bethany running to her brother's side while Varric and Fenris took care of the remaining Tal-Vashoth. As the last one fell, Fenris dropped to his knees, his sword clattering on the ground as it fell from his hand.

Anders arrived at the elf's side and knelt down beside him. "Where are you injured, Fenris?" He reached out to clasp Fenris's shoulder.

"Do not touch me, Mage!" snarled Fenris, furious that Anders had used magic upon him, and he lashed out at Anders with his hands even as he collapsed onto his side, trembling.

"Hawke, what's the matter with Fenris? Hawke-?" Anders glanced at Bethany, who was clutching Hawke's face between her hands, trying to talk to him.

"He's not making any sense!" she called. "Fletcher? Fletcher! How much lyrium have you taken?"

Hawke stared at her blankly with dilated pupils, his mouth opening and closing but with no words coming out. "I think he's taken too much lyrium, Anders," Bethany guessed.

"What?" asked Varric, taking his eyes off the path for a moment. "Is that even possible for a mage?"

"It is, and it's serious." Anders scrambled to his feet and joined to the siblings. "Bethany, see if Fenris will talk to you. I can't see any injuries on him, but there's something wrong with him." Bethany nodded and walked over to Fenris, who was trying without success to push himself up onto his elbows, while Anders tended to Hawke.

"Guys, I'm going to keep an eye on the path," Varric told them, walking ahead.

"Be careful," replied Bethany, and she knelt down next to Fenris, holding her hand up to indicate she wasn't going to hurt him. "Fenris," she said softly, "what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

The elf slumped onto his back, panting. "Hawke… see to Hawke first."

"Anders is with my brother," she told him. "Please, tell me what's wrong. Did they injure you?"

Fenris closed his eyes and shook his head, and Bethany looked on as Anders gently lowered Hawke, who was now unconscious, onto his back.

"You were right, Beth," he called. "I've had to completely drain his mana. He was addled." All mages, as templars, had the ability to deplete another mage's mana, although they rarely did so except in situations like this. Anders stood up and walked to her, looking down at Fenris, who was deathly pale and slick with sweat. "Is he hurt?"

"He said no, but look at him. He's obviously not well."

"Let's get him out of sight," said Anders, nodding to a small cleft in the rocks ahead, and he crouched down, wrapping his arm around Fenris's back.

"I _told_ you not to touch me!" yelled Fenris, although he no longer had the strength to offer any physical resistance.

"Shut up, you idiot!" barked Anders. "I'd be quite happy to leave you here, but for some reason Hawke is friends with you, so just be thankful for that!"

"We're just going to take you over there," Bethany said quietly, also wrapping her arm around the elf, and they helped him to his feet.

"Hawke…" mumbled Fenris as they walked past the mage.

"He'll be all right," Anders assured him. "Now, come on."

They took the reluctant elf to the secluded area and sat him against the rock. Bethany summoned a few wisps to light the area and remained with him while Anders went back for Hawke. A short time later, Anders called for Bethany to help him.

"Sorry, Beth, I can't lift him," he admitted sheepishly. "He's too bloody heavy."

Taking an arm and a leg each, Anders and Bethany moved Hawke next to Fenris and laid him on the ground next to the elf.

"What happened, Fenris?" Anders asked, crouching down. "Why did Hawke take so much lyrium?"

Fenris shook his head and slumped against the rock, his breathing laboured.

"Anders, he's burning up," a concerned Bethany noted.

"Yes, I can see that. Fenris," he said sternly. "I need to examine you."

"No," snapped the elf, bringing his knees up to his chest. "Hawke has already… no… not you."

"Hawke has already examined you? What did he find?"

"Wake him," demanded Fenris. "I will only speak with him."

" _Wake_ him?" Anders sprang to his feet and glared down at Fenris. "He needs to bloody rest! Honestly, do you care about no one but yourself?"

"Anders," Bethany softly remonstrated. "This isn't helping."

"Well see if _you_ can get any sense of out him, then!" Anders snapped, his harsh tone directed at Fenris. "I'm going to see if Varric needs any help."

As Anders disappeared into the darkness, Bethany sighed and sat next to Fenris, crossing her legs. "We can't wake Fletcher yet. His mana's been depleted and he needs rest in order to regenerate it," she explained. "Will you tell _me_ what happened, Fenris? Why did he take so much lyrium?"

Fenris watched her warily for a moment, his posture gradually relaxing a little after a minute or two. "We were surrounded. I tried to talk with them, reason with them, but they paid us no heed. I-I was not strong enough." He shook his head and glanced at Hawke, who lay sleeping at his side.

"What do you mean, you weren't strong enough?"

"I am… ill. Hawke told me that I am infected with something. I tried to fend them off but my body failed me. Hawke… he tried to protect me, but it proved too much for him."

"He used his offensive magic?" asked Bethany. "But that would have been a terrible drain on him."

"He was fearless. I... I am ashamed." Fenris hung his head and sighed.

"Ashamed that a mage had to protect you?"

"Yes," Fenris admitted. "That was wrong of me. He did his best, but could not continue. He kept drinking his potions, but eventually became exhausted." He once again looked at Hawke.

"He'll be fine, Fenris, once he's had a little sleep. I'm more concerned about you. What did Fletcher say you were infected with? Have you been poisoned?"

"He did not know," said Fenris quietly. "I do not want Anders to examine me. Perhaps... perhaps you could?"

"I'm sorry, I'm no healer," she said apologetically. "I know you and Anders don't get on, but you really should let him look at you. He's a very good healer, even better than Fletcher, and Fletcher wouldn't mind me saying that - he says the same thing himself."

"No," Fenris insisted. He was comfortable with Hawke and Bethany, now, but didn't trust the abomination as far as he could throw him, which wasn't far. "I will only allow Hawke to."

"It's only us," they heard Anders say from a short distance away, and he and Varric emerged from the darkness.

"There are more of them not far from here," Varric quietly told them. "I think we can take them between the three of us, and they won't be expecting us. Depends on these two, though," he said with a nod at Fenris and Hawke. "Are they gonna be okay if we leave them?"

Bethany glanced up at Anders. "Fletcher suspects that Fenris is infected with something."

"Did he say with what?"

Bethany shook her head.

"Well, we can't treat an infection here, anyway," Anders said thoughtfully. "He needs medicine, which has to be made fresh. It doesn't keep well."

"But how is he going to get back?" asked Bethany. "He's too weak to walk."

"I will manage," Fenris said with more conviction then he felt.

"Let's just take care of these hornheads, first, before they find _us_ ," Varric advised. "If they do, there could be five of us lying flat on our asses, if not dead, and we won't need to worry whether or not the elf can walk."

"All right, then," Bethany agreed as Anders offered his hand, helping her to her feet. She looked down at Fenris. "I can make you feel a bit more comfortable, Fenris, or Anders can. We can lower your temperature-"

"No, thank you," Fenris answered with a polite nod. "I will be fine."

"I wouldn't bother, Bethany," Anders said angrily with a pointed look at the elf. "He obviously doesn't want our help. You'll want our medicine, though, won't you?"

"Keep your voice down, Blondie," hissed Varric. "Let's go."

"Fenris," said Bethany, "I'm going to place a few wards around here. They'll protect you both. Don't leave here until we return."

Fenris nodded, squeezing his eyes closed, searing heat creeping along his markings as Bethany warded the area. "We'll be back as soon as we can. Hang in there," she told him with a kind smile.

"Thank you," replied Fenris, exhaling as Bethany left with the others. He then glanced at Hawke, who by now was snoring. He smiled, slightly envious that anyone could sleep so soundly on cold rock. Surrendering to his own exhaustion, his eyes slowly closed.

~o~O~o~

Fenris was woken abruptly as an arm was slung across his legs. Hawke had turned onto his side and was snuggling against Fenris's thigh for warmth. Fenris very carefully removed Hawke's arm and placed it over Hawke's chest, and the mage flopped onto his back, waking with a snort.

With a huge yawn, Hawke blinked several times and looked around, his eyes eventually finding the elf. "Fenris?" he mumbled fuzzily. "We're… alive?"

"Apparently so."

"What are we doing here?"

"Not a great deal at the moment," answered Fenris with a weary smile.

"Smartarse."

Fenris began to tell him how they'd been rescued by the others, and Hawke again turned onto his side, propped up on his elbow, and attempted to sit up, but was overwhelmed by dizziness. "What the-?"

"Anders took your magic away," Fenris explained.

"Oh." Hawke eased himself onto his back. "How are _you_ doing, Fenris? Were you hurt?"

"I was not injured. I must confess, though, I have felt better."

"I don't suppose you let Anders examine you, did you?"

Fenris shrugged and didn't answer.

"I'll take that as a 'no', then." Hawke shook his head. "You really are a stubborn sod, you know that? Not that I'm taking advantage of your weakened state to say that to your face, while I'm right next to you."

"Of course not," Fenris answered, laughing softly, closing his eyes as he rested against the rock.

Hawke, with a supreme effort, got onto all fours and crawled forward a little until he reached the rock wall Fenris was sitting against. He slumped against it a few inches away from Fenris. "We're a right bloody pair, aren't we?" he asked the elf with a weak laugh.

Fenris opened his eyes, nodded and bent his right leg, examining his foot. "Hawke," he began quietly. "You should not have endangered yourself like that. That was very foolish of you."

"You're probably right. I should have fled and let them butcher you. Would you have approved of that?"

Fenris looked askance at Hawke, not certain whether he was joking or not. "I do not think I would have been alive enough to approve." He sighed. "I… do appreciate what you did, Hawke."

"You _must_ be ill," quipped Hawke, and he felt warmth pool in his belly as Fenris laughed. "Fenris," he said seriously with a frown. "What have you done to your foot?"

Fenris looked down at his cracked heel, which had started to bleed again. "It is a recurring problem. I have treated it."

"What with?"

Fenris told Hawke of the ointment he used on his foot.

"You make that yourself?" asked Hawke, and Fenris nodded. "I'm impressed." He bent forward a little to take a closer look at Fenris's foot, noticing that his ankle was red and slightly swollen. "Well, I think we've found the source of your infection."

"You think my foot is the cause?"

"Well, yes," answered Hawke, raising his hand and placing it next to Fenris's ankle. "May I? I won't hurt you, I promise."

Fenris nodded his assent, and Hawke gently rested his hand against the elf's ankle. "Yes, your skin's hot. You must be in a lot of pain with this. Why didn't you say anything?" Receiving no answer, Hawke sighed. "I suppose you're used to pain, aren't you?"

"I have always had problems with my feet," he answered with a shrug and let his head fall back against the rock, exhaling slowly. Hawke could see how relieved he was that Danarius hadn't been the cause of his illness.

"Fenris… don't you think it's about time we put an end to Danarius?"

"I would like nothing more, Hawke, but I do not know where he is. My guess is that he has returned to Minrathous for the time being, but he could still be here, for all I know."

"But you can't just waste your life away in the mansion waiting for him to come to you. When I told you that you had an infection, you immediately suspected the worst and thought he'd been responsible for it. The thought of it terrified you. You can't live like that, it'll make you paranoid."

"What would you have me do, Hawke?" asked Fenris with a heavy sigh. "I would not know where to begin. I do not enjoy living like this, but I see no other alternative."

"I'm going to talk to Varric," Hawke said, realising that his hand was still resting on Fenris's leg, but he didn't move it. "He knows a lot of people, both here and in other places. If that bastard Danarius wants a fight, Fenris, then we won't wait for him to come to you. We'll take the fight to him."

"That is admirable, and I thank you once again for your concern, but-"

"I'm not making empty promises, Fenris. I mean what I say." Hawke fixed Fenris with a determined look, and the elf nodded with a faint smile. "As soon as you're better, we're going to start making plans."

Hawke finally retracted his hand from Fenris's leg and began to remove his boots. Fenris watched him curiously. "What are you doing?" he asked as Hawke took his socks off.

"Put these on your bad foot," Hawke instructed, passing the socks to him. "They'll protect it a little on the way back. They don't smell too bad, honestly. Don't just take my word for it - give them a good sniff."

"I am not going to sniff your socks, Hawke," chuckled Fenris, slipping one of them over his right foot. "Unless that is a cure for the infection?"

"You'll wish it was when you taste the medicine I'm going to make for you," Hawke told him as he pulled his boots back on.

"Why?"

"Well, I'll tell you what's in it, and you can decide whether you'd prefer to sniff my socks or not. I hope you like garlic, because there's _tons_ of garlic in it."

Fenris's face fell. "I _loathe_ garlic."

"Oh, dear. Well, look on the bright side - that's not _all_ that's in it. There's also onion, pepper, lemon, honey, echinacea, a drop of silver… oh, and stinging nettles, just to give it a bit of a kick. The garlic does tend to overpower everything else, though."

"And this is applied as a poultice?" Fenris asked hopefully.

"No, you have to drink it. Four times a day to be exact, until the infection has cleared up."

" _Drink_ it?" Fenris looked at Hawke, aghast, and then his eyes narrowed. "You are attempting to put me on, aren't you? To cheer me up?"

Hawke burst out laughing. "Whatever you say."

"You are… serious?"

"That's the most up-to-date treatment there is, and it actually works."

"You are nothing but a quack," Fenris groused, and Hawke laughed harder. "Not that I am taking advantage of your current lack of magic powers to say that to your face."

"You're getting _extra_ garlic, just for that," Hawke threatened. "Count yourself lucky - back in my grandparents' day you would have just had your foot cut off."

"Having my foot cut off sounds preferable to swallowing… _that_ ," Fenris opined. "Four times a day," he added with a shudder.

"You haven't even _tasted_ it, yet! I was given that treatment when I was a kid, and I think I can still taste it _now_."

Fenris shook his head. "Nothing but a quack," he proclaimed.

"I like it when we're like this, you know," said Hawke with a soft laugh, his eyes fixed upon the elf.

"As do I, Hawke," replied Fenris, looking down at his lap.

"I might just not give you the medicine at all, if being ill means you're too weak to argue with me."

"And perhaps your magic powers should be permanently removed," Fenris said magnanimously.

"That would certainly make life a lot simpler," Hawke said seriously. "I spent most of my childhood wishing I hadn't been born a mage, you know. I still think that way now, sometimes," he admitted to an astonished Fenris.

"Why would you want that? You have all of this power at your command. Why would you wish to be rid of it?"

"We're not like the magisters here. Oh, sure, there are a few like that. On the whole, though, we Fereldan mages are not a bad lot, really."

"I am beginning to see that," Fenris said quietly, still looking at his lap.

"Well, now I really _am_ concerned about you," laughed Hawke. "I think we need to give you this cure now. Either that, or you get double the amount of garlic when we get back."

"No extra garlic," protested Fenris, his eyes moving to Hawke's face. "You are enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Certainly not," Hawke insisted earnestly. "Us quacks take our jobs very seriously, you know."

"I am going to regret calling you that, am I not?"

" _Oh_ , yes."

They laughed together and Hawke closed his eyes, leaning back against the rock with a sigh as exhaustion washed over him again. Fenris watched him for a moment and then placed Hawke's second sock over his foot. He then rested against the rock next to Hawke, closing his own eyes, no longer fearing that Hawke would harm him after the mage's valiant display against the Tal-Vashoth.

Perhaps Hawke would be the first mage that Fenris had ever trusted, after all.

~o~O~o~

By the time Varric, Anders and Bethany returned to them, having dealt with the remaining Tal-Vashoth, Hawke and Fenris were fast asleep. Fenris had slumped slightly and his head rested against Hawke's shoulder.

"Aw, look at them. Aren't they sweet together?" Bethany cooed with a huge smile. Varric rolled his eyes, while Anders just stared at them.

"We need to think about how we're going to get them back," the mage said briskly. "Both of them are weak and are going to need support."

"Give them a bit longer," whispered Bethany, sitting down on the ground. "We could do with a rest, anyway."

"Just a quick one then, Sunshine," Varric agreed, joining her. "I'm guessing it'll take us a while to get them back."

Anders, who remained standing, tilted his head and looked at Fenris's foot. "Why is he wearing socks on his foot?"

"Those are Fletcher's socks," said Bethany. "I knitted them myself."

"Maybe the elf's foot got cold?" offered Varric. "What?" he asked as Bethany groaned.

"More likely he's injured it," she replied.

Anders crouched next to Fenris and examined his foot but did not touch it. "That ankle's swollen. Hawke wouldn't have been able to heal it, and I doubt Fenris will let me do it. One of us may have to carry him. Any volunteers?" he asked with a grin. "You needn't look at me, though. I don't fancy getting a fist through my heart, thank you very much."

"Maybe Fletcher can help him," Bethany mused. "He should be fine, now."

Anders reached across and shook Hawke's leg a few times until he woke up.

"Anders?" he asked blearily. "Is everyone all right?"

"We're in good shape, Hawke, which is more than can be said for the Tal-Vashoth," answered Varric.

Hawke glanced to his side and gave a joyful laugh. "Look at Fenris, Beth! He's lying on my shoulder!"

"I know, and it's a shame to separate you, but we probably need to start heading back, soon," replied his sister.

Hawke scooted away from Fenris a little and the elf's head flopped against his chest. "Fenris?" Hawke called softly, lightly tapping Fenris's arm.

Fenris woke with a start and pushed himself up straight. "You okay there, Elf?" asked Varric.

"I am, thank you," he answered. "You are all well?"

"We're fine," said Anders. "Can you stand?"

Fenris shot a glance at Hawke, who pushed himself up as the others stood with him. He bent forward slightly and held out his hands to Fenris. To Anders's consternation, and Bethany's delight, Fenris took Hawke's hands and the mage pulled him up, holding him steady as he wavered a little.

Hawke backed away from Fenris but kept his arms outstretched in case Fenris lost his balance. "How do you feel?" Hawke asked him, noticing that the exertion of standing had caused Fenris to break into a sweat.

"I am fine, Hawke," insisted the elf, who managed a few steps before stumbling as his right leg gave way. Hawke grabbed Fenris's arms and straightened him up, loosening his grip on the elf but not releasing him.

"So I see," said Hawke with a wry smile. "Are you going to let me help you?"

Fenris took a deep breath and looked at the ground, knowing there was no way he could walk back unaided.

"I... thank you."

Hawke stepped closer to Fenris and snaked an arm around the elf's shoulders, and Fenris slowly wrapped his own arm around Hawke's back, grabbing a handful of his robe.

The others started to walk ahead, and Bethany exchanged a gleeful smile with her brother before turning and summoning her wisps to follow them.

"Let's go, Fenris," said Hawke.


	26. Mutual Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The noises had stopped. There was nothing but silence. It was too quiet. Fenris's heart rate and breathing quickened and his stomach knotted.
> 
> Something was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Shakespira, for being a wonderful beta and friend! Thank you also to all of you following the story, and for your comments and kudos :-)

After a very slow return journey to Kirkwall, during which Fenris had to stop several times, Hawke and his little gang finally reached Lowtown. Anders quickly departed for Darktown, which mildly irritated Hawke. He knew that Anders and Fenris weren't friends, but nevertheless, Fenris was ill and Hawke had expected Anders to at least stick around for a while.

Varric had escorted Bethany home, and Hawke had seen Fenris to the mansion, where he'd instructed the elf to rest, promising to return later with the ingredients for Fenris's medicine. Hawke had also told Fenris that he intended to stay at the mansion for the rest of the night to keep an eye on him. Naturally, Fenris had protested, but Hawke refused to take no for an answer, and by this time Fenris was too exhausted to argue further.

Pausing outside the front door of the mansion, Hawke took several deep breaths. He had good reason to be nervous. After he'd gone home for his ingredients and to let his mother know he wouldn't be home that night, she'd given him something for Fenris, which he carried under his arm, wrapped in paper. At the time, he'd thought it a wonderful idea of his mother's but, with each step he'd taken toward Hightown, that belief had rapidly dwindled, leaving him with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

For a moment he considered tucking the small package behind one of the bushes in the courtyard but, as the door opened, he realised that he'd already knocked it, and it was too late.

"Fenris! You heard my knock."

Fenris, still pale but looking a little brighter after having a rest, stood in the doorway and cocked his head slightly. "Of course. Well, come in."

"Yes, of course you heard my knock," he mumbled as he entered. Maker, why was he so bloody nervous? The worst that would happen was that Fenris would dislike Leandra's gift, and Hawke knew, in that eventuality, that Fenris would be polite. It would be fine.

Actually, no. That _wasn't_ the worst that could happen. The worst thing would be that Fenris would resent that Hawke had discussed Fenris's problems with his family and, feeling pity for the poor, helpless slave, Hawke's mother had decided to throw him a few scraps. Fenris would be angry and humiliated, Hawke would be furious that his mother had gone to so much trouble and that Fenris was so ungrateful. They'd argue and Fenris would throw Hawke out. Everything would be ruined.

"Stop it," Hawke muttered under his breath as Fenris closed the door.

"Stop what?" asked Fenris.

"Oh… nothing."

Fenris tilted his head again, frowning. "Is everything all right?"

Hawke nodded quickly and laughed. "It's, um… my mana. It hasn't fully regenerated, yet. I'm a little unfocused."

"Perhaps you ought to sit down?"

"No, I'm fine, really. I need to make this medicine for you. I know how much you're looking forward to it."

Fenris snorted, and his eyes moved to the two small bags that Hawke held in his hand, and then to the paper package under his arm. Hawke gulped.

"What have you there?" asked the elf.

"Just stuff for the medicine, and a change of clothing," replied Hawke, pressing the package firmly against his side. "I'm going to need some hot water."

"In the kitchen." Fenris pointed the way. "I had some ready, for tea."

"Oh, thank you. I won't need much. There should still be enough for the tea."

"I will go with you," Fenris told him. "I will make the tea, while you make this… medicine," he added with a look of disgust, and Hawke laughed at his reaction.

"You never know," Hawke joked, "you may actually like the taste. You'd probably be the first person in medical history to do so, mind you, but stranger things have happened."

"You are a healer," Fenris stated as they walked to the kitchen. "Should you not be putting me at ease, telling me that 'everything is going to be all right'? Is that not what healers do?"

"I'll lie, if you prefer." He dramatically cleared his throat. "Fenris, you're going to _love_ this medicine! It's absolutely delicious!"

Fenris halted and folded his arms. "You are not making me feel any better about this," he said morosely.

Hawke also stopped, turned to face Fenris and leaned towards him a little. "That'll teach you not to call me a quack," he whispered before scampering off, sniggering, to the kitchen, leaving Fenris to shake his head, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.

By the time Fenris entered the kitchen, Hawke was emptying the contents of one of his bags onto the counter. Fenris stood next to him and watched, fascinated, as Hawke sorted through the ingredients, placing some of them into a mortar, ready to be crushed.

"Aren't you supposed to be making the tea?" Hawke asked him with a cheeky smile.

"I want to see exactly what I will be expected to _drink_ ," Fenris said with a grimace.

"All right, then, if you insist." Hawke placed an onion, a head of garlic, a lemon, some peppercorns, several small phials and a few bunches of leaves onto the counter. Taking a large knife from the knife rack, he sliced the onion in half, diced it, and then proceeded to crush half of the garlic cloves with the back of the knife.

"How many portions are you making?" asked Fenris.

"One."

" _One_? You are putting half a head of garlic into one portion?" Fenris exclaimed in horror.

"I told you there was a lot of garlic." Hawke picked up a bundle of leaves and waved them at Fenris. "Nettles," he said in a solemn tone, and began to chop them. Noticing Fenris's appalled expression, Hawke clamped his lips together to stop himself from laughing. "Look," he said firmly with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, "you can either drink this, or you can go to the Wise Woman in Darktown. She'll stick leeches all over your foot."

"Those are my choices?"

"Those are your choices. You could also see Anders in Darktown, but he'll make you drink exactly the same thing, and you'll miss out on my charming company."

His shoulders sagging, Fenris sighed and walked to the fireplace. "I will make the tea."

Hawke glanced back at the elf, feeling a little guilty for teasing him, but not quite guilty enough to stop. The concoction he was making tasted truly foul, but it _did_ work. "Save me a bit of water, Fenris? Enough for half a cup."

"As you wish," uttered the elf, bringing the kettle over to the counter. "What is that you have under your arm?"

"Hm? Oh… uh, nothing."

"I am imagining things, then?"

"That's right."

A puckish smile appeared on Fenris's face and he craned his neck, trying to get a better look. "What is it, Hawke?"

Hawke turned away from Fenris a little and cringed. "Nothing you'd be interested in."

"On the contrary," argued Fenris, and Hawke heard mirth in his voice. "Your suspicious behaviour is only serving to pique my interest."

"Bloody elf. Always with the big words," Hawke whispered, just loud enough for Fenris to hear and, hearing a quiet snigger from behind him, Hawke also started to laugh. He turned around and sighed. "It's… well, I'll give it to you when you've had your medicine."

"It's for me?" asked Fenris, and Hawke nodded sheepishly. "Is this medicine so terrible that you must bribe me to drink it?"

"No…" Hawke hung his head bashfully. "It's-it's a gift. Sort of."

"Well, now I really am intrigued," said Fenris, highly amused that Hawke seemed to have been struck by sudden shyness. "Show me."

"Not until you've had your medicine," insisted Hawke. "Now, make the tea. I have _garlic_ to crush. _Lots_ of it."

As Fenris poured the tea, and Hawke steeped his ingredients in hot water, they occasionally glanced at each other and chuckled quietly. "You won't be laughing once you've tasted this, Elf," Hawke teased.

"And _you_ will not be laughing when I spit it all over your fancy robe, Mage."

"Ha! I won't be standing anywhere near you!"

Hawke was on cloud nine. He and Fenris seemed to share the same sense of humour and he loved the back-and-forth between them. He also had to admit that he relished the prospect of looking after Fenris, that he _needed_ to be looked after. The only problem was, now that Fenris had seen the gift, Hawke would _have_ to give it to him. Deciding that he may as well make the most of the levity before everything was ruined, he strained the medicine into a cup and pushed it along the counter towards Fenris.

"Drink up while it's hot," he said with a wicked grin.

Fenris picked up the cup and eyed the contents with disdain. "It looks like the bottom of a swamp."

Hawke shook his head. "Looks can be deceiving. It tastes _much_ worse than that."

Fenris sniffed at the cup, immediately recoiling as a wall of garlic hit his nose.

"Come on! Your sludge is getting cold."

"This had better work," Fenris said with mock-menace, raising the cup to his mouth.

"Best to drink it in one go," Hawke advised him, grimacing in sympathy and backing away a little just in case Fenris _did_ spit it out.

Taking a deep breath, Fenris threw his head back and tipped the foul liquid into his mouth and, for a moment, he appeared unruffled. After a few seconds, however, the edges of his mouth turned downwards and his eyes widened with an almost pleading look, before his face became contorted beyond recognition.

"Swallow it! Swallow it! Don't spit it out!" cried Hawke, desperately trying not to laugh.

Fenris slammed the cup down on the counter and squeezed his eyes closed, gulping noisily, and immediately started retching.

"I'm sorry, Fenris," Hawke said with a nervous laugh. "Here, drink some of your tea."

Fenris grabbed his cup of tea, downed it in one, and then reached for Hawke's tea. "May I?" he croaked, his eyes streaming.

"Of course!"

Fenris gulped the tea down and wiped his mouth and eyes, shaking his head. "That was… truly ghastly. For how long must I take this?"

Hawke's face fell and he gritted his teeth. "Maybe a week. At the most," he added quickly.

"A _week?_ You are the most sadistic 'healer' I have ever encountered," remarked Fenris gruffly, arching a stern eyebrow.

"Quack," was all that Hawke could get out before he started to laugh uncontrollably. "Don't worry, by tomorrow, you won't even care about the taste of the medicine!"

"And why is that?" demanded Fenris, his eyebrow rising even higher.

"Because _you'll_ smell so strongly of garlic, it'll completely obliterate the taste!"

Fenris folded his arms and nodded, an impish look in his eyes. "You said you have a gift for me? I believe I've earned it."

As Fenris suspected he would, Hawke stopped laughing and once again looked edgy, and Fenris wondered what he was so nervous about. "Erm, in a minute. I need to look at your foot..."

Fenris shook his head. "Now."

With a defeated groan, Hawke removed the small packet from under his arm and stared at it. Fenris unfolded his arms and took a step forward, strangely excited by the thought of being given a gift.

"I… need to explain, first, Fenris, before I give this to you. Explain how it came about, I mean." Fenris nodded and waited patiently for Hawke to continue. "Well, while I was walking you back here, Bethany went home and must have got talking to Mother." He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, while Fenris firmly subdued his urge to smile. "They, uh, must have been talking about your feet, you know? Or something. Anyway, I was gone for a while, and-and, when I got home…"

He closed his eyes and offered the packet to Fenris, opening them again as the elf took it from him.

"What is it?"

"Just… open it."

One edge of Fenris's mouth curved upward, but Hawke was unable to smile as Fenris unwrapped the gift, dreading his reaction.

"They found some black material," Hawke blabbered. "They, um, they made them. You know, sewed them, I mean." His last words came out in almost a whisper as he stared at the floor.

Fenris carefully folded the paper and set it upon the counter, intensely scrutinising the two soft, black objects in his hands. "These are-"

"Slippers," Hawke finished, venturing a hesitant glance upward. "They-they slip over your feet. You could wear them outside as well, if-if you wanted to, that is."

Fenris stared silently at the home-made slippers, and Hawke braced himself for the worst. "They're a bit stretchy, so they should fit." Hawke took a hesitant step forward. "Mother sewed some thicker material into the soles to protect your feet." Met with continuing silence from Fenris, he stepped back, and neither man spoke for a few moments.

"Please, say something," Hawke finally blurted out, his nerves on a knife-edge. "At least tell me if you hate them. I-it's all right, really. I won't be offended or anything," he lied.

"Your mother and sister… made these?" Fenris asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the slippers.

"Yes. Mother, mainly, but Beth helped."

"For me?"

"Of course for you."

Fenris put on first one slipper and then the other; they fit snugly, but were not tight. He then walked forward a few steps, turned, and walked back to his original spot.

"What do you think?" Hawke asked, trying to sound casual.

"They are quite comfortable," said Fenris, and Hawke almost cried with relief. "I will not wear them outside, however."

Hawke's stomach plummeted. "Oh, well, that-that's fine. It's up to you."

"I do not wish to wear them down," the elf reassured him. "If I were to wear them outside, they would quickly become damaged. I…" He glanced up at Hawke, giving him a smile that made the mage's heart ache. "I like them, Hawke. Very much."

Although Hawke felt like jumping up and down on the spot, he managed to remain reasonably poised. "You don't have to worry about wearing them out. Bethany said there's plenty of material left, and they only took about an hour to make. Mother's a demon with a needle and cotton. Well, she's not a real demon. You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean."

"What I'm trying to say is, if you wear out one pair, they'll make you another."

"But I… why would they do that for me?"

"They like you. Mother thinks you're the politest person she's ever met, and Beth likes you, as well. And… so do I. I mean… we all do. They wouldn't have done this for just anyone, you know." Hawke shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

"Your family is very kind, Hawke. I am… grateful." Without saying another word, Fenris turned and left the kitchen, still wearing his slippers. Hawke stared after him, suddenly feeling anxious again. Was Fenris just being polite? Was Hawke going to walk into an argument when he went through to the next room? Or was he just being an idiot with an over-active imagination?

Using the last of the hot water, Hawke made another two cups of tea and took them through to the main reception hall, where Fenris was seated upon the settee which would be Hawke's bed for the night. Fenris had already placed a pillow and some blankets upon it, and had put fresh wood on the fire. He had removed the slippers from his feet and held them in his hands, looking at them. He didn't glance up until Hawke waved the cup of tea under his nose.

Fenris placed the slippers to his side almost with reverence, as though they were precious and would break if he handled them roughly. He then took the cup from Hawke and gestured for the mage to sit down.

"You wished to examine my foot?" he asked after a moment, taking a sip of tea.

Hawke glanced around the room. "Actually, the light isn't really good enough, now. I could use magic to make light, but it can wait. I'll do it in the morning, if that's all right with you?"

Fenris nodded and stared at the fire as he continued to drink his tea. Hawke could feel anxiety once again creeping up on him, as Fenris seemed to have gone into 'quiet and polite' mode.

Having finished his tea, Fenris picked up his slippers, stood, and then hesitated, as though he was considering his next words. His shoulders appeared to slump a little before he announced quietly, "I am going to retire, now."

"Oh. I'll... see you in the morning, then," Hawke said, his brows knitting together. He'd expected Fenris to say something else, but what exactly, he had no idea.

"Yes. Goodnight, Hawke." Fenris turned and headed for the stairs.

Hawke slowly got to his feet and waited until Fenris had almost reached his room. "Fenris, you… didn't mind me giving you the slippers… did you?"

Fenris turned to face Hawke and then glanced at the slippers in his hand. "Mind? No," he replied with a faint smile. "No, I'm… no, I didn't mind at all."

Hawke smiled back at him. "That's good, then. Well, goodnight, Fenris. Sleep well."

"Thank you. Sleep well, Hawke." With a brief nod, Fenris turned and entered his room, closing the door.

Hawke watched the door for a moment or two, and then quickly slipped his robe over his head, pulling on the nightshirt he'd brought with him. He folded his robe and placed it on a nearby chair before making up his bed on the settee. As he made himself comfortable, he again glanced up at Fenris's bedroom door and, as realisation slowly dawned on him, he felt his anxiety finally melt away.

Fenris hadn't been offended by the offer of the slippers. He'd been touched.

~o~O~o~

Fenris sat on the edge of his bed and placed his new slippers on the floor, carefully lining them up beside the bed. Permitting himself a small smile, he swung his legs up onto the bed and laid back. He'd removed his armour after Hawke had seen him home and had made his nightly check of the mansion, and now wore a sleeveless shirt and leggings. He briefly considered changing for bed, but he was so exhausted he wasn't sure whether he could get back up. He'd done a good job of hiding his weariness from Hawke, but it had finally caught up with him.

He let his eyes wander over to the window. It was a clear night and the moon was out. Occasionally, he heard shuffling and clanking from outside, and knew that the newly-appointed guards were conducting their patrol of Hightown Estates. He also heard Hawke moving about on the slightly-creaky settee, as well as an occasional light cough. He closed his eyes, those faint sounds of company, of security, lulling him to sleep.

As was usual, Fenris woke a short time later and, keeping his eyes closed, shifted onto his side as the markings on his back were aching. As he snuggled his head into the pillow, his eyes snapped open and he held his breath.

The noises had stopped. There was nothing but silence. It was too quiet. Fenris's heart rate and breathing quickened and his stomach knotted.

Something was wrong.

He froze and once again held his breath as he felt movement on the bed behind him, and rolled slightly onto his back as a heavy weight pressed against the mattress. Fenris immediately turned back onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut.

Someone was getting into bed with him.

An arm snaked around his waist and a large hand ran up and down his hip. Soft, quiet laughter could be heard from behind him. Fenris's mind screamed at him to get up, run, to just _do_ something, but he couldn't move; his arms and legs refused to obey him.

"Always so tense, Wolf. It never used to be this way. At one time, you came to me willingly, and now I must always come to you."

Fenris's body became limp as he knew, with sickening familiarity, that there was no point resisting. A soft shudder ran through him as he felt warm breath against his ear, and the hand moved down to his groin.

"You're not even ready for me. You _always_ used to be ready for me. I don't understand why you are being like this. I give you a roof over your head, I feed and clothe you. You are the envy of your fellow slaves, and my fellow magisters envy _me_ because of you. I made you what you are, Fenris, and you _owe_ me. Don't you?"

His eyes still closed, because if he kept them closed he almost managed to convince himself that this wasn't happening, he nodded, turned onto his back and faced his master, not daring to open his eyes.

"What would you have me do, Danarius?"

The magister's hand moved up to Fenris's face and softly caressed his cheek. "Oh, Fenris, my pet," he whispered seductively. "You don't need to do anything tonight."

Fenris's blood ran cold. He knew what that meant. "Master, I… please-"

"I have been patient enough, Wolf. I think you need a reminder of exactly who is in charge, here." Danarius grabbed Fenris's shoulders and roughly pushed the elf over onto his belly.

"Master, I know who is in charge, I-I will do anything you ask, anything, just, please-"

"Shhh." Fenris's mouth was covered by a large hand and he felt his leggings being tugged down. "Don't make me use magic on you, Wolf. I do hate it when you scream like that. Are you going to be good?"

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, a tremor running through him as a tear slipped down his cheek.

"Now relax, my pet. This can be enjoyable for both of us, if you'll only allow it to be."

~o~O~o~

Hawke sat up straight and pushed his blankets aside, an unpleasant fluttering in his stomach. Something had woken him… hadn't it? A noise? He closed his eyes and tried to chase after the sound, only for it to retreat to the darkest recesses of his mind. It was gone, and yet still there, maddeningly out of reach.

He listened, holding his breath for a moment before opening his eyes. Standing up, he moved to one of the windows and pulled back the drapes. Hightown was quiet and still. The moon was at its zenith in the ink-blue sky; the time of night when it was both early and late. He let the drapes fall back into place and leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on the door at the top of the stairs.

A shout? Someone calling his name? Fenris's voice? Is that what he'd heard? But why would Fenris call out for him? Nobody could have entered the mansion without Hawke's knowledge. Could they?

Striding to the left set of stairs, he ran up them and stopped outside the door. What if he was wrong? He couldn't just go charging into Fenris's bedroom, could he? But he couldn't ignore what he'd heard… or thought he'd heard. Still not sure what he was going to do, he took two steps closer to the door and listened carefully for a few minutes.

Nothing. Not a sound. Hawke exhaled and shook his head. As he turned away, his heart seized up as Fenris's bedroom door was opened with a creak.

"Fenris!" Hawke exclaimed, backpedalling. "I-I wasn't going to come in! I just… I thought… is someone in there with you?"

Fenris stood like a statue in the doorway. His eyes were flat and dull and seemed to stare right through Hawke, and he wore an odd expression that sent a chill through the mage.

"Fenris?"

"I am alone," Fenris said sluggishly. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I thought I heard-" Hawke didn't finish the sentence. For some reason, he stopped himself. "Um… I can't sleep, either. I was thinking of making some tea. Would you like some?"

Fenris watched Hawke's face closely for a sign of deceit, trickery, but could find none. There was something in Hawke's eyes, though, and Fenris knew it - knowledge, a mutual knowledge that neither man cared to give voice to.

Fenris, still in the doorway, nodded.

Hawke nodded in return. "I'd welcome some company, if you're up to it," he said to the elf, waving his hand toward the fireplace. Getting no answer from Fenris, Hawke made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

When Hawke returned with the tea, Fenris was sitting on the settee with one of the blankets wrapped around his shoulders, staring at the fire. Hawke offered a cup to Fenris and, when the elf didn't respond, Hawke placed it on the floor next to Fenris's feet.

Hawke sat down on the settee and, taking the other blanket, wrapped it around his own shoulders. Having no real interest in his tea, he set his own cup down on the floor, sat back and also stared at the fire. And he waited.


	27. What Friendship Means

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is that what friendship means to you, Anders? Feeling obligated to return a favour someone does for you? That's not friendship. That's business."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a heartfelt thank you to Shakespira for another sterling beta job!

Fenris and Hawke had sat together, staring at the fire in silence, for a long time. So long, in fact, that Hawke had eventually fallen asleep. Whether Fenris had or not, Hawke didn't know. He woke just as the sun was starting to rise. The drapes had been opened and the fire refreshed. Fenris was gone, the blanket that had been wrapped around his shoulders now draped over Hawke's legs. The tea Hawke had made for them both sat, untouched, on the floor.

Hawke stood up and stretched before removing his night shirt and pulling on his robe and boots. A glance up at Fenris's room revealed that the door was open. Hawke went up the stairs and quickly ascertained that Fenris was not there, although he had been earlier, as his bathtub had been used. Hawke then checked the dining room and the kitchen, still not finding Fenris. Although Hawke knew Fenris probably had things to do around the mansion, he couldn't help feeling a little concerned. After briefly considering and ultimately rejecting going to search for the elf, he gathered together the remaining ingredients he'd brought and started to prepare another dose of medicine.

As Hawke wrapped the prepared ingredients in muslin ready to be steeped, he heard the creak of a floorboard from above. Fairly certain it was Fenris moving around up there, he wondered what he was up to. After another internal debate, Hawke's curiosity got the better of him and he left the kitchen, headed up the stairs and walked to where he assumed was above the kitchen.

It didn't take long for Hawke to find Fenris; he followed the sounds of doors being opened and closed, and eventually spotted the elf, who was fully-armoured, stalking along a corridor with his sword drawn. Hawke watched him from a distance for a minute or two, not knowing whether to announce his presence or not. Instead, he cleared his throat softly. Fenris immediately tensed and spun around.

"Sorry, Fenris, I didn't mean to make you jump," said Hawke, staying where he was at the end of the corridor, although he wasn't so far away that he didn't notice Fenris's sickly pallor. "What are you doing?"

"Investigating." Fenris turned his back on Hawke and continued to open and close doors as he went along.

"Do you need a hand?"

"No."

Hawke took in a deep breath through his nose. Fenris had retreated into his shell. Today was not going to be easy, it seemed. "Well, when you've finished, I'm afraid I have another dose of medicine for you. And I need to look at that foot." With a glance at the elf's feet, Hawke noticed that Fenris was wearing his slippers.

"I will be down shortly," said Fenris as he disappeared around a corner.

Nodding, Hawke turned back and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

Having prepared the medicine, Hawke took it through to the reception hall, where Fenris was seated on the settee. He'd removed his slippers and his sword rested against the wall.

Hawke sat down on the settee and passed the cup to Fenris, who noticed that Hawke held a second cup in his other hand. "Must I take two doses?" asked the elf in a flat and weary monotone.

"Oh, no, this is water, to take the taste away," Hawke told him. In the daylight, Hawke noticed that Fenris's skin had taken on a slightly grey hue and that the elf's hands shook as he held the cup. It was clear that Fenris's infection was advanced, and he hoped the medicine would be sufficient. If not, Hawke would have no choice but to use magic, although he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Fenris eyed the cup with suspicion and shot an angry glance at Hawke. "I drank some of this last night, and I feel _worse_ this morning. Does this actually work? What exactly have you _put_ in this?"

Fenris's words cut into Hawke like a knife, but he did his best not to show it, even though he felt heat stir in his blood. "That's the nature of an infection - you'll feel worse before you feel better-"

"'Worse before I feel better'? Just what sort of medicine do you practise? Do you actually know what you're doing?"

Hawke stood up, his own anger coiling tightly in his stomach. He took a deep breath, knowing deep down that Fenris's hostility was not directed at him. "Actually, I _could_ use magic to treat the infection, but I'm trying alternatives first, as you've told me that magic causes you pain. This treatment does work, but it takes a while, that's all. You have quite a severe infection. Personally, I'd much prefer to treat it with magic, but I didn't think you'd appreciate that."

Fenris fell silent and continued to stare at the cup. In a fit of impatience, Hawke snatched it from the elf's hand and took a gulp of it, pushing it back into Fenris's hands, wincing as he forced the vile concoction down his throat. "There. Convinced I'm not trying to kill you, now?"

Visibly shocked, Fenris looked up at Hawke with wide eyes. "I didn't… I wasn't implying-"

"Just drink it," ordered Hawke, placing the cup of water on the floor. "I'm going to make some tea."

As Hawke left the room, he didn't see Fenris stand and take a few steps towards him before stopping himself. Hawke, livid with himself for reacting to Fenris's sour mood, wanted to put as much distance between the two of them as possible, feeling a burning need to set something on fire. Both men were angry and upset, that was obvious, but while Fenris seemed to turn his distress inwards, Hawke's manifested itself in a more tangible way, as cutting remarks and the desire to harm something.

He slumped against the counter in the kitchen, feeling furious and guilty and out of control. Fenris and Hawke weren't really angry with each other but, until they'd discussed what had happened the previous night, they would continue to use each other as verbal and emotional punching bags.

Hawke was now certain that Fenris had called out to him during the night. Last night, when Hawke's mind had been fogged by sleep, he'd been unsure, but now, in the cold light of the morning, Fenris's voice played out in his mind with perfect clarity. It _had_ been Fenris's voice, but as Hawke had never heard it before: there had been a strident, urgent quality to the elf's voice, as though he was in fear of his life or sanity.

Hawke suspected, though, that if he raised the subject, Fenris would either retreat further into himself or would lash out verbally. Perhaps, though, that was exactly what Fenris needed to do. If Fenris continued to take his anger out on Hawke, though, would Hawke be able to contain his own frustration? His own hurt?

He would have to. This wasn't about Hawke and his ego and bruised feelings.

"Get a bloody grip!" he scolded himself.

Leaving the kettle untouched, he quickly left the kitchen and walked along the corridor leading to the main hall, stopping dead as he spotted Fenris walking toward him with his head bowed. Hawke also noticed that Fenris was limping on his right foot.

"Fenris, I-"

The elf's head jerked up. "Hawke-"

They slowly walked closer to each other, their sentences unfinished. They stopped a few feet apart, both looking at the floor.

"Fenris, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I know you didn't imply… that was me being an idiot."

Fenris shook his head sadly. "No. It's not your fault. As usual, I have expressed myself inappropriately... inadequately. I have projected my anger onto you, when you did not deserve it." Fenris's eyes, full of desperation and panic, slowly travelled up to meet Hawke's.

"Fenris, it's-" Hawke took a step closer to the elf, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around him and pull him close. "I think we need to talk, don't we?"

"What about?" asked Fenris uncertainly.

"About what happened last night."

"But nothing happened last night."

"That's what you're so upset about, isn't it?"

"I am not-" Fenris's eyes fell to Hawke's chest, and his posture slackened.

"Let's just stop pretending, Fenris. Both of us."

Fenris turned away and Hawke followed as the elf made his way back to the reception hall. He watched in concern as Fenris sat upon the settee before quickly rising again and walking to the windows.

"So, what happened?" began Hawke, who stood next to the settee but did not sit. "Did you have a bad dream?"

A sigh came from the window, but Fenris didn't answer. Hawke took a few steps closer. "I heard you. I heard you call my name. That was why I came up to your room."

Hearing a shaky exhalation from the elf, Hawke took a few more steps towards him. From where he was standing, he could see that one of Fenris's hands was fisted at his side, and the other clung to the drapes. Hawke knew there would be trouble if he pressed Fenris, but that didn't stop him.

"What did you dream about?"

"I do not wish to discuss this. It is done. Leave it at that."

"You may not _want_ to talk about it, but I think you _need_ to."

The drapes moved as they were pulled taut by Fenris, the elf's shoulders rising and falling quickly, his tension tangible. Slowly, Fenris's head turned toward Hawke. His eyes were no longer filled with uncertainty and pain, but with fury, bright and fierce.

"Do not presume to know what I _need_ , Hawke," the elf growled.

Hawke's stomach flipped, knowing that Fenris was on edge, but he didn't back down from his questioning.

"Did you dream about Danarius?"

"What?" Fenris released the drapes and turned fully to face Hawke.

"I'm-I'm just assuming, as you wouldn't really remember much else."

"You are overstepping the boundaries of being a 'friend'," warned Fenris, his voice thick and broken, his posture stiff and tight. "You assume much, yet you know little."

"Tell me, then, and I'll know."

"Must I repeat myself? Did you not hear me when I said I did not want to talk about this?"

"I think you're desperate to talk about this."

" _Do_ you?" Fenris's upper lip curled, revealing gritted teeth. "Do you never tire of knowing what is best for everyone, Hawke? Do you not grow weary of always being right, of being the beneficent champion of the downtrodden, the oppressed? Of people like _me_?"

"And don't you ever get tired of being a martyr, Fenris? Of being a victim?"

"You know _nothing_!" Fenris yelled, charging forward towards Hawke, almost knocking over an occasional table. "You know nothing of the life I have lived, of the things I've had to do, of-of-" He leaned on the small table, panting heavily, a suggested illumination of his markings imbuing his skin with a blue tint. "You need to leave," he urged, his voice softer but with a dangerous edge.

Hawke shook his head. "No."

With alarming speed, the table was hurled through the air, smashing against the far wall. "I said, _get out!_ "

Startled, but suspecting that Fenris wouldn't hurt him, Hawke decided he'd pushed Fenris far enough. Putting a little distance between them, he moved to the settee and took a seat, saying no more.

Fenris stared at the ruined table and raised his trembling hands up to his face, the glow of his markings having waned. "Hawke…" Appalled with himself, he turned to face the mage, who sat quietly on the settee, looking at his own hands which were clasped together in his lap.

Hawke glanced up at the elf and shook his head. "No more apologies, Fenris. You have nothing to be sorry for."

At a loss for words, Fenris closed his eyes, his arms falling to his sides. How many more times would Hawke tolerate this behaviour before deciding he'd had enough? Before he deserted him? Although Fenris knew it was inevitable that Hawke would abandon him eventually, still, he couldn't stop himself from testing Hawke at every opportunity. One day, he knew, Hawke would fail one of his tests and would leave, which could only be for the best. Fenris had come to depend on Hawke far too much, and refused to admit to himself how important Hawke had become to him.

Slowly, Fenris moved to the settee and slumped down next to Hawke. "Hawke… what Danarius did to me… I-I cannot speak of it. I… cannot."

"Why?" asked Hawke softly. "Because you think it was your fault?"

"It was," Fenris answered immediately.

"No, it _wasn't_ ," Hawke said angrily.

"I was not strong enough. I could have, I should have… resisted, fought against him, but I did not. I _allowed_ him to… to…"

"Fenris-"

"He intimated that there was a time when I was complicit in-" He shook his head.

"Well, of course he'd say that! He could have told you anything! How would you remember?" Hawke sat up straight, his hands tightly clamped together. "That has nothing to do with it, anyway! Let's say that _was_ true, at one time. The fact is, there came a time when you _didn't_ want it, and he just continued regardless. At least, I'm assuming that's how it happened. _Is_ that how it happened?"

"I do not remember ever welcoming his… attention, Hawke, and yet he would seem hurt when I spurned him. I do not understand. If that were true, if I had indeed… consented, then I am no better than him. Sometimes, I feel so confused, so angry, and yet without those feelings, I have nothing. They are the only things that make me feel alive, Hawke. They are all I have."

Hawke, deeply touched that Fenris was finally opening up to him, kept his own wrath firmly in check and glanced to his side, where Fenris sat. Unclasping his hands, he reached across and gently took one of the elf's hands in his own. Fenris started slightly, but otherwise didn't move, keeping his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

"They're not all you have."

He knew he'd done it now. He'd shown his feelings. He and Fenris had shook hands before, but this was different. Male 'friends' didn't hold hands. He waited for Fenris's hand to be snatched away; he waited for what seemed like ages, but Fenris's hand remained where it was, not gripping Hawke's hand, but not pushing it away, either.

Hawke eventually released Fenris's hand and stood up, pushing his hands through his hair with a sigh. "Well, let's take a look at that foot of yours. I noticed you were limping."

He heard the quiet clearing of Fenris's throat, and turned around. Fenris had sat up straight and held his right foot up. Hawke got down on one knee and supported Fenris's ankle with one hand, resting Fenris's foot on his knee.

"Oh," Hawke mumbled as he examined the elf's foot.

"Oh?"

A large, pus-filled lump had appeared in the crack on Fenris's heel. "This will need to be incised and drained," he told the elf. "I'd feel a lot better if Anders did this. I've never had to do it before."

"But you know what must be done?" asked Fenris.

"Yes, but-"

"Then I would have you do it, Hawke."

"All right." Hawke placed Fenris's foot back on the floor and stood up. "I'd better warn you, the procedure will be quite painful without magic, but you should see a huge improvement once it's been drained."

"I understand," Fenris said with a solemn nod.

"I need to go and see Anders, anyway. I'm out of a few ingredients for your next batch of medicine. If he's not at the clinic, I'll have to visit the Gallows and see Sol instead, so I may be gone for a while. Oh, and Varric and I have to meet Javaris Tintop - he said he'd wait for us at the Qunari compound. I need to speak to Varric anyway," he muttered in an aside to himself.

"I will go with you," Fenris volunteered, pushing himself up, only to be stopped by Hawke's outstretched palm.

"No. You need to rest. I'll make you something to eat, and then I'll go."

"I cannot just sit here and do nothing," Fenris protested.

"That is _exactly_ what you have to do," Hawke said sternly, and Fenris sat back on the settee with a frustrated sigh. "And _no_ training while I'm gone. Promise me."

"Very well, Hawke," Fenris said with a groan. "I will remain here and do _nothing_."

"See that you do," said Hawke with a small smile. "I'll be back shortly."

When Hawke returned with a pot of tea, a plate of toast and a bowl of porridge, Fenris was still on the settee and had elevated his right leg on a small stool.

"Is it throbbing?" Hawke asked, setting the tray down on the floor.

Fenris shrugged, reluctant to admit he was in pain.

Hawke walked to the far wall, gathered the pieces of the small table that Fenris had broken, and threw them onto the fire.

"You enjoy this, don't you?" Fenris asked him.

"Enjoy what?"

"Looking after people. You are very good at it."

Warmth tickled Hawke's stomach, and he bowed to the elf. "Thank you." He cleared his throat and walked to the door. "I'll be off, now. Uh… Fenris, I need to ask you something. Just tell me this one thing, and I'll never mention it again. Unless _you_ want to talk about it, that is."

"What?" Fenris asked with a frown.

"I need to know… what does Danarius look like?"

Fenris's frown deepened into a scowl. "Why?"

"I need to know what he looks like if we're to find him."

"You are… serious about this, then?"

"Deadly serious."

Fenris's scowl faded, replaced by a look of uncertainty, and he toyed with his hands. "He is a little over six feet tall, of medium build, with long, grey hair which he wears in a ponytail. He has a beard, which is also grey, but no moustache. I do not know his age, but he is perhaps in his sixties. Pale blue eyes."

"Thank you, Fenris. I'll see you later." He turned and opened the door.

"Hawke… for how long will you be gone?" asked Fenris, looking up, a hint of anxiety in his question.

"Hopefully I'll be back by lunchtime, as you need your next dose of medicine then, and I have to sort out that foot of yours. I'll be as quick as I can," he promised, and Fenris nodded. "Make sure you lock up after me."

~o~O~o~

The lantern outside the clinic was alight, and Hawke entered, but there was no sign of Anders within. He walked to the far end of the clinic and called for Anders through the door. After a few minutes, Anders emerged, clutching some papers.

"Oh, Hawke… I didn't expect to see you, today. Everything all right?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to disturb you, Anders." He glanced at the stack of paper that Anders was holding. "Busy?"

Anders placed the papers down on the ground and handed one to Hawke. "Tell me what you think of this."

"What is it?"

"Just read it."

Hawke began to read. It was a list of actions that needed to be taken to secure the freedom of mages throughout Kirkwall and Thedas. Hawke skimmed over it and went to hand it back, but Anders told him to keep it.

"You're getting pretty involved with the underground movement then, Anders?"

"Of course I am, Hawke. Somebody has to, don't they?"

Hawke wondered for a moment if that was an accusation. Anders had asked Hawke many times to assist him with helping apostates, but so far Hawke had resisted, knowing he couldn't give his family a better life if he was locked up in the Gallows.

"Good for you," he replied dispassionately.

Taking the hint, Anders nodded and folded his arms. "Something you wanted me for, Hawke?"

"Actually, yes. I'm out of a few ingredients for Fenris's medicine and was wondering if I could borrow some? I'll replace them."

"Oh… not a social call, then?" Anders asked with the _undertone_ Hawke had heard before.

"Look, Anders, if you don't want to give them to me, I'll go to the Gallows. No skin off my nose."

"No… no, it's all right," Anders replied, a little taken aback. "What do you need?"

"A pinch of powdered silver, if you have any, and some concentrated elfroot."

Anders nodded. "Yes, I think I can stretch to that."

"I'll pay you for the silver, I know it's expensive," Hawke offered.

"No need." With a sigh, Anders went down the stairs leading to his private room, appearing again a short time later with a small phial and a larger one, which he handed to Hawke.

"Thanks," Hawke said, and he eyed Anders for a moment, waiting for him to say something.

"What's the matter, Hawke? Did you want something else?"

"Aren't you going to ask how Fenris is?"

Anders's eyes hardened and his jaw clenched. "And why would I do that?"

"Well, because he's _ill_. It's obvious that you don't care, as you disappeared pretty quickly last night, but I thought you might at least pretend."

"Fuck, Hawke!" Anders turned away and clasped his hands together behind his neck before he turned back. "Do you want to know where _caring_ got me? You may not be aware of this, as you were unconscious due to having been stupid enough to overdose on lyrium, but I _tried_ several times to help your _friend_. He made it _very_ clear that he didn't want me anywhere near him, so don't come in here accusing me of not caring, all right?"

"You know he doesn't like being touched-"

"He doesn't mind _you_ touching him, though, does he?" snapped Anders.

"That's because I've made an effort to get to know him!"

"No! I _have_ tried, and I've had enough! I tried to treat him last night and I protected him while he was fighting, and he told me to keep my filthy hands off him!"

"You used magic on him? That's probably why he was angry with you, then," said Hawke. "Magic causes him pain. His master used it as a means of control."

"And how was I supposed to know that?" Anders exclaimed, before his eyes narrowed a little. "Wait… are you _sure_ about this? He could just be telling you that, you know. It doesn't sound very plausible, does it?"

Hawke folded his arms, his expression severe.

"Well, you seem ready to believe everything he tells you," Anders went on. "Shouldn't you just step back for a minute and think? It would be a perfect excuse for a _mage_ not to touch him, wouldn't it?"

"I _have_ touched him," Hawke replied, knowing full well that his answer would provoke Anders. "Several times, in fact."

"Hawke…" Anders pushed back a few errant strands of his hair and folded his arms again. "Don't you think… what are _you_ getting out of this? From where I'm standing, you're doing everything for him. He just seems to be taking from you without giving anything back. What's he doing for _you_?"

"Is that what friendship means to you, Anders? Feeling obligated to return a favour someone does for you? That's not friendship. That's business."

"You _know_ that's not how I feel, Hawke. You and I, well, I _think_ we're still friends. I just never see you anymore."

"Hold on a minute!" Hawke argued. "You're the one who told me you were so busy at the clinic! I told you to let me know if you needed any help, but I haven't heard from _you_! Don't try and put all the blame on me!"

"And why do you think that is? Every time I see you, you're with him!"

" _What_?"

"I know when I'm not wanted, Hawke!"

"This is ridiculous!" Hawke fumed. "Can you hear yourself? It's not as if you and I are lovers, is it? If we were, maybe your reaction would be understandable! You need to accept that I'm friends with Fenris. It pains me that you don't get on, really it does, but there's nothing I can do about it, is there?"

"I'm wasting my time, aren't I?" Anders asked in exasperation. "Can't you see he's using you? He despises everything you are, but you're _useful_ to him. He _knows_ I can see him for what he is, so he's latched on to you. If you can't see that, then I guess there's nothing _I_ can do about that, is there?"

"You're right, Anders," Hawke said with a nod, reaching into his pocket. "You _are_ wasting your time." He grabbed Anders's hand and pressed a few coins into his palm. "That's for the silver."

"I don't want any money, Hawke!" Anders objected as Hawke walked out of the clinic.

"Use it to buy supplies. I'm out of here."

Anders watched him leave and covered his face with his hands, before kicking a nearby crate in frustration and stomping down to his private room, slamming the door.

~o~O~o~

Hawke almost sent the door of the Hanged Man flying off its hinges as he entered and made a beeline for the bar. "Whiskey," he barked at Corff. "And don't water it down, either."

Seeing that Hawke was in no mood for banter, Corff quickly served him and discreetly sent one of the barmaids to go and knock on Varric's door. Although Corff knew and respected Hawke, he didn't want any trouble.

Not long after Hawke had sat down, Varric joined him and shook his hand as he sat down. "Didn't expect to see you here this early, Hawke," he said, his eyes wandering down to Hawke's empty tumbler. Raising his arm to attract the barmaid's attention, he called for two more measures.

"How's the elf, Hawke?" enquired Varric, and Hawke snorted at the fact it had been the first thing Varric had thought of, a far cry from Anders.

"He's not at his best, but I can help him," answered Hawke. "I'll tell him you asked about him. I've just been to the clinic to get a few more ingredients for his medicine. He hates it," he said with a grin.

"Poor sod," chuckled Varric. "And how's Blondie?"

Hawke's eyes dropped to the table and he shrugged. Without needing to ask, Varric could see the source of Hawke's tension.

Their drinks were brought to them, and they toasted each other before knocking them back. "So, ready to go to the compound, Hawke?" asked Varric. "Or do you have other stuff to do, first?"

"No, I'm ready when you are, Varric," Hawke answered, staring into his glass thoughtfully. "I do want to talk to you about something first, though."

"Sure, Hawke. What is it?"

Hawke put his glass down and sat up straight. "You know a lot of people, don't you, Varric? Here and further afield?"

"I do. What do you need?"

"I want Fenris's master found. I want to know exactly where he is, and what he's up to."

The usually-unflappable dwarf raised his eyebrows in surprise and leaned forward. "That's no small thing you're asking, Hawke. Those Tevinter mages are usually very heavily guarded, you know. Wasn't the elf his bodyguard? If he has any more like him, we won't be able to get close."

"I don't want anyone going after him, I just want to know where he is, where his lackeys are, if he's planning on sending anyone after Fenris, that sort of thing. Anything would be helpful, Varric. If you need bribe money or anything, let me know."

"That won't be necessary, Hawke. A lot of people owe me. Does the elf know you're doing this?"

Hawke nodded.

Varric exhaled and rested his head on his hand. After a few moments of thought, he nodded. "I think I know just the person," he mused. "Leave it with me. Just be aware this may take some time, Hawke - this… Darius? Could be anywhere."

Hawke reached across the table and shook Varric's hand again. "Danarius." He passed Varric a piece of paper. "That's his name and a physical description. He hails from Minrathous but, like you said, he could be anywhere."

Varric read the note, nodded and slipped it into his pocket. "It's a start, Hawke." He stood up. "I'll put this somewhere safe in my room. Your round."

"Varric, if you manage to locate Danarius, I'll buy every round for the next year," he promised.

"I want that in writing," Varric chuckled as he left the table.

"You'll have it," said Hawke, his smile disappearing as his friend left the lounge.


	28. Divergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fenris… did you just make... puppy eyes at me?"
> 
> A lilting smile brightened the elf's face. "Elves do not make puppy eyes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thank-you to the very generous, secret genius that is Shakespira :-)

Anders stomped down the stone steps leading to his small private room, where he sat on his hard wooden bunk, head in hands. He knew he'd angered Hawke, perhaps irreparably damaging their friendship, but was equally irate that Hawke couldn't see Fenris for what he really was: a brutal, capricious killer who also happened to despise mages. Instead, Hawke seemed to be going out of his way to accommodate Fenris and, Anders suspected, had started to develop feelings for him. Had Hawke taken leave of his senses? Had he forgotten that he was a blood mage?

Anders squeezed his eyes closed and imagined the moment when Fenris would inevitably discover Hawke's secret, and pictured the elf's fist driving through Hawke's flesh and crushing his heart.

" _I will not allow that to happen."_

"How could you possibly stop it?"

" _The elf always stands at my side during battle. I have encouraged him to do so, and he complies because he distrusts me. We can use that to our advantage. I will observe him as he observes me. I will not permit him to slay Hawke."_

"But I don't understand, Justice. You have no more love for blood mages than I do."

" _Hawke has renounced his powers and his connection with the demon he treated with. I have observed them in the Fade. He bitterly regrets their deal and will have no part of her."_

"You've observed them? Can you interact with them at all?"

" _I could, if I so wished, but I do not."_

Anders sat up straight and frowned.

" _I know what is in your mind, Anders, but it is inconceivable. Hawke chose to deal with a demon and it would be unrighteous to slay it without just cause."_

"But you _could_ slay it if you wanted to?"

" _I could, but there is no reason for me to do so. Only when a demon attempts to beguile or harm an innocent will I intervene. If a deal has already been brokered, it is not my place to interfere."_

"Do you know what the deal was?"

" _I do not."_

"Could you find out?"

" _That is not my affair. Why do you not ask Hawke?"_

"Oh, come on, Justice. He wouldn't tell me the time of day at the moment, would he?"

" _You must make things right with Hawke. We have few enough allies as it is, and it is imperative you do not allow yourself to become disjunct from those who will aid our cause. Hawke has already made a name for himself within your realm and I believe that one day he will rise to a powerful and important position. Would you have one so eminent as your foe?"_

"No, I suppose not. I just… when I see him with that elf-"

" _Trivialities, Anders. Let him have his fun with the elf. I will remain vigilant. Hawke will not be harmed. On that, you have my word."_

Anders sighed and the image of Hawke and Fenris in an embrace flashed through his mind.

" _Have a care. I suspect there is more to your dislike of the elf than the concern of a friend. Your heart must be hard and your resolve unbreakable, your temperance irrefutable. The road before us is long. Do not lengthen it further still. You must put these thoughts aside."_

"I'm sorry, Justice. I know you're right. It's just, well, I'm-I'm lonely. Sometimes…"

" _The path we have chosen is a lonely one, but I concede that mortals have urges which demand to be sated. Fornicate if you must, but I impel you to sever all emotional ties. You agreed to this, Anders, when we resided in Amaranthine. Do not waver now."_

"Sever all emotional ties? Like I did with those at the keep? With Lewi? Oghren? They were my friends, Justice. It wasn't easy to leave them."

" _They were my friends, also. We discussed this. You agreed to leave Vigil's Keep, never to return. You have known Hawke for much less time than you did the Grey Wardens."_

"Yes, I know. It should be easier, right?" Anders stood up and paced back and forth. "When I escaped from the Tower, I missed my friends, but I knew it had to be done. When I left the keep, I missed everyone there. I still do. I know what we have to do, Justice, but I've never been any good on my own. I need a friend, I need a… companion."

" _I am here. You are also surrounded by the people of Darktown."_

"I don't expect you to understand this, Justice, but it's possible to be surrounded by people and still feel lonely. None of those people are really my friends. It makes me feel good to help them, but sometimes they take me for granted."

" _They are all potential allies, Anders. When the denizens of this realm are forced to choose sides, there are many who will rally behind you."_

"That's not why I do it!"

" _Reasons are of little import. I understand that you feel a need to help others, and I would do nothing to hinder that. What you must start considering, Anders, is how the ones you aid can also aid_ you _. It is only just that you are fairly requited for your efforts."_

Anders sat back down and released his breath in a short burst. "I wish I could see things in black and white as you do, Justice."

" _Do not despair, Anders. Clarity of thought will come, in time. Now, go to the surface and find a vessel with which you can satiate your base appetites. Find Hawke and make amends. You will feel better for it."_

"A vessel?" Anders chuckled in spite of the way he felt. "You still make me laugh, Justice, even after all this time."

" _How so? I do not understand what you find so amusing."_

"Never mind. Come on, then. Let's go and find that vessel."

~o~O~o~

As soon as the door closed behind Hawke, Fenris padded across and locked it, as Hawke had told him to. He then paused, his hand still resting on the key in the lock.

As Hawke had told him to.

With a deep frown, he walked back to the settee and sat down, just catching sight of Hawke through the window as he left the grounds of the mansion. Fenris's gaze fell to the floor as he recalled his and Hawke's first meeting and how things had changed between them since then. If Hawke had _told_ him to do something only a few weeks earlier, Fenris would no doubt have reacted fiercely. Now, though, he did as he was _told_ without a thought. Since when had he allowed himself to take directions – orders – from a mage? Hawke, though, was unlike any mage he'd ever encountered - in fact, Fenris was forced to admit, there were times when he forgot Hawke was a mage at all.

The abomination, Anders, wore his status as a mage like a badge: with almost every sentence he uttered, Anders reminded everyone of his status and the struggles and inequalities that came with that status. Even when the abomination was silent, he exuded an aura of arcane power.

There was something about Anders that made Fenris uneasy; something unwholesome, degenerate. He had observed, on occasion, that when Anders had smiled, his expression had twisted into a forced grimace when the mage believed no one else was looking. Where Anders's friends heard the warmth and mirth in Anders's voice, Fenris heard only the barely-perceptible hard and jagged edge.

Fenris had seen the wickedness and corruption of mages first-hand, and recognised these latent qualities in Anders. They had not yet fully emerged, but Fenris knew a day would come when Anders's jovial and caring façade would no longer be able to contain them, and Fenris was resolved to protect his new friends when that day came.

Hawke was one of those friends, and the one he had become closest to. Although Fenris had at first suspected Hawke of having a sinister agenda, he no longer felt that way - Hawke's unremitting generosity and patience had finally convinced Fenris that not all mages were inherently evil. Hawke elicited in Fenris none of the feelings that Anders did; in fact, Hawke inspired feelings of a different kind entirely, although as Fenris had no experience of those feelings, he couldn't quite make sense of them.

Fenris had not allowed anyone to physically touch him since he had fled Minrathous, not even the Fog Warriors. As Qunari, physical contact was unimportant, even unwelcome, to them anyway, so it had never been an issue. To humans, however, making a connection to someone in that way _was_ important, vital, even. Hawke shook the hand of everyone he met, kissed his sister and mother on the cheek, ruffled the hair of the children of Lowtown who begged him for a silver, before slipping them two. He was a man who gave freely without asking for anything in return. Indeed, Fenris knew he could never repay Hawke for everything he'd done for him, but he also knew that Hawke neither expected nor required any such recompense.

When Hawke had clasped his hand, for the briefest moment, his old fear had returned but had quickly faded. Fenris was, despite his best efforts not to show it, in a weakened state. If Hawke did have unsavoury intentions toward him, Hawke could easily have overpowered him. Hawke knew that magic harmed and incapacitated Fenris, and yet had gone to great lengths to avoid using magic on him when treating his foot. Hawke had pressed him firmly to talk about his dream, but had known exactly when to stop.

Then, in a seemingly simple gesture, Hawke had clasped his hand. He had not forced his proximity upon Fenris; he'd kept his distance, but had still initiated physical contact. The holding of hands, though, was something that Fenris knew was not a common practice in the Free Marches between friends, particularly male friends. There had been more than simple friendship and comfort in that gesture; in fact, Fenris had suspected for some time that Hawke wanted more than friendship from him. Fenris was a very observant man who watched people constantly and, on occasion, he'd caught Hawke's eyes lingering on him for just a moment too long, and had noticed the light in them when Fenris had made him laugh, as well as the hurt when Fenris had lashed out at him.

Hawke had had ample opportunities to take advantage of him, to make his dreams of Danarius's abuses once again a reality and, when Fenris had first suspected Hawke's feelings, that fear had been very real to him. Now, though, he no longer felt afraid of Hawke, nor did he fear his touch. When Hawke had taken his hand, Fenris had flinched for a second because never before, in his memory, had he been touched in such an intimate way. Danarius's touches had always been in far more personal and private places, yet there had been no feeling of intimacy in them.

When Hawke made no further attempts at touching him, however, he'd relaxed a little and had wanted so much to squeeze Hawke's hand, to sanction his touch, but there had only been one reason to do that – to put Hawke at ease – and so many reasons not to.

Even if Fenris _was_ capable of returning Hawke's feelings, the thought of which caused panic and confusion to rise in his gullet like bile, Fenris knew that he was completely unsuitable for someone like Hawke, and would only cause him pain, or worse. Fenris was broken and damaged and, thanks to Danarius, disgraced and sullied. Hawke had given him so much and, as much as Fenris wanted to return Hawke's kindness, he felt he had nothing to give; he was empty and devoid of feeling anything other than hatred and bitterness, and driven by nothing but his need for retribution.

Hawke was full of life, laughter and love, and even if Fenris was capable of ever returning any of the feelings he suspected Hawke had for him, Hawke deserved better. Fenris knew that he should continue to push Hawke away, but he could no longer stand to see the hurt in Hawke's eyes when he did so. Fenris had startled even himself when he'd thrown the table against the wall - an action born out of his own frustration and confusion, and one last attempt to drive Hawke away - but Hawke had not taken the bait, and somehow, Fenris had known that he wouldn't.

And now, Hawke planned to hunt Danarius before he found Fenris, something that Fenris found both comforting and unnerving. He had not been surprised by Hawke's desire to protect his friends, but the thought of Danarius being actively sought, and perhaps eventually lured into a trap – if he could even be found – made Fenris's insides turn to liquid. What would happen if and when he came face-to-face with his former master? What would the consequences be to Hawke?

Walking to the window, Fenris sat on the sill and gazed outwards, allowing his attention to wander. His eyes closed as the memory came to him of the Fog Warriors, who lay bleeding and dying at his feet, their eyes full of admiration and respect for their former friend-turned-killer. Stoic and dignified to the end.

He then forced himself to picture Hawke alongside them, but the Hawke in his mind was not as accepting of his fate as the Fog Warriors had been. He thrashed around in agony, blood pumping out of the gaping wound in his belly and screamed at Fenris to end his suffering, his own eyes full of horror, confusion, hurt and so many questions that he was unable to give voice to.

_Why, Fenris?_

Fenris rubbed his eyes and blinked, willing the image to disappear, but it was still there even when he opened his eyes. Now that he had seen it, it would never leave him.

Could he really do that to Hawke, even if Danarius commanded him to?

Fenris didn't know what the future would bring, but it was thanks to Hawke's efforts that he even had a _chance_ of a future. Whatever it took, he would protect Hawke, even at the cost of his own life. He would fully co-operate with Hawke and would do whatever he suggested.

Whatever Hawke told him to do.

~o~O~o~

After Hawke and Varric had visited the Qunari compound and, after Hawke had picked his jaw up from the ground long enough to actually speak to the fearsome Arishok, the two friends left the compound ten sovereigns richer, thanks to the Qunari leader, who had commanded the slippery Tintop to pay them if he wanted to leave with his head attached to his body.

"Well, Hawke," said Varric gleefully as he received his cut. "After this is shared out, we'll only be about ten sovs away from what we need for the expedition. I tell you, I've been having wet dreams about the look on Bartrand's face when we take the money to him."

Hawke pulled a disgusted face and sidestepped away from the dwarf. "That's a mental image I could have done without, thank you very much."

Varric chuckled and pocketed his money. "You coming for a drink?"

"Just a quick one, then. I need to get back to Fenris. He'll be dying to take his medicine," Hawke answered wryly.

"Well, tell him I said hello. You going to join the game tonight, or will you be too busy playing nursemaid?"

"I'm not sure. I need to perform a procedure on Fenris's foot when I get back, and I think I'd prefer to keep an eye on him." Hawke paused and stroked his beard, thinking. "We _could_ have the game at the mansion, actually. What do you think?"

"Would the elf agree to that?"

"I think he's really restless. He can't train, and, when I've finished with his foot, he won't be able to walk much for the rest of the day. It might be nice for him to look at an ugly mug other than my own."

Varric nodded. "Sure, Hawke. If I see that Donnic guy around, I'll invite him, too."

"Great, and I'll ask Sebastian if he wants to join in as well."

"Does that mean we'll have to play for fun _again_?" groused Varric.

"I would have thought you'd be relieved to be playing for fun, after Fenris completely humiliated you the last time."

"Mage, I _told_ you, that was beginner's luck!"

"He held his own against the men at the barracks, as well," Hawke said with pride in his voice. "I think you should be very scared."

"Let's hope your 'lucky' elf can back up your cockiness, Hawke," said Varric with a sly look. "How about Blondie? You going to invite him?" he asked casually.

It was a loaded question, and Hawke knew it. "I think he's busy at the clinic," he answered shiftily.

From the corner of his eye, Hawke could see that Varric was watching him. They walked on in silence through Lowtown for a few minutes before Varric spoke again. "Tell me to mind my own business if you like, Hawke, but what's the deal with you and Blondie? The two of you used to be good friends, but lately… I dunno."

Hawke came to a halt and sighed. "I don't _know_ what the 'deal' is with Anders, and that's exactly what the problem is. It's almost like there are two sides to him. On one hand, he's a very caring man who sacrifices all of his spare time to heal people for free, and yet on the other, there's a very narrow-minded, petty side to him as well. He also has quite a ruthless streak. You weren't there at the time, Varric, but he was perfectly willing to murder an innocent templar in order to free those blood mages at the coast. I think it was at that point I started to wonder about him. I just don't know what to make of him anymore."

"You think Justice could be influencing him?"

Hawke shrugged. "From what I've seen of Justice, he's a pretty decent and moral spirit. Yes, he's narrow-minded and inflexible in a way, but there's no way he would have condoned murdering an innocent man. That was all Anders, from what I could tell. How can someone who has dedicated his life to healing the sick have such disregard for the life of someone who happens to be at odds with his beliefs? I know he had some bad experiences with templars when he lived in Ferelden, but…" He sighed and shook his head. "There's something about him that just doesn't add up. I can't put my finger on it." Hawke then remembered the time he'd observed Anders talking to himself during their visit to the Gallows, but decided not to share that with Varric.

"Do you think he'll still go into the Deep Roads with us?" asked Varric.

"I think so, at least, I hope so," Hawke said distractedly with another sigh. "We _do_ need him. I guess I'll try and be a bit nicer to him, eh?"

"You worried about him, Hawke?" Varric asked astutely as they walked on.

Hawke glanced sideways at Varric and nodded slowly. "I am. He's been so serious lately, and he's spending a lot of time on his own. I'd _love_ to invite him to the game, but he and Fenris together would just be asking for trouble."

"Maybe they need to get rat-faced together, break the ice?" Varric began, but Hawke laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head.

"No, they hate each other. Well, actually, Fenris doesn't trust him and Anders is resentful of that. I just wish I could make them see how much they have in common. They've both been victims of an oppressive regime, and have both sacrificed a great deal for their freedom. If only they could put their heads together, they could accomplish so much… as things stand, though, I'd be worried about them being together in the same room."

Varric nodded and glanced up at Hawke. "That's a real shame, Hawke, but don't get expending too much energy worrying over it. They're both grown men, and if they don't get along, they don't get along. You have enough on your plate as is it. You need to do what you've gotta do, and let them do the same. Nothing you can do to change it."

"You're very wise for a dwarf, you know," Hawke said with a half-smile.

"Don't let it get around, whatever you do," Varric mumbled out of the side of his mouth as they reached the Hanged Man. "When you've had your drink, I'll start putting the feelers out on this Danarius asshole."

Hawke reached for Varric's hand and shook it, slapping the dwarf's shoulder with his other hand. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Varric. I'll make it up to you somehow."

"Just make my wet dreams a reality, Hawke, that's all I ask."

Varric laughed as Hawke hastily released his hand. "You make me sick," Hawke muttered, and entered the Hanged Man, shaking his head, also laughing.

After a quick drink and a further talk about Danarius, Varric arranged a time to call at the mansion, on condition that Fenris agreed, and Hawke promised to let Varric know if there was any change to their plans. Hawke rose to leave, but was quickly stopped by Varric, who grabbed his arm and pushed him back into his seat.

"What's the matter?" asked Hawke.

Varric nodded toward the back of the pub, where Isabela had a man, just out of their sight, pinned against a wall, nuzzling his neck.

"Am I meant to be surprised?" Hawke asked with a shake of his head.

"Take a closer look, Hawke," Varric said quietly.

Hawke craned his neck as Isabela threw her head back and laughed flirtatiously, before she and her male companion emerged into the main lounge of the pub, adjusting their clothes.

Immediately, Hawke's face turned to stone. "You _must_ be joking."

"Maker, woman, what have you done to my back?" joked Isabela's temporary consort.

"You're a healer, aren't you? So _heal_ yourself," she drawled, throwing a wink at Varric and Hawke as she sauntered past them towards the exit.

Anders's eyes darted over to the two friends at the table, his fleeting look of apprehension quickly replaced by a self-satisfied grin. "What are you having, fellas?" he offered, approaching the bar.

"Nothing. I'm just leaving," Hawke said standoffishly, rising from his seat.

"Come on, Hawke, just the one, to show there are no hard feelings, eh?" Anders cajoled as Varric also rose, sensing that trouble was imminent.

Hawke stopped dead in front of Anders and fixed him with an icy glare. "What are you doing, Anders?"

"What am I _doing_? Having fun, that's what. Is something wrong, Hawke? Something you want to say?"

Hawke folded his arms and remained silent as Varric positioned himself between the mages, smoothing down several strands of hair that had lifted away from his head. "That's a great idea, Blondie. Let's all have a drink. I'm buying."

"You knew we'd be here," Hawke continued, not taking his eyes off Anders. "Are you expecting me to tell you that Isabela isn't good enough for you? So you can then call me a hypocrite for not heeding your advice about Fenris? Is that what your game is?"

"My _game?"_ I don't have a _game_ , Hawke. As I just said, I was looking for a bit of fun. You never seem to want to go out anywhere lately, like we used to, so I guess I have to make my own entertainment, don't I?"

"You fucked Isabela to make a point, Anders? Why didn't you just ask me if I wanted to go out?"

"Well, do you? Come on, Hawke! We'll have a night at the Rose, like we used to. Remember the last time? We had a lot of fun, didn't we? Angus has been asking where you are, you know."

Hawke's head fell back and he huffed. "No, not the Rose. I don't really feel like it."

"Well, here, then," Anders suggested, his smile leaving his eyes but staying on his lips. "How about tonight? Let's get pissed and forget all this silliness. What do you say?"

Varric's eyes flitted between the men as a brief moment of silence took the conversation and, feeling the hair on his arms stand on end, he noticed the line of Hawke's mouth harden.

"You _know_ I can't go out tonight! I'm looking after Fenris. You'd like that, wouldn't you, if I just abandoned him?"

"Tomorrow, then!" Varric exclaimed with false cheer, clapping his hands together, and Hawke was relieved that Varric made no mention of the card game they had planned that evening. "The elf should be on the mend by then, huh, Hawke?"

"He _should_ , but we'll have to see. I'm sure I can pop in for an hour or two, though," replied Hawke with a sigh, suddenly unsure of himself. Had he misjudged Anders? Why had he been so quick to accuse Anders of point-scoring?

"That's settled, then," Varric declared with some relief, eager to separate the mages as the air inside the Hanged Man had become muggy and saturated with static, the same sensation that heralded a thunderstorm. "You go and see to the elf," he instructed a now-quiet and uncertain Hawke. "Blondie, as I said, I'm buying."

Without looking at Anders, Hawke nodded at Varric, silently communicating that he would see him later, and left the pub without another word.

~o~O~o~

Hawke had to wait several minutes before the door to the mansion was opened.

"My apologies, Hawke," said Fenris, waving his hand to invite Hawke inside. "I was in the kitchen, and did not hear you at first."

Hawke entered and, as Fenris closed the door, he sniffed at the air. "What are you cooking?"

"A leg of lamb. I have sealed it, as you showed me."

Hawke gave Fenris a stern look. "You didn't have any lamb before. Have you been out? I thought I told you to rest?"

"You told me not to _train_ , Hawke," Fenris explained with a wide-eyed look. "You did not forbid me from leaving the mansion."

"Fenris… did you just make... _puppy eyes_ at me?"

A lilting smile brightened the elf's face. "Elves do _not_ make puppy eyes."

"Oh, really?" laughed Hawke. "You could have fooled me. Look, I'm not telling you what to do or anything, but you really should be resting."

"I had to do something," Fenris protested. "I am unaccustomed to inactivity."

"Well, I'm an expert at it," quipped Hawke, taking a small knife and a bundle of rags out of his pack. "When I've seen to your foot, you're _going_ to rest, even if I have to tie you to the settee. I need to sterilise these," he said, heading towards the kitchen.

"I will go with you," Fenris offered, following close behind. "I should prepare the vegetables."

"I can do that."

"Let me do _something_ ," Fenris argued. "You are already doing so much for me. Just let me do one thing for you. Please."

Still facing away from Fenris as he walked to the kitchen, Hawke smiled and felt warmth flood through him. "Oh, all right, then. Anything to avoid the _puppy eyes_ again. I don't think I could stand it."

"As I told you, Hawke-"

"Yes, I know. Elves don't make puppy eyes. My arse."

Laughing, they entered the kitchen, where Fenris checked on the meat and began to chop vegetables. Hawke put a large pan of water on to boil, into which he dropped the knife and the small bundle of rags. They conversed pleasantly, and Hawke mentioned the card game, making it clear that if Fenris did not feel up to it, Hawke would call it off. Fenris, however, liked the idea and readily agreed.

It wasn't until Fenris enquired if Hawke had seen Anders, or instead had needed to travel to the Gallows for his ingredients, that the conversation lulled. It did not escape Fenris's attention that at the mention of Anders, Hawke made a very brief reply and then changed the subject, telling Fenris that he'd stopped by at the chantry and invited Sebastian to join them later.

The tone of the conversation changed after that. Although still polite and pleasant with each other, there was no more banter, no more teasing between the two men. Fenris watched Hawke carefully and discreetly, determining that he was distracted at the very least, if not outright troubled.

Having boiled the rags and knife for a short time, Hawke was satisfied that they were sufficiently sterilised and placed the pan in the sink, fishing them out with some tongs that had also been boiled. He then added some cold water to the pan and washed his hands thoroughly in it before squeezing the excess moisture out of the rags.

"I'm going to hang these over the fire to dry," he told Fenris. "It shouldn't take long. Are you ready?"

With a nod, Fenris followed Hawke out of the kitchen, his curiosity burning brightly. He wanted to ask Hawke what was troubling him, but by the time they reached the reception hall, Hawke was all business.

"Sit at the far end of the settee, please, Fenris. I need you to be able to put your right leg up on it," he said, walking to the fire, where he draped the damp rags over the mantelpiece to dry.

Fenris complied, and Hawke then moved to the settee, sitting at the opposite end, where he placed a clean cloth over his thigh and removed several small bottles from his pack.

"Would you put your right foot on this cloth, please?" Hawke asked, and Fenris raised his leg, allowing Hawke to help a little.

Hawke took up the small knife in his right hand and held Fenris's foot with his other hand. "I'm going to cut into your heel," he explained to the elf. "That shouldn't hurt too much. In fact, you should feel an immediate easing of the pressure you must feel in your heel. I'm afraid it _will_ be painful, though, when I clean it afterwards. I'll be as gentle as I can, I promise."

"I know you will, Hawke. Please proceed."

"Here goes, then." Hawke took a deep breath and carefully sliced into the large yellow lump that had formed on the elf's heel. He then set the knife down and gently squeezed and massaged around the incision, causing Fenris to wince slightly.

"Sorry, Fenris. I have to make sure all of the pus is out."

"It is fine, Hawke. You were correct, I can feel the pressure easing already. I am very grateful for this."

Hawke smiled thinly and dabbed at Fenris's foot with the cloth as he continued to squeeze his heel. Fenris watched him as he worked and did not interrupt him as he concentrated, but when Hawke reached for one of his bottles, Fenris broke the silence.

"Hawke… you appear to be unusually pensive. Is something troubling you?"

Hawke glanced up briefly before turning his attention back to Fenris's heel. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"I did not think you rude. I merely noticed that you have been rather quiet since your return."

Sighing softly, Hawke coated a clean corner of the cloth with the contents of one of the small bottles. "Just a few things on my mind, that's all. Nothing important."

Fenris considered dropping the subject for a moment, feeling that Hawke's business was his own, but his concern got the better of him. "I would not consider the fact you are perturbed to be unimportant, Hawke. If you wish, you may discuss it with me. If, that is, you are prepared to share it with another. Perhaps it will ease your mind?"

Hawke smiled genuinely this time. "I doubt you'd be interested, Fenris. It's to do with Anders. But I think you've already guessed that. Hold still for a moment, I'm going to clean the wound. This is going to hurt. I'm sorry."

"I understand," said Fenris. As Hawke pressed the elfroot-saturated cloth against the wound, Fenris grimaced but bore the pain well.

"Nearly done. I just want to clean it again, to be on the safe side."

While Hawke folded the cloth and again coated a clean part of it with elfroot extract, Fenris pushed himself up a little.

"Anders does not approve of our friendship, does he?"

Surprised, Hawke again glanced up, but this time held Fenris's gaze. Sinking back against the settee, he shrugged. "There is that, but he's acting strangely. I'm concerned about him."

"Strangely? How?"

"I can't even explain it," Hawke admitted with a sigh. "He's just… different." He shook his head. "I know what you'd advise me to do - stay away from him," he said with a strained smile.

"No, I would not advise that," Fenris replied, and Hawke frowned in confusion. "My opinion of him is irrelevant. If he is your friend, and you care for him, then you cannot be expected to simply 'stay away from him'."

Hawke's frown deepened; that was the last thing he'd expected Fenris to say.

"If I may offer-" Fenris paused and shook his head. "No. It is not my place."

"No, please, Fenris, speak your mind."

Fenris exhaled through his nose and clasped his hands together. "I would only counsel that, while you should of course care for your friend and steer him away from peril, that you do not become _too_ involved in his troubles. You are strong, and he is weak, and he may take you down with him. That is all I will say on the matter. Heed or disregard my advice as you will."

Hawke's mouth gaped open, stunned at the difference between Fenris and Anders's attitudes. Anders's advice to renounce Fenris seemed to have originated from his own ignorance, selfishness and apparent jealousy. Fenris, on the other hand, who had myriad reasons to distrust mages, particularly a possessed one, did not expect Hawke to abandon Anders at all, knowing that Hawke cared for him. Furthermore, he had advocated that Hawke should do his best to protect Anders, but without losing himself in the process. In spite of everything Fenris had endured at the hands of mages, his wisdom and generosity of spirit moved Hawke deeply, leaving him speechless for a moment.

Noticing Hawke's expression, Fenris's face fell. "If I have spoken out of turn, Hawke-"

"No," Hawke answered quickly. "It's not that. No, I'll… I'll think about what you've said. Thank you."

Fenris nodded once and Hawke sat up straight, clearing his throat. "Right, one more time, Fenris, then I'll strap up your foot."

After cleaning Fenris's heel for a second time, Hawke gently moved the elf's foot aside and went to the fireplace, where the rags were almost dry. He then dressed Fenris's foot and instructed him to keep his leg elevated. Fenris thanked him sincerely for his care.

"I'm going to the kitchen to clean up, and I'll check on dinner," Hawke told Fenris. "I'll prepare some of your lovely medicine, as well."

"I cannot wait," Fenris answered with a smile.

"Just relax, and I'll be back shortly," said Hawke before leaving the room.

By the time Hawke had made the medicine and tidied the kitchen, more than half an hour had passed, and he returned to the hall, medicine in hand, to find Fenris dozing on the settee. Slowly and quietly, he walked over and crouched down next to the elf, placing the mug on the floor.

"Fenris?" he whispered.

When Fenris didn't stir, Hawke gently placed his hand on the elf's arm, but stopped short of shaking him. Instead, he looked closely at Fenris's face, marvelling at how young and free of care he looked. There was no scowl, no frown, no sneer or hard lines. He looked quite beautiful.

"Fenris?" he whispered again.

Still, he did not wake, and Hawke watched Fenris's chest rise and fall, his eyes moving to a lock of hair that had fallen over the elf's left eye. His stomach in knots, his hand moved of its own volition and gently pushed the stray piece of hair to the side.

"Maker, Fenris, do you have any idea-" Suddenly aware that he would not want Fenris to catch him looming over him if he awoke, Hawke sprang to his feet and released a shaky breath. He then turned and headed back to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner, unaware that his every step was followed by a pair of moss-green eyes.


	29. Unity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I do not remember what happened after that. I am told I lost consciousness again, and that Danarius was unable to revive me for several hours. I came close to losing my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank-you to all who follow the story, and in particular for your kudos and comments.
> 
> Once again, my sincere thanks to Shakespira for her wonderful beta talents :-)

Deciding to leave Fenris to sleep, Hawke busied himself preparing dinner, completely unaware that Fenris had not been asleep at all. When the meat was done, he removed it from the oven and left it to rest upon the counter. He then returned to the reception hall, where a relaxed Fenris was still lying on the settee, but was now 'awake'.

"Dinner's nearly ready," Hawke told him. "I'm going to bring that table in from next door. We can use it to eat, and then we can leave it in here for the game later on."

"Let me help you," offered Fenris.

"No, I can manage. The whole point of bringing the table in is so that you don't have to walk in there. You need to keep that foot up for the next few hours."

"But what if I need to answer a call of nature?"

"Tie a knot in it," Hawke joked.

"It's not that long, Hawke," sniggered Fenris, and Hawke burst out laughing.

"What have I told you about putting yourself down?" Hawke scolded him, and went into the dining room, still laughing.

Fenris watched Hawke as he dragged the large dining table over to the settee, before returning to the dining room for the chairs, which he placed around the table. He then sat at the end of the settee, taking care not to bump Fenris's foot.

"We can have our reading lesson here, as well, if you feel up to it."

"I do," Fenris replied warmly. "I look forward to it."

"Not bored of it yet, eh? Well, we're nearly at the end of the alphabet. Today, we'll cover the letters 'R' and 'S', which means you'll be able to write your own name at the end of the lesson."

Fenris allowed himself a small smile, and Hawke also smiled at the look of pride on the elf's face. "You're doing really well, you know, Fenris. By tomorrow you'll have learned your letters, and we can get you reading properly."

A serious look came over Fenris, then, and he glanced down at his hands. "I will never be able to repay you for everything you've done for me, Hawke."

"Yes, you will. You can learn to read, and then I'll have someone else to be boring with and talk about books all the time. That's the only reason I'm teaching you, you know."

"I will do my best," Fenris promised with a knowing smile.

Hawke rose. "I'm going to dish up now. I'll make us some tea, as well. I recommend that you lay off the wine for a couple of days - it'll help your body fight the infection more efficiently. Did you drink your medicine?"

"Yes. Here," Fenris said, passing him the empty mug.

"Thanks. Are you comfortable? Does your foot feel all right?"

Fenris nodded. "I am very comfortable, thank you. The pain is gone."

"Fenris… will you let me know if ever you're in pain, or feel unwell, again? There are sometimes alternatives to magic, you know."

"I will, Hawke. And thank you again."

~o~O~o~

After Hawke and Fenris had dined together, Hawke cleared the plates and cups away, still refusing to let Fenris help, despite his protestations. They then commenced Fenris's reading lesson. Fenris was progressing so well that they continued right through to the end of the alphabet, and neither of them noticed that the sun was setting, so engrossed in the lesson were they. At the end, Hawke tested Fenris, and his reward for passing was to be allowed to use the latrine. Naturally, this strongly motivated Fenris, and he passed with flying colours.

When Fenris returned, Hawke examined his foot again. Using some of the spare rags from atop the mantelpiece, he re-dressed Fenris's foot, as the short walk to the latrine had caused the wound to start weeping.

Shortly afterwards, just after seven bells, a loud rap sounded on the front door of the mansion.

"Didn't Varric say he would call at eight bells?" Fenris asked, sitting up straight on the settee. "He is early."

"I'll go," offered Hawke, as he was nearest to the door. As he stood up, he didn't fail to notice the tension in Fenris's posture. He moved to a window and looked out. "It's Sebastian," he told Fenris, who exhaled and stood up.

As Hawke opened the door and invited Sebastian in, he wondered if Fenris reacted the same way when _he_ called on him.

"Good evening to you both," Sebastian said with a friendly nod, producing a bottle of wine from under his arm. "I believe it's customary to bring a gift when invited to someone's house. I trust it'll be put to good use." He handed the bottle to Fenris, who took it with a smile and a small bow. "Hawke told me that he's been tending to your foot, Fenris. I wish you a swift recovery."

"Thank you. You are very kind." Fenris gestured for Sebastian to sit, and the archer joined Hawke at the table.

"You don't drink alcohol, do you?" Hawke asked Sebastian as they took a seat. "You've brought wine that you can't drink?"

Sebastian shrugged and laughed. "That is true, Hawke. However, I feared that flowers or chocolates might give the wrong impression."

"I wouldn't have minded chocolates," Hawke said with a pout.

The three men shared a laugh, and Fenris placed the bottle on the table for later. "Would you like some tea?" he asked Sebastian.

"Oh, that would be most welcome, thank you."

Hawke rose from his chair and pointed to the settee. "Sit down, you," he ordered Fenris with a cheeky smile. "You're supposed to be resting that foot." Fenris mock-scowled and shook his head, but did as he was instructed.

"I'd make the most of it, Fenris," Sebastian advised him. "As soon as you're on the mend, I have no doubt that Hawke will have you running around the Free Marches, chasing after mercenaries."

"No doubt," Fenris agreed with a sly smile at Hawke.

"Actually, we'll be heading into the Deep Roads fairly soon," Hawke told Sebastian. "We just need to get a bit more money together." Hawke's face dropped a little, then, and he turned to Fenris. "Um… I don't think I've ever asked you if you wanted to join us on the expedition, Fenris. I… just sort of assumed." He coughed, and then looked at Fenris expectantly. "What-what do you think, Fenris? Would you, um, like to, uh, accompany us?"

" _Us_?" asked Fenris sharply, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes… uh, Sebastian has very kindly offered to go along."

Fenris glanced at Sebastian, his eyebrow disappearing beneath his fringe. What Hawke didn't see was his wink at Sebastian. "And who else have you asked, Hawke?" the elf demanded.

"Well, Varric's coming along. Of course he is, he's the one who, um, well, it was his idea. Sort of. And, uh… Anders," he said in almost a whisper. "He's _got_ to come. He-he's a Grey Warden and all that. Fenris, I'm sorry I never actually asked you. It's just that I couldn't imagine not having you along and I've kind of factored you into my plans. Without actually asking you. Um…" Hawke cleared his throat and offered what he hoped was a charming smile.

"You asked all of those people _before_ you asked me?" Fenris asked gruffly. Sebastian covered his mouth with one hand to hide his smile. "So, let me get this straight… I am fourth choice?"

"What? Maker, no! I mean… it wasn't like that, honestly!" As Fenris and Sebastian started sniggering, Hawke gasped dramatically and placed his hands on his hips. "Fenris! Don't you _ever_ do that to me again!"

"It _was_ quite funny, Hawke," chortled Sebastian.

"Funny?" spluttered Hawke, making a concerted effort not to laugh himself. "I've never been so scared in my bloody life!"

"Do you really think I would allow you to enter the Deep Roads without me?" asked Fenris, flashing a toothy smile at Hawke.

Hawke folded his arms and shot a stern glance at Fenris. "You're lucky Sebastian is here, else I'd be calling you a very bad name, Elf."

"Oh, don't let me stop you," Sebastian said. "I'm sure it's nothing I haven't heard before."

"All right then… how about _Asinus_ for a start?"

"I cannot argue with that," laughed Fenris, and Hawke's heart swelled as Fenris wiped a tear from his eye, his shoulders rocking with mirth.

"I must confess, I haven't heard _that_ one," said Sebastian.

"It means _arse_ ," Hawke told him with a pointed glance at the elf.

"Ass," Fenris corrected.

"Same difference," mumbled Hawke, and he threw a wink of his own at Fenris before heading to the kitchen.

Hawke took his time making the tea. He'd noticed that Fenris was comfortable in Sebastian's company, and he wanted Fenris to make as many friends as possible. Now that Varric had begun making enquiries as to the whereabouts of Danarius, Hawke wondered if a few people's noses would be put out of joint by that, and was more concerned than ever for Fenris's safety. Having more friends would not only boost Fenris's confidence, but also increase the number of people he had to call on if ever he found himself in trouble. Hawke would not always be around.

Hawke's main concern, however, was now that Fenris's foot was on the mend, he would no longer have an excuse to stay at the mansion, and Fenris would once again be on his own, leaving him more vulnerable, especially at night. Although Aveline had posted extra guards in Hightown, Hawke was not entirely convinced that a couple of ex-templars would be effective against a blood mage who didn't need to rely on lyrium for his powers. Fenris was by no means anonymous in Kirkwall, and surely Danarius must know that he now resided at the mansion?

Hawke's eyes widened and he raised his head as an idea suddenly formed in his mind. Perhaps there _was_ a way for Fenris to become anonymous _and_ well-protected… but would Fenris agree to it?

The more Hawke thought about it, the more he liked the idea. It was the perfect solution, with the potential to allay all of his fears over Fenris's safety. All he had to do was convince Fenris. With a hopeful grin on his face, and a nervous flutter in his belly, he quickly set about making the tea.

By the time he'd taken the tea through, Varric had just arrived and, much to Hawke's delight, so had Donnic. Inhibiting a crafty smile, he set the tea tray down and walked over to greet the two men.

"Fenners!" Donnic exclaimed with a hefty slap to the elf's shoulder, passing him another bottle of wine. "I've brought a little something to wet our whistles with."

"And what have _you_ brought along, Varric?" Hawke asked as he arrived beside the dwarf, noticing no bottle, or anything else for that matter, under Varric's arm.

"Hey, I'm providing the eye candy, Hawke! What more do you want from me?"

"You? Eye candy?" mocked Hawke, looking him up and down with disgust. "If you're the finest specimen the male sex has to offer, that's the most compelling argument I've heard yet to go straight!"

"If you must know," said Varric with a sniff as the men walked to the table, "your sister happens to think I have rather _distinguished_ features."

"Are you sure you heard her right, Varric?" teased Donnic. "Maybe she meant 'disfigured'."

"Or 'disgusting'," added Hawke, taking a seat on the settee next to Fenris.

Varric scowled at his friends as he took his own seat between Sebastian and Donnic at the table. "Anyone else care to insult the dwarf?"

"If you wish," Fenris said quietly. "Disastrous?"

Hawke and Donnic fell about laughing, and even Sebastian had a hard time containing his mirth. Varric folded his arms and smiled grimly. "I'm gonna wipe the floor with you, Elf."

"We shall see," replied Fenris, tickled that he'd made his friends laugh.

"Will you two be playing together again?" Donnic asked Hawke and Fenris.

"I believe I shall play alone, tonight," Fenris answered, smiling at the mage.

"Oh, that's fighting talk, Elf!" chuckled Hawke, overjoyed to see Fenris so relaxed.

"Speaking of fighting, Fenris, the Guard is recruiting at the moment," Donnic announced with a furtive glance at Hawke. "Just thought you'd like to know."

Fenris smiled and shook his head and, when Hawke made no protest, Donnic frowned. "Nothing to say to that, Hawke? I'm trying to recruit your 'lucky elf' again, you know."

"Fenris can speak for himself," replied Hawke. "If he wants to join the Guard, that's up to him."

Donnic cocked his head to one side and looked at Hawke curiously.

"You beat me fair and square in the beer-drinking contest," Hawke explained with a shrug. "I know when I'm defeated."

Fenris, who along with Sebastian was pouring wine for the others, listened to the exchange but didn't notice the look that passed between Hawke and Donnic.

Intrigued by Hawke's apparent change of heart, Donnic glanced at Fenris and waited for his wine, taking it with a grateful nod. "You know, Fenris, Aveline is doing away with single patrols. If you joined the Guard, you could end up as my partner. Wouldn't that be grand?"

Sebastian stood up and passed a glass of wine to Varric and Hawke before taking his seat again.

"You not drinking, Elf?" Varric asked Fenris, who was sipping at his tea.

"Hawke has advised me not to drink alcohol for a day or two, while my foot is healing," he answered. "I will drink tea, along with Sebastian."

Varric nodded and looked under the table at Fenris's bandaged foot. "How's it doing?"

"Much better, thank you. Hawke has done a fine job."

"What do you say, Fenris?" Donnic interjected, eager to get back to the subject of recruitment. "When your foot's better, why don't you come along for a trial? I tell you, some of the recruits are so full of themselves. I'd love to see you put them in their place!"

Fenris smiled modestly and shrugged. "I am flattered, but I have been invited to join a Deep Roads expedition. _Today_ , as a matter of fact." To his side, he heard Hawke's sheepish laugh. "I cannot say how long we will be gone. I do not think I can make any other commitments at the moment."

"Does that mean you might consider it when you return?" Donnic asked excitedly.

"I did not say that."

"How long will you be in the Deep Roads, Varric?" Donnic asked the dwarf.

"Who can say? Could be weeks, even months. It all depends on what we find down there."

"That's fair enough, but when you come back…" Donnic leaned forward on the table. "Fenris, I'm asking you seriously. Try out for the Guard. We'd be honoured to have a man with your skills among us. You _know_ I'm not going to shut up about this."

All eyes turned to Fenris, who shrugged again. "I must confess, I have not seriously thought about this, but the idea is not without appeal. The expedition must be my first priority, however." He turned to face Hawke. "What do you think?"

"It's completely up to you," said Hawke, careful to contain his excitement. "Think about it, though - while Varric is looking into-" He stopped himself, then, wary of saying too much in front of Sebastian and Donnic. "Maybe we should talk about this later."

Fenris looked around the table. "It's fine, Hawke. I do not mind them knowing."

"Are you sure?"

"Donnic should know about this, anyway. Perhaps he will reconsider his position once he learns the truth."

"I doubt it," said the guard. "Come on, tell us."

Hawke waited for Fenris to speak, but the elf glanced at him and remained silent. "You want me to?" asked Hawke. Fenris nodded.

"Well, as you're aware, Fenris escaped the custody of his former master and is a fugitive in the Tevinter Imperium. As slavery is illegal in the Free Marches, however, Fenris is not a fugitive here. I want to make that absolutely clear."

"I know that, Hawke," said Donnic.

"An attempt was made to capture Fenris last month - in fact, that's how I met him. Danarius, his former master, was behind it, but has since gone quiet. We don't know where he is or what he's up to. Varric has started looking into that."

"I have a few people on it," Varric elaborated. "One is leaving tonight for the Vinmark Mountains. There's only one safe place to enter Kirkwall via the mountains, and there's a patrol stationed there. Maybe they'll have some information. If my man has no joy there, he'll continue on to Tantervale at the border - he has family there, so it's no bother for him. I have a few old contacts who are now in the Imperium, and he'll get a message to them.

"There's also the possibility that Danarius, or at least his cronies, arrived here by sea. It's unlikely, but I'm not ruling anything out, so I have someone sniffing around at the docks. Danarius may also have holed up in Ferelden, somewhere, you never know. I also have one or two people keeping their ears to the ground here, in Kirkwall."

"Varric, I am… deeply grateful," Fenris murmured quietly with a bow of his head. Varric waved his hand dismissively.

"Forgive me for saying so, Fenris," said Sebastian with a frown, "but this Danarius character seems to be going to an awful lot of trouble in order to find one slave."

"That is precisely what Hawke said on the night we met," Fenris replied, and he went on to tell Sebastian and Donnic about his markings, and how prized he was considered to be in the Imperium. He also told them of his life as a slave, and of Danarius's brutality, but left some details out; only Hawke knew certain details of his former master's depravity, and even _he_ didn't know everything, yet.

"I have seen your abilities," Sebastian said, remembering the time at the coast. "Are these markings of yours unique, then?"

"I believe so," Fenris answered, his eyes dropping to the table, "unless Danarius has… no, I do not even want to think about that." He and Hawke exchanged a troubled glance.

"This bastard needs to be stopped," snarled Donnic.

"Quite so," Sebastian agreed. "I will pray for your success in this venture, Fenris. I am also at your disposal should you ever need me."

"You have my profound thanks. All of you," Fenris said genuinely, glancing around the table. "So, you see, Donnic, my joining the Guard may not be a good idea, after all. I would not wish to place your fellows in danger while I am a possible target."

"I disagree, Fenris," Hawke opined. "You could become completely anonymous within the Guard, and you could reside at the barracks instead of here."

"Yes, and you could wear a helm, Fenris," Donnic suggested. "Not all of the guards do, but nobody would know your identity if you wore one."

"Would I not be conspicuous in the uniform of the Guard?" asked Fenris. "You are at least a foot taller than me."

Donnic shook his head. "Not all of the guards are as tall as me. Height isn't a requirement to join, you know. Some of my fellow guards are not much taller than you. You wouldn't stick out, trust me."

"You know, you two could be onto something," Varric said animatedly. "Elf, if you joined the Guard, I could put the word out that you're still living here, at the mansion, when in fact you're at the barracks. I could have this place trapped to the hilt!"

"What do you think, Fenris?" asked Hawke. "You'd certainly be a lot safer. It all depends whether joining the Guard would appeal to you, and if you had plans to eventually settle in Kirkwall."

After a moment of thought, Fenris looked across at Hawke. "I will consider it. Perhaps we could speak of it later?"

"Yes, of course," Hawke replied, feeling a warm glow in his belly that Fenris had singled him out for advice.

"Now, are we playing cards, or what?" demanded Varric. "I have an Elf to wipe the floor with."

"At your service, Dwarf," Fenris answered with a bright smile.

~o~O~o~

After a very enjoyable card game, during which Varric made a respectable showing, if not quite wiping the floor with Fenris, Sebastian thanked the men for a splendid evening and announced that he wished to return to the chantry before its doors were closed for the night. Donnic offered to escort him there on his way back to the barracks, as he had an early patrol the following morning. Before they left, Donnic once again urged Fenris to think seriously about joining the Guard, and he and Sebastian warmly bade them all goodnight.

Varric stayed for a while to talk business. "Came across a potentially well-paying job today, Hawke," he said as the three men once again took their seats, and he produced a leaflet from his pocket before unfolding it and sliding it across the table. Hawke picked it up and read it.

"Some Orlesian noble's wife has taken off somewhere," the dwarf explained for Fenris's benefit. "I talked to him on the way here. To be honest, I can't blame her. He was a real lowlife and seemed more concerned about how he looked, and what his wife's family would think, rather than the fact she could by lying in a ditch somewhere. Still, he's offering a decent reward for any information. I told him we'd take care of it. I also helpfully took down the rest of the leaflets he'd posted around town."

"You think of everything, don't you?" Hawke laughed. "Any leads?"

"He said we should start at the Blooming Rose. Apparently, she had a 'friend' there."

"The Blooming Rose?" Fenris asked with a glance at Hawke. "Is that not where-"

"Where you killed that blood mage, yes," Hawke answered quickly, knowing very well that wasn't what Fenris meant.

"That was not to what I was referring, Hawke." Fenris's eyebrow rose again, and Hawke wriggled in his seat, heat creeping into his cheeks.

"I may have… visited there. One time. Maybe."

"One?" Fenris folded his arms, and Hawke clapped a hand over his eyes, embarrassed.

"All right, then, three!" Hawke confessed. "And the time you came along was the _third_. I haven't been back there since. What's it have to do with _you_ , anyway?" he teased.

"Nothing at all," Fenris replied with a playful glint in his eyes. "But still, you told me. Why was that, Hawke?"

Varric, sensing he was a third wheel, rose and stretched his arms, feigning a yawn. "Think I'd better hit the hay, fellas. You staying here tonight, Hawke?"

"Um, I suppose I'd better, just in case Fenris has any trouble with his foot. If that's all right with you, Fenris?" The elf nodded, and Hawke stood up. "I'll walk you back, Varric," Hawke offered.

"Well, you can't do that, Hawke, because then the Elf would insist on coming with us so he could walk _you_ back, and he needs to rest that foot, right? I have Bianca to keep me company, anyway. Meet you in the morning? We can take care of this," he said, waving the leaflet.

"I'll be there," Hawke promised, and he and Fenris saw Varric to the door, bidding him goodnight.

Fenris closed the door and locked it, and Hawke walked to the table, collecting the empty glasses. "I'll go and wash these, and I'll prepare your last batch of medicine for today."

"Thank you. I will take a look around," Fenris replied, collecting his sword from where it rested against a wall.

Hawke knew there was no point trying to stop Fenris from conducting his nightly check. "Just shout if you need me."

"I will."

Fenris disappeared through a doorway next to the dining room and began his sweep of the mansion. Hawke glanced down at the glasses in his hands and then at the doorway through which Fenris had gone. His stomach flipped over as he remembered the way Fenris had looked at him when they were discussing the Blooming Rose. Had Fenris been _flirting_ with him? Varric had certainly seemed to think so, as he'd made an immediate, and not very subtle, excuse to leave.

And why did Hawke feel so awkward now that Varric had gone?

"Ugh," he growled under his breath. "Of course he wasn't flirting with you! Why would he?"

Cursing his over-active imagination and nervous stomach, Hawke walked through to the kitchen and, as he prepared Fenris's medicine, his thoughts turned to Anders. Although things were tense between them, Hawke still considered Anders to be his friend, and felt guilty for not inviting him to the game. If he had done that, though, he had no doubt there would have been some kind of altercation either between Fenris and Anders, or Hawke and Anders, which would have made matters much worse than they were currently.

Hawke knew that tomorrow night would be important, perhaps a make-or-break point in his and Anders's friendship, but he was determined not to lose Anders as a friend. He would make sure they had a fun night together, and would convince Anders that he wasn't being left out in the cold. He had to do that, though, while impressing upon Anders how important Fenris was to him. Both men would be accompanying him into the Deep Roads, and there would be no room for animosity there, where none of them could escape from each other. Again, his stomach fluttered. Why did everything have to be so bloody complicated?

When he'd finished in the kitchen, he walked back to the hall and moved the table and chairs back into the dining room, leaving Fenris's medicine on top of the mantelpiece. Fenris returned a short time later and the two of them sat on the settee next to the fire.

"Everything all right, Fenris?" asked Hawke, passing him his medicine.

"All is well, Hawke." Fenris took a sip and shuddered as the foul-tasting drink slipped down his throat. He then yawned and sank back onto the settee.

"You've had a long day, Fenris. Maybe you should turn in for the night?"

Fenris turned around and glanced up at his bedroom. He then turned back to Hawke and shook his head. "I am quite comfortable here. Perhaps later."

"Are you worried that you'll have another bad dream?" Hawke asked him. "I mean… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, it is all right. I... don't mind." Fenris sighed, drank the rest of his medicine and set the mug down on the floor.

"Do you have these dreams often?"

"Not often, no. Not the ones of Danarius, anyway."

"You have other dreams, then?"

Fenris paused, and his body seemed to slump. "There is something I dream of frequently. Sometimes, when I dream of it, I am afraid to go back to sleep, lest it repeats."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hawke asked gently. "Would it help to share it with someone?"

Fenris took a deep breath and turned slightly toward Hawke. "It would not help, no, but I will share it with you, if you wish. I should warn you, though, that it is not a pleasant story."

"All right, Fenris. Take your time."

"I dream of the time when I received my markings, Hawke. The procedure… it seems my mind must replay it over and over. How I wish I had lost this memory along with all the others." He sighed, his facial muscles slack, and Hawke was struck by how vulnerable the elf appeared.

"What happened?"

Fenris swivelled toward Hawke a little more and raised one of his hands, showing Hawke his markings. "These marks are mistakes," he began. "I should not have had any markings at all, but I was Danarius's test subject for the procedure, if you will, and errors were made."

"Errors? What do you mean?"

"The lyrium was injected into my veins and was then heated using magic," Fenris said matter-of-factly. "That way, the lyrium would travel through my body, where it would be burned into my blood vessels." He ventured a glance at Hawke, who had turned pale, his mouth agape.

"Y-you were… _conscious_ during this?"

"I do not remember all of it, but I believe I passed out a few times. Danarius, however, kept reviving me."

"Maker... I-I can't even begin to imagine how that must have felt." Hawke instinctively shifted a little closer to Fenris, wanting to be nearer to him, in the hope that his proximity would offer Fenris some kind of comfort.

"The pain was… extraordinary," Fenris said in a hushed tone, staring at his upturned palms. "Then, something happened that Danarius did not anticipate." He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "The trauma to my body caused some of my blood vessels to collapse, which in turn caused the lyrium to break through my skin. These markings you see, Hawke, are the result of the chain reaction that followed - several of my blood vessels burst all at once, causing hot lyrium to spill onto my skin." He shook his head and again glanced at Hawke, who had turned away, his eyes covered by one hand.

"I do not remember what happened after that. I am told that I lost consciousness again, and that Danarius was unable to revive me for several hours. I came close to losing my life. Sometimes I wish that-" He sighed softly and placed his hand on Hawke's arm. "Forgive me, Hawke. I did not mean to cause you anguish, but it is… almost a relief to speak of this to someone."

"No, I'm-" Hawke breathed in deeply and turned back to Fenris, but didn't look at him. "I-I'm fine… t-this is what you dream about?"

"Yes." Fenris removed his hand from Hawke's arm and rubbed his own arms, shivering.

"Are you cold?"

"A little, yes."

Hawke stood up. "I'll be back shortly," he uttered quietly, and walked up the stairs and into Fenris's bedroom.

After waiting for a few minutes, Fenris turned around, wondering what Hawke was doing. At that moment, Hawke appeared on the landing carrying pillows, blankets and the coverlet from Fenris's bed. Making his way down the stairs and over to the settee, Hawke passed Fenris a blanket and pillow and sat down next to him. As the firelight caught Hawke's eyes, Fenris noticed the glimmer of unshed tears, but said nothing.

Hawke placed a pillow behind his neck and covered himself with a blanket, and Fenris did the same. Hawke then took the coverlet and covered them both with it.

"Stay here, Fenris," Hawke said in a soft, unsteady voice. "Let's just sleep here, tonight."

Fenris nodded and pulled the coverlet up to his neck, ensuring that Hawke had enough of the coverlet for himself.

"Fenris… you have to get away from this place. He's a monster. I can't…he can't be allowed to-" Hawke bit his bottom lip and moved closer to Fenris, so that their legs were touching, but kept his hands in his lap. "Please, I want you to join the city guard. Earlier, I thought it was a good idea, but now… he _can't_ know you're here. He can't find you again," he said, anger and determination creeping into his words. "We're going to find him. Whatever it takes, we'll find him. He can't be allowed to do this, to anyone, ever again."

"I will call on Donnic tomorrow," Fenris promised.

Hawke nodded, unable to speak, and closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging in relief. A movement was felt beneath the covers and a small, warm hand wrapped around Hawke's. He gently clasped it and they both relaxed against each other.

"Get some sleep," Hawke whispered. "I'll be here when you wake up."


	30. Things Left Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fenris," Sebastian said quietly, "do you want to talk to me about something?"
> 
> Fenris shook his head, looking mildly embarrassed. "No. I will keep you no longer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sincere thank-you to Mary for making sense of my ramblings with patience and good humour :-)
> 
> And thank-you to Carrie for inducting me into Team 'U'. I am highly honOred and hereby induct you into Team 'O' ;-)

Fenris, woken by the ache of his markings, opened his eyes to find the sleeping Hawke's face inches away from his own. The mage had edged closer to Fenris and had moved his arm, which now rested across Fenris's belly. Whether Hawke had done this consciously or while he was asleep was unclear.

Fenris moved slightly, transferring his weight onto his left hip and leg, which meant he turned more toward Hawke. He would have moved onto his right side but disliked anyone being behind him. He watched the softly-snoring mage for a while, at first wondering if Hawke was feigning sleep as Fenris had done earlier, but it soon became apparent that Hawke was in a deep slumber. His breathing was slow and shallow, and his facial muscles slack. Fenris smiled softly as he noticed a small bead of drool working its way down Hawke's lower lip, which vibrated slightly when he exhaled.

Fenris couldn't remember sleeping next to, or with, anyone before. Whenever Danarius had come to him at night, he would mercifully leave Fenris's room once he'd finished with him. Danarius had, however, implied that he and Fenris had often spent the night together before the _procedure_ , sleeping beside each other, as well as… _that_. Fenris neither remembered nor believed Danarius's claim, nor did he care to remember.

Forcing Danarius out of his mind, he turned his attention back to Hawke, and continued to listen to his breathing, watching the path of the drool as it trickled its way down, stopping when it met Hawke's beard.

Hawke smelled faintly of tansy and musk, which unfortunately did nothing to hide the overpowering stench of garlic that oozed through Fenris's own pores. He moved slightly nearer to Hawke in the hope of catching Hawke's smell instead of his own. Hawke was very warm and Fenris found being next to him strangely comforting, particularly now that he was asleep. Fenris didn't feel completely secure unless he was in total control of a situation and, although he knew by now that Hawke would not harm him, here, he _was_ in control.

The warmth he and Hawke shared made his eyelids grow heavy and he fought to stay awake. A brief thought flitted though his mind of the possible awkwardness the morning would bring, when they both awoke to find they'd moved much closer to each other during the night, and that Hawke had wrapped his arm around Fenris. Fenris suspected, however, that Hawke wouldn't feel awkward about it at all. Would Fenris? He certainly didn't feel awkward now, but _would_ he when Hawke was awake and Fenris was no longer in complete control?

Sleep began to fog his mind, and that thought gradually evanesced along with his ability and desire to stay awake. It was too late to do anything now, and as Fenris rested his own arm against Hawke's chest and closed his eyes, he decided that he didn't really care.

~o~O~o~

When Hawke awoke, he was surprised to find Fenris next to him, and much nearer than he'd been when they'd first gone to sleep. He didn't need to look toward the windows to see if the sun had risen - even with the drapes closed, a pale yellow haze warmed the corners of the room, banishing the shadows. The fire had almost gone out, but Hawke felt no immediate need to rekindle it, finding all the warmth he needed beneath the covers. Fenris would normally have risen long before now, and Hawke wondered if Fenris would be angry with himself for sleeping late, but made no attempt to wake him, wanting to make the most of being so close to him.

Shifting a little, he felt light pressure against his chest and lifted the covers, beaming as he spotted Fenris's hand resting against him. His nose then wrinkled at the pungent aroma of garlic that moving the covers had released. Fenris mumbled something that Hawke didn't understand, and he feared for a moment that Fenris was dreaming, but a glance at the elf's face revealed a stillness and serenity that made Hawke's heart swell.

With another indistinct utterance, Fenris's eyes slowly opened and, for a second, Hawke held his gaze before they both looked downwards and Fenris moved away slightly. Hawke discreetly scanned Fenris's face for any signs of discomfort or unease, and found none.

"Good morning," Hawke said softly.

"Good morning, Hawke."

"Did you sleep well?"

Fenris looked to the windows and frowned. "Apparently so." He moved his hand away from Hawke's chest and sat up straight. Hawke moved his own arm from around Fenris, but they both stayed under the covers, reluctant to leave their warm cocoon.

"The fire's gone out," Hawke observed, his voice thick with sleep, and he cleared his throat.

Fenris shrugged and a sleepy smile danced across his lips. "It is hardly the end of the world."

Hawke returned his smile through a yawn. "It's your turn to make breakfast."

"I was not aware we were taking turns," Fenris replied, rubbing his eyes. "Besides, you have medicine to prepare."

"Nice try, Fenris, but if I'm getting up, then so are you."

" _Stercus_ ," muttered the elf.

"I know what that means!"

"I am aware of that, Hawke," Fenris said with a warm smile.

"I see you still haven't started breakfast," remarked Hawke, closing his eyes and settling back against the settee.

"Nor have you."

"Let's just stay here, then," Hawke drawled lazily, opening one eye to look at Fenris. "I'm not that hungry, anyway."

"Your stomach is making sounds to the contrary."

Hawke groaned, sat up and yawned again. "Smart-mouthed elves get extra garlic, you know."

"I don't think I _need_ any more garlic," Fenris moaned with a tentative sniff at his armpit.

"Well, I didn't want to come out and say it."

"Say what? That I am malodourous?"

"I wouldn't have put it like _that_ , exactly…"

"And how _would_ you have put it, Hawke?"

Hawke started sniggering, mostly because Fenris's eyebrow had once again shot up, and Fenris had no idea what that expression did to Hawke's insides. "I'm afraid you're right. There really is no other way to put it. You stink to high heaven."

"This is entirely _your_ fault," Fenris accused with a mock-scowl, knowing that this would make Hawke laugh. Last night, Hawke had been on the verge of tears and Fenris never wanted to see that again.

As expected, Hawke chuckled and scratched his head distractedly. "Sorry about that."

"Are you really?"

"No, not really."

Fenris's eyebrow remained where it was, but the rest of his features softened. "Just as I suspected."

With another yawn, Hawke pushed the cover off his lap and stretched his arms above his head. He glanced down at Fenris's bandaged foot, which poked out from beneath the coverlet. "How are you feeling this morning?" he asked cautiously, and Fenris knew that he was not only asking about his foot, but his spirit, too.

"Better, Hawke. Much better, thank you. And… you?"

"Good, I'm good," Hawke mumbled with an exaggerated nod and stood up, releasing a deep breath. "Well… I'd better get your medicine prepared. And breakfast."

Hawke, in truth, felt far from good, after learning of the torture that Fenris had once endured, but was loath to raise its spectre again, not wanting Fenris to relive it, although he had no doubt that Fenris did just that, and frequently.

"Hawke?" Fenris moved the covers aside and pushed himself up. "Would you care to accompany me around the mansion first?"

"You mean while you conduct your checks?"

Fenris nodded. "Yes. I would welcome your company."

Hawke also nodded. "I'd like that." A small smile brightened his face, and a glow warmed his belly. "After you." He gestured for Fenris to precede him and, together, they took a leisurely walk around the mansion.

~o~O~o~

After ablutions and breakfast, Hawke examined and re-dressed Fenris's foot, and declared him fit to walk around freely, but advised him to wear his slippers when he went to the barracks. He also recommended he not resume his regular training routine for another couple of days.

"I probably won't see you for the rest of the day," Hawke told him as they left the mansion. "I have to take care of this job with Varric, and later I, uh… I have something else to do."

Fenris locked the door and gave Hawke a curious look, but decided not to pry. They walked together quietly for a short time before Hawke stopped. "Actually, I'm… Anders and I are going out on the town. He's been feeling a bit down."

"There is no need to explain yourself to me."

"We're not going anywhere, you know… I mean… we're just going to the pub. You're… I would ask you to come along, but-"

"Hawke," Fenris said in a firm voice, but with a smile, "I repeat - you do not need to explain yourself. I hope you have a pleasant evening."

"Er, well, thanks." Hawke cleared his throat, feeling relieved and yet at the same time deflated that Fenris had reacted so reasonably. Did Fenris truly not care that Hawke would be spending the evening with Anders, or was he playing his cards close to his chest? Would Hawke have preferred Fenris to angrily protest against him spending time with the 'abomination'? Would Hawke have capitulated, or would he have defended Anders?

Fenris, noticing that Hawke appeared distracted, tilted his head to one side. "Hawke? Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes." Hawke blinked and affected an easy smile. "I made some extra medicine up this morning. There's enough for the rest of today in a pan in the kitchen. Just split it three ways."

"I am very grateful," said Fenris with a nod. A slight frown settled over his features, then, and he was silent for a short time, before he glanced up at Hawke, and then back at the ground. "Will you be staying at the mansion tonight?"

Hawke's eyes widened. "Oh, um, well, it's up to you. You're on the mend, now, and-" He paused and thought for a moment. "Mind you, you _will_ need some medicine made fresh in the morning, and, um, just in case you have any problems… I suppose that I should probably stay for at least one more night. If, of course, it's all right with you."

"That will be fine," Fenris answered nonchalantly. "I will purchase extra provisions."

"You'll be sick of the sight of me before long," Hawke joked.

"If you do not tire of seeing me, first," Fenris answered, and they shared a quiet laugh.

Reaching the chantry square, both men stopped and shook hands. "Well, I guess this is where we part ways," Hawke said. "I hope you get on well at the barracks."

"Thank you. And I wish you and Varric success with your investigation."

"See you tonight, then." They nodded at each other,and Hawke turned, heading toward Lowtown, before he paused and turned back to Fenris. "I'll return to the mansion at ten bells, or as near to then as I can."

"Hawke, as I have already stated-"

"I just thought you'd like to know who was knocking on your door late at night."

A hint of a smile graced Fenris's lips, slowly growing wider, and he glanced at the ground. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"Bye for now."

"Farewell," Fenris replied, and watched Hawke walk away until he disappeared from sight. Standing still in the square, he glanced up at the chantry building, admiring the architecture for a moment. He then looked in the direction of the keep, where he was meant to be going. With a sigh, he turned and walked toward the chantry, hesitating once or twice before finally entering.

It wasn't long before one of the sisters approached him and asked if he needed assistance.

"Sebastian, please," he asked politely, and was directed to a pew, where he sat and waited.

After a few minutes, Sebastian appeared at the top of the stairs and walked down them with a bright smile on his face. "Fenris!" he greeted enthusiastically, and the elf rose to his feet. Sebastian arrived next to him and offered his hand, which Fenris shook. "It's good to see you again, Fenris. How is your foot this morning?"

Fenris glanced downwards and then back up at Sebastian. "It has improved. Thank you for asking."

"I'm glad to hear it," Sebastian said warmly, and they took a slow stroll along the aisle. "I very much enjoyed the game last night. Thank you for inviting me, Fenris. We should do it again, soon."

"I also enjoyed it," answered Fenris. "Thank you for coming." He looked around and fiddled with his gauntlets. "Well, I should be going."

Sebastian nodded and momentarily glanced at the elf. "Of course, allow me to show you out."

"Thank you."

As they reached the door, Sebastian halted and was quiet for a moment before he asked, "Was there something in particular you wanted to see me about?"

"No," Fenris answered quickly. "I merely wished to call on you on my way to the barracks."

"Ah, yes, you're going to try out for the Guard, aren't you? Well, I wish you luck, though I doubt you'll need it."

"You are very gracious," Fenris said diffidently and turned toward the door, his hand resting on the large handle for a moment as his mind wandered.

"Fenris," Sebastian said quietly, "do you want to talk to me about something?"

Fenris shook his head, looking mildly embarrassed. "No. I will keep you no longer." He opened the door and stepped outside, but was stopped by Sebastian's hand resting on his arm.

"When I said I was at your disposal, Fenris, I meant it - not only to bear arms at your side, but also as your friend. If ever you want to talk, in confidence, I'm here, day or night."

Fenris took a deep breath, blinked several times, and nodded. "I…" He released his breath and straightened up. "Farewell, Sebastian."

"The Maker walks at your side, Fenris, and will hear you when you speak to Him. Remember that, should you ever doubt yourself."

With a final nod, Fenris turned away and walked down the steps. Sebastian watched him leave, his brow creasing in concern. He then closed the doors and walked up the aisle to the altar, where he dropped to one knee and clasped his hands together.

"Maker, watch over your son, Fenris, for he is uncertain and in need of Your gentle guidance. Guard him with every care, and make his way easy and his labours fruitful. Dry his tears if he weeps, sanctify his joys. raise his courage if he weakens, and his resolve if he hesitates. Restore his hope should he lose heart, his truth should he err, and his repentance should he fail."

~o~O~o~

Fenris found Donnic at the top of the steps leading down to Lowtown, where he was posted for the morning. The guard's smile almost split his face as he strode over to Fenris, nearly crushing his hand when he shook it.

"I saw Hawke earlier on, he was on his way to The Hanged Man," Donnic said, barely able to contain his excitement. "He mentioned that you may be considering my proposal?" he asked hopefully.

"I have considered it. However, we should not be premature. There will be tests, no doubt."

"Which you'll pass in the blink of an eye," Donnic encouraged, and Fenris shrugged. "Don't do yourself down, Fenris. You'll have no trouble at all."

Fenris coughed quietly and glanced up at the tall warrior. "Is there an aptitude test?"

"You mean reading and writing? Why, yes, we have paperwork to complete, reports and so on."

Fenris halted and shook his head, his face hardening.

"Would that be a problem for you?" Donnic asked quietly, glancing around.

"I cannot read or write. Hawke is teaching me, but I am nowhere near able to write… reports. I have only just learned my letters."

"I see." Donnic placed his hand on Fenris's back and steered him to a spot where fewer people were around. "Listen, between you and me, I know at least two of the guards who are illiterate. In fact, by knowing your letters, you're already ahead of them. They were employed by Jeven. He didn't bother with the aptitude test, but Aveline goes by the book."

"Then how do they write their reports?"

"They don't. Their partners do it for them. Aveline has let it go with those two, but she uses the test with any new recruits."

Fenris's shoulders sagged, and he shook his head again. "I apologise for wasting your time. Forgive me."

Donnic started to laugh. "I'm not letting you give up that easily!"

"But… the test-"

"There must be a way round that. I'll have a talk to Aveline, use my charm on her. What do you think of my 'charming' face?"

Fenris looked up to see Donnic batting his eyelashes with a simpering smile. Fenris hung his head and a deep laugh rumbled through his chest. "She would be forgiven for thinking that you have lost your mind."

"Hm, perhaps you're right," Donnic laughed. "All right, then… this is my 'I mean business' face." He folded his arms, affected a frown and raised a single eyebrow. "Now, look _here_ , Aveline," he practised, and Fenris flashed his teeth as laughter shook his slender frame.

"Well, if it makes her laugh then that'll be a start," chortled Donnic. "Come on, it's quiet around here for the time being. The pickpockets tend to operate after lunch, when the nobles have eaten a heavy meal and their senses are dulled." Donnic waved his arm to attract the attention of a fellow guard, who was standing across the square. "I'm going up to the barracks for a bit. I'll be back later."

"Right you are," his colleague called back.

On their way to the barracks, Donnic continued to buoy Fenris's spirits, and Fenris did his best to ignore the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. His friends, particularly Hawke and Donnic, had been so encouraging about his joining the Guard and, although Fenris would not have considered doing this on his own, he had to admit that the idea appealed to him. But he knew from bitter experience that anything he looked forward to was doomed to failure, and dreaded his friends' disappointment, particularly Hawke's. Hiding the tight ball of anxiety in his belly behind a smile, he continued to converse pleasantly with Donnic until they reached the keep and entered the barracks.

After waiting a short while for Aveline to become free, they entered the office, and the guard-captain rose and greeted Fenris.

"Good to see you, Fenris, and… Donnic? Everything all right? Shouldn't you be at the merchants' quarter?"

"Guard-Captain Aveline," Donnic said, gesturing toward Fenris. "I'd like to introduce our latest recruit."

Aveline looked around the room, unsure who Donnic was referring to, before her eyes settled on the elf. "You mean… Fenris? You'd like to join the Guard?"

Sensing reluctance on Aveline's part, Fenris glanced at Donnic.

"Well, I don't see anyone else here," Donnic answered.

"Oh. Well, this is… unexpected. I had no idea that you were interested, Fenris."

"Actually, it was sort of my and Hawke's idea," Donnic admitted, knowing that Fenris probably wouldn't lie to Aveline over his reasons. "Fenris would be a most able guard, and joining our ranks will afford him protection. You're aware of his situation?"

Aveline's eyes moved to the floor and her posture stiffened slightly. "Yes, I am. Fenris, would you excuse us for a moment, please?"

His heart sinking, Fenris nodded. "Of course." He left the office, closing the door behind him, and leaned against a wall, inwardly cursing his stupidity for allowing himself to hope. Hadn't he learned by now?

Inside the office, Aveline moved behind her desk and folded her arms. "Are you aware that Fenris is on the run, Donnic? That Hawke was so concerned for his safety that he asked me to post extra guards in Hightown?"

"Yes, of course I'm aware of that," Donnic replied firmly, sensing that his 'charming' face would not avail him. "This is the perfect way for Fenris to remain incognito."

"The Kirkwall Guard is _not_ a refuge for fugitives, Guardsman Hendyr. His very presence within the Guard would place all of us in danger. I don't know what you and Hawke were thinking, putting this idea into his head-"

"Fenris is _not_ a fugitive in Kirkwall," Donnic asserted, "and I don't see how he would place any of us in danger. His former master believes that he is holed up in that mansion. If Fenris joined the Guard, that twisted bastard wouldn't have a clue. Do you have any idea what he put Fenris through?"

"Of course I know," retorted Aveline, her eyes flashing. "I have nothing but sympathy and admiration for the man, but I have to consider the safety of every man and woman here. This master of his-"

" _Former_ master."

"Former master, then!" she snapped, irritated by Donnic's belligerent tone. "He's tracked Fenris down several times since his escape. I am neither stupid nor arrogant enough to believe that our ranks are impenetrable. I will _not_ have my guards put at risk. The answer is no."

Donnic took a step forward and placed his palms onto the desk. "I'm surprised at you, Guard-Captain. You'd be quite happy, then, for Danarius to recapture him? That man," he said, pointing at the door, "is intelligent, courageous, moral, and his sword skills are second to none. You were the one moaning the other day that Jeven just recruited anyone off the street. Fenris would be a credit to this regiment, and yet you seem to think that all he's good for is being at the beck and call of a deranged blood mage."

"Don't you put words into my mouth, Donnic!" Aveline took a deep breath. "Guardsman Hendyr."

"Are you aware that Danarius had Fenris chained to his bed at night?"

"What?"

"Oh, didn't you know that? Yes, his arm was always chained to the bed so he couldn't escape. That also meant he couldn't relieve himself, or get up to stretch his legs. The mark of the manacle is still there on his wrist - he showed me last night."

Aveline sighed and sat down, but Donnic didn't relent.

"Are you also not aware that Fenris used to take beatings from Danarius's apprentice… Hadriana, I think her name was, so that some of the other slaves wouldn't have to? Danarius had _child_ slaves, Aveline, and children play up, sometimes. Fenris did what he could to protect them, which meant that he would volunteer to take their punishment for them. This _bitch_ seemed to take some kind of perverse pleasure in beating Fenris, as it proved she'd 'broken' him. He didn't actually want to tell us that, but when he was showing us the markings on his arms we noticed several old scars and we pressed him."

Aveline sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Donnic, all I'm trying to do is-"

"And you're quite happy to send him back to that, are you?"

Aveline shot up out of her chair. "Of course not!"

"Then you'll have no objections."

"This is emotional blackmail, Guardsman Hendyr!"

"Yes, it is."

Aveline turned away and, for a moment, Donnic thought he'd persuaded her. When she turned back to face him, however, it was clear that her resolve had hardened.

"I'm sorry, Donnic. As Fenris is a citizen of Kirkwall, I'll do my utmost to protect him, but having him in the Guard is too much of a risk."

"Then you'll have my request for a transfer by the end of the day," Donnic said, heading for the door.

"W-what?"

"I'll not work for someone I don't respect," he said bluntly. "For someone who professes to be an upstanding and decent replacement for Jeven, you're nothing but a coward, not to mention callous. I have family in Ostwick. I'll transfer there as soon as possible."

Her mouth fell open, and she watched, aghast, as Donnic stomped toward the door. "Wait a minute!"

A glimmer of hope rose inside Donnic, but he kept his expression dour as he turned around. "Yes, Guard-Captain Vallen?"

"You bloody-minded…" She angrily shook her head and folded her hands behind her back, afraid that she would throw something at him if she kept her hands free. "All right! He can have a _trial_. A trial, do you understand? And _you're_ responsible for him at all times. _And_ , if the trial doesn't work out, he can pay for his bloody armour!"

"Fine with me," said Donnic, turning away from Aveline to hide his grin. "Oh, one more thing," he added as he reached the door. "I wouldn't bother with the aptitude test. He can't read or write."

Donnic quickly exited the office and closed the door, leaving a stunned Aveline behind. Spotting Fenris, he walked across and leaned on the wall next to him, a nervous laugh escaping him as he exhaled heavily.

"Bloody hell, Fenris, I thought that would go ill for a minute, then." He placed a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "Welcome to the Kirkwall Guard, Guardsman Fenris."

Fenris slowly looked up at Donnic. "You were… successful?"

"Eventually, yes," laughed Donnic, pressing his hand against his belly, butterflies dancing within. "What can I say? I'm a gambler. Sometimes bluffs pay off, and sometimes they don't. The Maker was smiling on us today, Fenris. Perhaps He likes a flutter, too."

"You _bluffed_ Aveline?"

Donnic nodded and released another long breath. "Come on, let's get you to the armoury. You need to be measured up, and then you can show the other recruits what you can do with that sword. If you feel up to it, that is," he said with a glance at Fenris's slipper-clad foot.

"I do, Donnic," Fenris replied, once again shaking the guardsman's hand, heartened by his friends' faith in him. "I feel more than up to it."

~o~O~o~

Hawke was relieved that Fenris had not accompanied him today, for as soon as he and Varric set foot in the Blooming Rose, he was accosted by a giant of a man, very handsome but almost a foot taller than Hawke and, by the looks of him, weighing considerably more.

"Where in the Void have you been, Hawke?" asked the man in a surprisingly soft voice, clapping Hawke on the shoulder.

"Angus!" Hawke laughed sheepishly at the astonished look on Varric's face as the dwarf craned his neck upwards. "I've, uh, been busy."

"Oh, you poor love," Angus commiserated, running a huge hand up and down Hawke's arm. "Come to let Angus take some of the weight off those shoulders, I hope?"

"Sorry," Hawke laughed with a shrug, "I'm here on business today."

Angus crossed his arms and pushed out his lower lip. "You never make time for me anymore, Hawke," he teased. "I'm beginning to think you've found someone else."

"Never," Hawke joked. "Another time, perhaps?"

"Hmph," pouted Angus. "I'll believe that when I see it. We're drifting apart, Hawke," he added melodramatically, pressing a hand to his brow before he was called away by another punter.

"Maker's balls, Hawke! Do you have a death wish or something?" exclaimed Varric. "You actually… with _him?_ "

"Actually what, Varric?"

"You know very well what I mean."

"No, I don't. I'm not a mind reader, you know. You need to say exactly what you mean."

"You can kiss my ass before I'll do that, Hawke."

"Funny you say that. Angus used to-"

"Stop right there!" commanded Varric, holding his hands up, before a mischievous glint came into his eyes. "That guy just seems a little… cumbersome for you, is all. I thought you went for the more _petite_ man."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Hawke claimed. "Like I said, you need to say what you really mean."

"Sure, Hawke. Whatever you say."

After making enquiries which cost them a few silver, Hawke and Varric were directed to Jethann, an elf who worked at the brothel. As he opened the door to his room, the elf's eyes lit up as he spotted not one, but two men, and ushered them in.

"That's what I'm talking about, Hawke," whispered Varric. "I would have thought someone like him would be more up your street."

"Shut it, Dwarf," Hawke whispered back.

After a disappointed Jethann discovered that neither Hawke nor Varric wanted to shag him, he reluctantly gave up some information on the missing woman, directing them to Darktown and a templar who had also been investigating her disappearance.

Before they met with the templar, Varric and Hawke called on Anders at the clinic to see if he wanted to assist them. Hawke had arranged to meet up with him later anyway, and wanted to do everything he could to make Anders feel included. After treating a few patients, Anders closed the clinic and joined them.

When they found the templar, he was under attack by a group of thugs and, much to Hawke's surprise, Anders vigorously defended the templar, casting his most powerful spells to ensure that the louts didn't get near to him. Once their assailants were dispatched, Anders ran to the templar's side and gently helped him to his feet.

"Are you hurt?" Anders asked in concern.

"A few bruises, but nothing worse, thanks to you," the templar said gratefully.

Introducing himself as Ser Emeric, he explained to the three men that he had been investigating the disappearances of a number of women, one of them a Circle mage, and shared his findings with them. Hawke listened curiously as Anders vowed to help track them down, and then offered to see Ser Emeric back to the Gallows, which the templar politely declined before going on his way.

"Anders?" Hawke asked, seeing an unmistakable look of fondness in Anders's eyes as Emeric walked away. "What was that about?"

"Eh?" Anders blinked and smiled self-consciously at Hawke. "Nothing. He just… reminded me of someone I used to know, that's all."

"Who?" Hawke asked, intrigued.

Anders's smile melted away and he stared into the distance. "Someone from… when I was with the Wardens in Amaranthine. He sort of looked after us all." Anders shook his head softly, and Hawke was dismayed by the sadness in his eyes.

"Did… something happen to him?" Hawke asked gently.

Anders glanced in the direction that Emeric had gone. "Maker, he really looks like him…" His head fell back and he sighed. "He died defending the keep."

Hawke placed a hand on Anders's arm. "I'm so sorry."

Anders nodded quickly, cleared his throat and unfolded the notes detailing Ser Emeric's evidence. "Well, we need to head to the Foundry District. Are you two free? I'd like to investigate this as soon as possible, and so would Justice."

Varric and Hawke exchanged glances, and both nodded. "This might cut into our drinking time, though," Hawke told Anders with a faint smile.

"Oh, I don't mind," Anders enthused, glad to be included in Hawke's activities at all. "I'm sure we'll find time for one or two, eh?"

"We'll _make_ time," Hawke promised, and wrapped his arm around Anders's shoulder. "Lead the way."

~o~O~o~

Having spent a very enjoyable morning at the barracks and - much to Donnic's delight, having put a few cocky recruits in their place with his swordplay - Fenris returned to the mansion to take his medicine.

Fenris had been made to feel welcome at the barracks, and the news of his trial appointment had spread quickly. Several of the other guards had sought him out to offer their congratulations. He'd left there feeling invincible, but now, as he once again paused outside the chantry on his way to the mansion, the tight knot of anxiety he'd felt earlier that morning had returned with a vengeance.

He stood looking up at the place of worship for what seemed like ages, conflicted by what course of action to take. His choice was made for him, however, when the sister that had greeted him earlier walked past him, recognising him.

"Hello again," she said pleasantly. "Are you back for Sebastian?"

Still unsure what to do, his words seemed to be torn from him without any conscious thought. "Um, yes," he mumbled.

"Please, come with me," invited the sister, and she escorted him inside, where Sebastian was talking to one of the other sisters. Upon spotting Fenris, he excused himself and walked to the elf's side.

"Fenris, you're back," he said, reaching for the elf's hand and shaking it. "What can I do for you?"

Fenris released a sharp breath and his gaze fell to the floor. "Are you… occupied at present?"

"Not at all. Would you like to talk?"

Fenris gave no answer, but slowly nodded his head.

"Come," Sebastian said quietly. "There's a private room just through here."


	31. Full House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why did you come here, Fenris?" asked Sebastian. "Did you expect me to tell you what a monster you are? That you're evil and wicked, that there is no place for you in decent society? Did you hope I would confirm what you already believe to be true?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give an extra special thank-you to Mary, whose invaluable advice and contribution to this chapter are very much appreciated. :-)
> 
> The lyrics to Hawke's little ditty were shamelessly purloined from Lil Wayne's 'How To Love'. I had it playing while I was writing that section, and some of the lyrics just seemed to fit. I also think the song fits Fenris to a T. Apologies if I've butchered anyone's favourite song :-)

Sebastian led Fenris to a small store room that contained some wooden furniture, stacked in a corner, and closed the door. He then pulled a small table into the centre of the room and found two dining chairs, placing them next to the table. When satisfied with the arrangement, he sat down and bade Fenris to join him.

Fenris, however, remained standing, one hand covering his mouth as he stared at the door. Sebastian was silent, allowing Fenris to speak in his own time.

"Are you certain you have nothing else to do? No other duties?" Fenris asked after a pause. "If I am keeping you…"

"You're not keeping me from anything, Fenris," answered Sebastian in a slow and deliberate voice. "Why don't you sit down?"

Fenris glanced uncertainly at Sebastian and, not wishing to be rude, took a seat. For several moments he squirmed and fidgeted, before giving up and once again standing. "I… don't know where to begin," he said quietly, still facing the door. "You-you do not even know me. I should not be burdening you with this."

"Sometimes it's easier to confide in someone with whom one is not emotionally involved," Sebastian opined. "Is that not why you came to me, instead of… Hawke, for example?"

At the mention of Hawke, Sebastian noticed Fenris's shoulders tense. "Emotionally involved?" asked Fenris, still facing away. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, it's clear to me that you and Hawke are quite close, and sometimes it's hard to share our feelings with someone we're close to, as contradictory as it sounds."

Fenris released a heavy sigh and turned toward Sebastian, slumping onto the chair.

"If I may…" Sebastian sat up straight and meshed his fingers together on the table. "Is it Hawke you wanted to talk about?"

Fenris's eyes quickly flitted over to Sebastian and then moved to the floor. Sebastian nodded but said nothing.

For the next few minutes, Fenris picked at his fingernails, which Sebastian noticed were bitten down to the quick. Now and then, Fenris opened his mouth as if to speak, but faltered each time. Eventually, he stood up and walked to the door. For a moment, Sebastian thought he would leave, but instead he leaned against the wall, this time facing Sebastian. He took a deep breath and slowly released it.

"Kirkwall is a strange place to me," Fenris began, his eyes fixed on the far wall. "Its people… they are nothing like the people of the Imperium."

"How so?"

Fenris released another breath and his voice grew quieter. "In the Imperium, nothing is done without payment, reparation, compensation, whatever you wish to call it. Here, though… so many people-" A pained expression came over him, then, and he took in another breath, straightening himself up. "I do not understand."

"What don't you understand?"

Fenris shook his head. "Since I arrived here, many people have gone out of their way to help me, while expecting nothing in return. At first I questioned their motives, but now I just don't-" He shrugged his shoulders. "The dwarf, Varric, is actively searching for Danarius. Donnic helped me secure a position in the city guard, risking his own position in the process. You are giving up your own time to-to hear the woes of a man you hardly know. And Hawke…"

Sebastian sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and waited.

"Hawke… knows things about me," Fenris said in a subdued tone, folding his arms around himself. "Things I am ashamed to speak of. And yet, he has constantly and selflessly…" He once again took a deep breath, and decided that Sebastian may as well hear the worst. "I have… killed. So many." He glanced at Sebastian, his eyes wide, expecting to be censured or judged harshly, but Sebastian's expression remained impassive.

"Killed at your master's behest."

"That is no excuse." A harsh note had crept into Fenris's voice, and his breathing quickened.

"You were in fear for your life," said Sebastian, uncrossing his legs and sitting forward.

"I _could_ have defied him. Yes, he might have put an end to me, but what is _my_ life weighed against the countless innocents I have slaughtered?" Fenris's lip curled, and the bridge of his nose wrinkled in disgust. "It was nothing but self-preservation that drove my blade into their flesh, my fist into-" he muttered darkly, raising one of his hands up to his face and staring at it.

"I don't believe that, Fenris," Sebastian said calmly. "Last night, you told us of the poor children Danarius kept as slaves, and how you suffered to protect them. It's my belief that you preserved yourself in order to continue in your role as their guardian. You must have known that, if Danarius _had_ ended your life, another slave would have taken your place. The children would no longer have you as their defender, and those innocents you speak of would still have been killed."

Fenris raised his other hand and glared at them both. "It was still _these_ hands that ended their lives. No amount of _excuses_ will change that fact!"

"You were used as a weapon," Sebastian said in a slightly firmer tone. "You were the sword, yes, but it was Danarius who wielded you. You are _not_ to blame."

Exasperated, Fenris began to pace back and forth. "I do not understand why-" He halted and his posture stiffened. "How can you say that?"

"I'm not surprised you find Kirkwall so strange. You say that your memories began three-and-a-half years ago, and that your first memory is of receiving your markings, and of Danarius's brutal regime. That is the benchmark against which all subsequent memories of yours have been measured."

Sebastian rose, moved closer to Fenris and leaned against the wall a few feet away.

"As your life in the Imperium is the first thing you remember, that life seems normal to _you_ , when, in fact, it is _abnormal_ – grossly so – to most others. The people of Kirkwall are good, on the whole. Their behaviour, and way of life, is _my_ benchmark, Fenris. The kindness of Varric, Hawke and others, is normal to _me_. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate acts of charity, but I am not surprised by them."

Fenris stopped pacing and turned to face Sebastian. "Why are you being so… you are the same as Hawke. I do not understand. How can you not judge me? How can you not hate me?" He laced his fingers together on top of his head and resumed pacing.

"I judge people on who they are _now_ , not what they _were_. I was once a very different man from the one you see before you."

"And did _you_ murder those who had done nothing to merit it?"

"I was a scoundrel, Fenris," Sebastian said candidly. "I was a drinker, a gambler and a womaniser. I frittered away my parents' money on loose women and a life of debauchery, when I could have used that money to do good-"

"That is hardly the same!" Fenris bit out. He turned his back on Sebastian, covering his face with his hands. Sebastian gave him a moment to collect himself.

"I… forgive me, Sebastian," said Fenris unsteadily. "You do not deserve my anger."

"Let us sit down," Sebastian softly urged.

Sebastian once again took his seat and waited for Fenris who, after a long pause, eventually sat opposite Sebastian, his eyes fixed on the table.

"What is it?" Fenris asked quietly. Sebastian frowned in confusion and waited for him to continue. "Is it pity you feel for me?" Fenris asked, slowly raising his head so his eyes met Sebastian's.

"I don't pity you."

"Then why…" Fenris went to push himself up and then sat back down. "How can you be so _magnanimous_?" he questioned, scorn lacing his words.

"Why did you come here, Fenris?" asked Sebastian. "Did you expect me to tell you what a monster you are? That you're evil and wicked, that there is no place for you in decent society? Did you hope that I would confirm what you already believe to be true?"

Fenris's gaze once again fell to the table, and he didn't answer.

"Or did you come here seeking forgiveness, absolution? I could certainly give you that. We could pray together and you could do penance, but would that really change anything? Would it change the way you feel about yourself?"

Again, no answer came from Fenris, and Sebastian sat forward a little.

"True absolution can only come from within, Fenris. You must accept that the past has already been written and there is nothing you can do to change it. Only once you've forgiven _yourself_ can you reclaim what was taken from you."

"Forgive myself? And how do you expect me to do that?" demanded Fenris, his voice once again taking on a hard edge. "How am I meant to do that when the people I have killed haunt my sleep, and their screams wake me? When each time I close my eyes I see their destroyed bodies, their dead eyes staring back at me? Just how am I meant to forgive myself?" He pushed to his feet and glared down at Sebastian. "I do not _deserve_ to be forgiven."

"So long as you believe that, you'll never stop being a victim."

"What? How am _I_ a victim? The ones who died at my hands are the victims, Sebastian!"

"You were a victim of Danarius's insanity." Sebastian also stood up. "I reiterate - you _were_ a victim. You no longer need to be, but as long as you blame yourself for Danarius's crimes, you will never be free."

"They were also _my_ crimes!"

Sebastian shook his head. "No. You were as much a victim as they. You may no longer be a slave, but you are _still_ a victim. So long as you reside within the prison of self-hatred you've built for yourself, you will remain so."

Fenris's eyes darted around the room as uncertainty and panic gripped him. "I-I don't know. I don't know how to..." He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Sebastian went round to Fenris's side of the table and touched his arm. "Start today, Fenris. The past is the past and there is nothing you can do to change it, but the present, and the future, are _yours_. Stop living as you lived yesterday, and live how _you_ want to live. Be the man you've always wanted to be." He placed his other hand on Fenris's other arm. "The man that _I_ see. The man that _Hawke_ sees."

After a moment of silence, Fenris's breathing slowed and Sebastian felt the elf relax a little. Gently guiding Fenris back to his chair, Sebastian brought his own chair round and sat next to Fenris.

"Hawke," Fenris began, and shook his head, once again looking at his hands. "He…" He sighed and looked up at Sebastian. "He… I think he…"

"He has feelings for you."

Fenris's eyes widened. "How did you know that?"

Sebastian smiled fondly. "The way he looks at you. The look of sheer joy he has when you smile. He cares for you a great deal, that much is obvious, but there is something more in his eyes, I can see it."

Fenris's brows knitted together in a heavy frown. "You see it? I did not see it for a long time. Only recently have I suspected. How could I have not known? I am a fool."

A look of sadness came into Sebastian's eyes, then, but he quickly hid it. "Have you… since you fled Minrathous, has there been anyone?" he asked. Fenris shook his head. "Then how _could_ you have known?"

Fenris stared at the floor, seemingly lost in thought.

"I hope you won't mind me saying this, Fenris," Sebastian ventured, "but in many ways, you're like a child."

Fenris looked up, his frown still in place.

"You lived in this small world that Danarius created, seeing and experiencing only what he allowed you to. You knew nothing else. And now, you're in a completely different world, having to make your way in a place where you're at odds with everything and everyone. The way Hawke acts toward you must be completely alien to you. Of course you didn't know how he felt. How would you? You've had no prior experience of such things. And perhaps there's an element of you feeling you're not worthy of his attention."

Having no answer to that, Fenris started fiddling with his hands and, for several minutes, they sat in silence.

"How do _you_ feel about this, Fenris?" Sebastian eventually asked.

"I… don't know." Fenris shook his head. "He is a mage. I did not think it possible that I could even befriend a mage, but Hawke is… different. I enjoy his company. When-when I am not with him, I-" He sighed, unsure how to verbalise his feelings.

"You miss him?"

Fenris thought of Hawke, and his stomach twisted, an ache blooming in his chest. "Last night," he said in a whisper, "he and I slept together." His head snapped up. "I mean - _just_ slept."

"I know what you meant," Sebastian replied with a faint smile.

"I… enjoyed the feeling of being close to someone," Fenris admitted. "To him. And yet, once he was awake, I did not have the courage… I-I fear being close to him." He shook his head and sighed. "I am making no sense."

"You're afraid of showing your feelings?"

"I do not _know_ what those feelings are. I feel so conflicted. Never before has anyone inspired such uncertainty within me. And yet, he is also like an anchor. When I am with him, everything seems… normal?"

Sebastian's smile broadened. "Everything seems right?"

Fenris nodded slowly. "I think so. But…"

"But?"

"But, I-I am not sure I can give him what he wants."

"If you don't reciprocate Hawke's feelings, Fenris, then you should let him know. It's only fair."

"Yes, I know that, but-" Fenris released a heavy breath before standing up. "Sebastian, you have given me much to think about. I want to thank you for your time."

Sebastian rose, and Fenris held his hand out.

"Fenris, I have plenty of time, if you want to discuss this further."

Fenris shook his head. "I have some thinking to do. You have been… I am grateful beyond words."

"I am always here, you know that." Sebastian took Fenris's hand and shook it firmly, placing his other hand on the elf's shoulder. "I will pray that you find the answers you seek."

Fenris released Sebastian's hand and placed both hands on the archer's arms, for a moment feeling an urge to embrace him, but he refrained. "Thank you," he said earnestly. "For being my friend."

"Of course, Fenris. You're more than welcome. I'm not sure if I've been any use, but sometimes it helps just to talk. Let me see you to the door."

"No, I will see myself out. You have been more helpful than you realise." Fenris released the archer's arms and bowed to him.

Sebastian returned the bow. "Remember what I said - the Maker walks at your side. May He guide and protect you always."

Fenris opened the door to the store room and paused for a moment, before a small smile briefly appeared on his lips. "You, as well, Sebastian." With a nod, he moved away from the doorway.

Sebastian waited for a while, thinking about their conversation, and then he started to put the furniture away.

~o~O~o~

After their investigation had led them to the wedding ring and remains of the unfortunate Ninette, Hawke, Anders and Varric returned the ring to her husband and accepted his paltry reward without complaint. Feeling rather sombre, Hawke decided they needed cheering up. After stopping by at home, where Leandra made the men a snack, Hawke and Anders discussed where to go for a drink.

"I'm bored of the Hanged Man. Let's go somewhere else," Hawke suggested.

"Anywhere particular in mind?" asked Anders.

After a moment of thought, Hawke's eyes lit up. "I know just the place! Anders, you'll love it. It's just outside of Hightown - The White Swallow."

"Sounds nice," Anders said with a nod. "All right then, we'll give it a go. You fancy coming along, Varric?"

"Uh… no. Think I'll stick around here for Sunshine, if that's all right with you, ma'am?" he asked Hawke's mother.

"Oh, yes, of course. And do call me Leandra. Bethany will be home shortly."

"We'll be off, then," announced Hawke, kissing his mother's cheek. "Remember, I'll be staying at the mansion again tonight."

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" Anders asked Varric.

"Uh-uh. It's not my kind of place, Blondie, but you boys have fun."

"Oh, we _will_ ," chuckled Hawke.

After thanking Leandra for the meal, Anders and Hawke left and took a stroll through Lowtown.

"This is nice, Anders. Just us two, eh? Or is it us three?"

"No, just the two of us," Anders laughed. "Justice doesn't approve of me drinking, but knows I need to let off steam now and again."

Hawke glanced at Anders and nodded. "How have you been, Anders?"

"How have I _been_?" asked Anders, puzzled. "You only saw me yesterday, Hawke!"

"I know, but… we don't really talk any more, do we? Not like we used to, except to bicker. That's kind of my fault, Anders. I've been leaving you out, and I'm sorry for that."

"Hawke, it's-"

"No. I've been wrapped up with Fenris and various other things. You were one of the first people in Kirkwall I became friends with, and I've been neglecting you." He stopped and turned to face Anders. "Things are a bit crazy at the moment. When the expedition's over and done with, I'm still going to come and work at the clinic with you. If you still want me to, that is."

"Oh, of course I do," Anders said contritely. "I haven't exactly been fair with you, either. I have to admit, I'm still… concerned about Fenris, but you're a grown man. I'm not going to keep on about him. I know you like him, and I'd like nothing more than to be proved wrong."

"Really?"

Anders sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I've been thinking. Justice had a bit of a word with me as well, if I'm honest. It's just… well, sometimes I feel a bit isolated down there in the clinic. My imagination runs away with me. I'm sorry, Hawke. I don't want us to fall out."

"Well, neither do I," replied Hawke, smiling.

"Just being away from the clinic for a few hours has perked me up, and I've been looking forward to us going for a drink."

"We'll make it a regular thing, Anders," Hawke promised. "You're right, you do need to get out of that clinic now and again. Now, let me take you to my favourite pub. I'll even buy the first round."

"You're on!" Anders chirped, and they picked up their pace, eager to reach Hawke's favourite pub.

~o~O~o~

As promised, Hawke bought the first round when they arrived at the White Swallow, and they found a small table not far from the entrance.

"There are a lot of men in here tonight, Hawke," Anders observed with a frown as they took their seats. "Where are all the women?"

"I think I saw one behind the bar," Hawke mumbled, firmly suppressing a snigger.

"What? But I don't-" Anders's words died on his lips as a well-built man with a large moustache sashayed past and winked at him.

"D-did he just-?"

"Are you feeling well, Anders? You look awfully pale," asked Hawke casually.

His expression resembling that of a suffocating fish, Anders wheeled round to face Hawke. "You… you sneaky bastard! You've brought me to-?"

" _Really_ , Anders?" laughed Hawke. "Didn't the name give it away?"

"The _name_? The White S… oh, shit!" With a groan, Anders buried his face in his hands.

"This is the best pub in the Free Marches," Hawke declared. "Varric hasn't quite got round to visiting, yet, so I thought I'd bring you, instead."

Anders looked up from his hands. "So, what, I'm supposed to sit here all night like a prat while you cop off with some bloke called Lance?"

"No! I'm not here to cop off with anyone. This is a really fun place. I've brought Beth here a few times. She loves it."

" _Bethany_?"

Hawke nodded and supped at his pint. "Of course! She gets drinks bought for her all night, and tons of compliments, all of which are genuine, and not just a pathetic attempt to get into her smalls. Plus, she doesn't have to dodge wandering hands all night. Varric's quite happy for her to come here, _he_ just won't go with her," he added with a laugh.

"But _I_ might have to dodge wandering hands!" Anders wailed.

"No, they'll assume you're with me," Hawke reassured him, and both men looked up at the sound of raised voices from a nearby table.

"Looks like there's going to be a fight," Hawke surmised.

"Maybe we'd better be on standby, in case anyone needs healing."

Hawke laughed and sank further back into his chair. "I doubt we'll be needed."

"You never compliment me anymore!" an indignant voice piped up. "You always used to tell me how handsome I am, and how nicely I dress, and now all you do is grunt and nod at me! Do you even _look_ at me anymore? I mean _really_ look at me?"

"We are _not_ having this discussion _here_ , Tarquin!"

"Oh, yes we are! Why don't you just admit it, Simon? You don't fancy me anymore!"

Anders placed a hand over his mouth and looked at Hawke, who was sniggering quietly.

"And what do you expect?" Simon retorted. "You're so bloody needy, lately! It's not attractive at all, you know!"

"Oh! How _could_ you!"

A chair was pushed back and a distraught-looking man flounced past them, and through the exit.

"I _love_ this place," Hawke chortled. "There's never a dull moment."

Anders watched in both awe and delight as Simon also left the pub in haste, slamming the door behind him. "So I see! So, what else is there in terms of entertainment?"

"Well, Beth and I play a game when we're here called 'Full House'. We give marks out of ten to anyone who walks past. A perfect ten is a Full House. Want to play?"

Anders folded his arms and narrowed his eyes at Hawke. "You want _me_ to give men marks out of ten for… what, their looks?"

"Not just their looks, the whole package," explained Hawke, his gaze wandering around the room. "Take your friend with the moustache, for example. Me, I'm not into facial hair, although I realise that _I_ actually have facial hair, but there you are. So he loses marks for the 'tache. His arse was quite nice, though, and I liked the cut of his jib. I'd give him a six. Fair?"

"You are _not_ getting me to rate men out of ten, Hawke!" exclaimed Anders, laughing in spite of himself.

"We'll see," sniffed Hawke. "Just wait 'til you disagree with one of my scores."

"You'll have a long wait, then," insisted Anders, suddenly finding the ale in his mug fascinating.

"How about _him_?" Hawke drawled, nodding over to a tall, blond-haired man who leaned against the bar.

"Mm," mumbled Anders, not even bothering to look.

"Blond hair and… please let them be green, please let them be green… yes!" he cheered as the man at the bar looked vaguely in their direction, pale eyes catching the lamplight. "Blond hair with green eyes is an automatic eight points, before anything else is even considered."

"Got a thing for blondes, then, Hawke?" asked Anders, sneaking a quick look at the man. "Or is it green eyes?"

" _Both_ ," leered Hawke, turning his attention back to the man at the bar. "Now, let's see… tall, but not _too_ tall. A little on the pudgy side, but-"

"Ha! You're a fine one to talk!"

Hawke grinned, pleased that Anders had started to relax. "This is not about _me_ ," he scolded.

"So, what would you mark yourself as, Hawke?"

"Eh?"

"What would you mark yourself as?"

"Ha! You're so transparent! This is going to lead to 'and what would you mark _me_ as, Hawke'?" he teased in his best impersonation of Anders's voice.

"No, it's not!" Anders asserted unconvincingly, his cheeks turning pink from the ale. "Come on, answer my question!"

Hawke clasped his chin and looked upwards, deep in thought. "Well, I don't have blond hair _or_ green eyes, so that's not a good start. Facial hair automatically knocks off two points. Podginess, another two. So, I'd say around a five or a six. On a good day."

Anders nodded and took another sip of ale before setting his mug down and sitting back in his chair. Both men sat in silence for a few minutes and, as they did so, the edges of Hawke's mouth began to curve upwards.

"Just ask me, Anders."

"Ask you what?"

"You're dying to ask me."

"I'm not… although I _am_ curious to know how many points blond hair scores on its own?"

"And why would you want to know that?"

"Well, because I have bl-"

"No you bloody well do not!"

"Er… what does Varric call me? _Blondie_."

"You can piss off with that. You told Varric that was a stupid name, and that your hair was _red_!" Hawke declared, waving a finger at Anders before taking a huge swig from his mug.

"All right, then, how much does red hair score?" Anders also drank deeply and belched.

"One point docked for burping."

"What? That's not fair! What does that have to do with the way I look?"

"I _told_ you, it's about the whole package," Hawke reiterated impatiently. "Haven't you been listening?"

"So I've lost a point, have I? Well, let's make it worthwhile, then!" He raised his leg and noisily broke wind, before dusting his hands off in self-congratulations.

"You dirty bastard!" Hawke shot up out of his seat. "That's a million points deducted! I'm going for a walk. Good luck with this lot!"

"No!" cried Anders, sniggering uncontrollably as he grabbed Hawke's arm. "Please! I'm too pretty. They'll eat me alive!"

"You should have thought of that before you farted against my leg!" spluttered Hawke, a fine mist of his saliva coating Anders's face.

"Now, now, dears," said a punter who was passing by. "Don't get having a lovers' tiff."

Anders's face fell and he squirmed in his seat. "But… we're not…"

Hawke plonked himself next to Anders, ignoring the stench of rotting vegetables that hung in the air, and slung his arm around him. "He's right, Sweet Cheeks. Let's not fight."

Anders burst out laughing and playfully pushed Hawke away.

"All right, Anders, just to make you happy. Red hair and…" He moved his face closer to Anders's and scrutinised his eyes. "…Orange eyes?"

" _Orange_? These are honeyed amber, if you must know!"

" _Orange_ ," Hawke insisted. "Your face is the shape of a wedge, and your nose is just a disaster. And _stubble_ ," he added with a shudder. "You _do_ have nice hands, though. Nice hands get you an automatic seven points."

"Yes! I beat you!" cheered Anders, and then a deep line formed between his eyes. "Wait… what did you just say about my nose?"

Hawke swiped their mugs and stood up. "Another?" Without giving Anders a chance to answer, he scurried off to the bar.

After another few rounds, 'Full House' was abandoned as both mages had lost the ability to count higher than five. Instead, they sat in a corner, sniggering and dispensing damning critiques of all who passed by.

"Wha-wha 'bout him?" slurred Anders with an unsteady nod toward a blur that moved past them. "Would you d-do him?"

Hawke squinted at the man and snorted, sending ale dribbling down his chin. "I wouldn't ride that into f-fucking battle, mate!" he screeched.

Another blur appeared in front of their table, but instead of moving past as the others had, this one stayed still.

"Your tur, Nanders," Hawke blathered, his mouth slack as he gazed up, with half-closed eyes, at the hazy silvery shape.

Anders leaned forward and prodded what appeared to be an arm attached to the blurred form, making contact with something hard and smooth which gave off a metallic clang.

"Is that your face?" Anders asked, looking up at the metal man, "or is it your neck being sick?"

Both men spluttered and collapsed into fits of laughter.

"All right, lads, it's time for you to leave," said a deep, rough voice. It sounded very serious.

"Eh? Wha' for?" Hawke asked.

"There have been complaints," the gruff man explained. "Loud and raucous behaviour, and insulting and demeaning comments towards the clientele," he added, sounding utterly bored.

"Are you sure?" scoffed Hawke. "See, Nanders? I _told_ you this place was a shithole!"

"We've done nuffin' wrong," insisted Anders, prodding the table with his finger but missing it and prodding his leg instead. "Wh-who are _you_ to tell us to leaf? I mean leave. Leeeeave."

"Guardsman Diarmund," said the man, folding his arms. " _Ser_ , to you."

"Fenris z'going to be a guardsman," Hawke said with a soppy grin, imagining the elf wearing shiny armour, in a heroic pose on the crest of a hill with the wind ruffling his hair. "An' Donnic. Well, he already is. A guard, I mean. You all do a bloody good job," he stated emphatically, waving his finger at Diarmund.

"You know Donnic?" asked the guard sceptically. "What's his family name, then?"

"Hendyr. An' he's got the biggest sideburns I've ever seen. Bloody good bloke. He's my mates. _Our_ mates, I mean," he said, looking mildly confused.

"Mate," corrected Anders.

"Right. What he said. _Mate._ An' soze Fenris. I'm his personal fizzi… fizzish… doctor." Hawke's daft smile faded, quickly replaced by a look of horror as he sat up straight. "Shit… wha' time 'zit?"

"After eleven bells. Time for you to go home. If you leave now, without any trouble, I'll let this one go," said Diarmund.

" _Eleven_?" Hawke blinked several times, repeating the number over and over. "But I-I need to get back for _ten_ bells!" he said in a panic, grabbing Anders by the arms. "How long will that take me?" he asked the rapidly-resolving image of Diarmund.

"Wherever you're going, you're already late," Diarmund informed them, the edges of his mouth twitching slightly.

"But I can't… I mustn't be late!" Hawke shot to his feet, clutching the edge of the table to stop himself from swaying. Closing his eyes, he realised that, in fact, the _room_ was swaying, and he opened them.

"He's got you on a tight leash, hasn't he?" Anders joked.

"No, you don't understand! I promised! I-I don't want to let him down!"

"Where are you going, lads?" asked the guard.

"Hightown."

"Darktown."

"Darktown? I'm not going _that_ way," said Diarmund. "You can sleep it off at the barracks. Come on."

Anders also shot to his feet, and both men crowded Diarmund, clutching at his arms.

"But we haven't done anything wrong!" protested Anders.

"Please don't put us in the cells," begged Hawke. "I have to get back to t-treat Fenris. He'll be worried!"

"You're not under arrest… yet," Diarmund told them. "We're going to have a nice walk to Hightown, where you," he said to Hawke, "can see to your patient, and your friend can sleep it off in a cell. Like I said, you're not under arrest, so long as you don't cause any more trouble. Count yourselves lucky you know Donnic."

"Oh, thank you!" chorused Anders and Hawke, who would have hugged the guard had it not been for his stern expression.

"Now, come with me," he ordered. Not needing to be told twice, the mages fell into line behind Diarmund and followed him out of the White Swallow.

As they left, they spied Tarquin and Simon, who had obviously made up, as Simon had Tarquin pinned against a wall, kissing him ferociously, their ragged moans punctuating the still, quiet night air.

"Maker!" Anders exclaimed. Diarmund merely rolled his eyes, clearly no stranger to such displays.

"I told you this place is brilliant, didn't I?" Hawke asked Anders, who chuckled in response, and the two friends slung an arm around each other for support as Diarmund escorted them to Hightown.

~o~O~o~

When Hawke finally arrived at the Hightown Estates, having said goodnight to Anders, it was almost midnight. Adrenaline alone carried him up the steps to Fenris's abode, and all kinds of possible scenarios ran through his mind as he stood outside the door. He'd let Fenris down. Would he be concerned? Angry? Would he be distant, aloof? Which would be worse?

Scrubbing his face with his hands, he took a deep gulp of cold air, which sent him dizzy, and knocked on the door. Immediately, a curtain twitched and, after a minute, the door was opened.

"Fen… I'm _so_ sorry," Hawke blurted out, holding his hands up, blinking several times as the elf blurred in and out of focus. "I-I know I said ten, but I, uh… no. No. It's nobody's fault but mine. I lost track of time. I'm s-sorry. Are you all right?"

"Come inside, Hawke," Fenris said, stepping away from the door. His face was in shadow but his voice was calm. That was good, wasn't it? Maybe it was _too_ calm, though.

Hawke stepped inside and Fenris closed and locked the door. The sudden change from the cold air to the warmth of the reception hall made Hawke feel woozy, and he swayed.

"You had better sit down," recommended Fenris.

"Yeah, uh… right," mumbled Hawke, needed no further persuasion. He staggered towards the settee and almost fell forward onto it, saving his dignity at the last second with a dextrous twist of his waist, and landed more or less on his bottom with a thud.

"You are inebriated," Fenris observed with a mite of mischief in his voice.

"Aw, Fen, leave off the big words tonight, eh? Er… I-I just called you Fen, didn't I? Do I normally call you that?"

A faint chuckle was heard from somewhere, and Hawke wasn't sure if it was him or Fenris who was laughing. Hawke touched his mouth. _He_ wasn't smiling, so it must be Fenris. Fenris was laughing? That was good, wasn't it?

"Oy, how did you get on at the barracks, Fen? Are you a guard, now?"

"We will discuss it tomorrow, when you are more… _perspicacious_."

"Fen! Stop with the big words!" Hawke moaned, clutching the sides of his head. "My brain!"

Remain here," Fenris instructed him, laughing softly. "I will return shortly."

"I'm not going anywhere, mate," Hawke told him with a giggle. He watched as the black and white shape grew smaller, and finally disappeared through a doorway. Black and white? That meant Fenris was dressed for bed and wasn't wearing his armour. A delightful shiver travelled along Hawke's arms. Fenris was _naked_ under those clothes. _Naked, by the Maker!_ He giggled again, closed his eyes, and stretched the shivery feeling out of his muscles, feeling warm and silly. Feeling like he'd come home as he snuggled against the soft fabric of the settee.

When Fenris returned a short time later carrying tea and biscuits, Hawke, predictably, was snoring. Fenris moved quietly and set the tray down on a small table next to the settee before sitting down, gritting his teeth as the settee creaked. Hawke stirred and his eyes opened just a crack.

"Hey, Fen-Fen. C'mere."

"Hawke?"

"Yes, Fen-Fen?"

" _Never_ call me that again."

Hawke made a sound that Fenris suspected was a laugh, but sounded more like a braying donkey. Hawke sat himself up with exceptional difficulty and his head lolled back, Fenris noticing the twinkle of brown eyes beneath half-closed lids.

"Oh, Fen," Hawke crooned, slapping a hand against his chest.

"Are you… _singing_?"

"Fen," Hawke continued tunelessly. "I just want you to know that you deserve the best… you're beautiful…"

Fenris covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head, a silent snigger vibrating through his body.

"You're beautiful… and I want you to know… you're far from the usual. Far from the usual…"

"Hawke, have some tea. You should eat and drink something."

"You're a Full House," Hawke babbled.

"A… 'full house'?" Fenris cocked his head and an eyebrow shot up.

"The first one in the history of the game," Hawke told a puzzled Fenris, sidling closer to him. "You're a ten, Fen. A perfect ten."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Fenris answered with a hesitant smile.

"You do that," Hawke whispered, laying his head on Fenris's shoulder and slinging one of his arms across the elf's chest. "It's all right, I'm not going to do anything… you're just so warm and lovely, like a huge elven pillow."

Fenris burst out laughing, the rocking of his shoulders causing Hawke's face to wobble.

"I love your laugh," Hawke murmured against Fenris's neck, his lips lightly grazing Fenris's skin, and the elf felt a thousand pins prick at his skin all at once. He shuddered, releasing a sharp gasp.

Hawke felt it and raised his head a little, opening his eyes as wide as they'd go. Briefly, he caught a flash of green, before Fenris averted his eyes. He did not, however, move away.

"Fenris? Maker, Fen…" Hawke moved his arm away from Fenris's chest and lightly brushed the elf's face with his fingers. "Fen?" With the last of his strength, Hawke gently turned Fenris's head towards him and pushed his lips against Fenris's, which were just as soft, warm and inviting as the settee.

Losing himself utterly, and finally overwhelmed by fatigue, his hand fell away from Fenris's face, and his lips slid down the elf's cheek, his eyes fluttering closed as he slumped against Fenris's shoulder.


	32. All A-Flutter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As one edge of Fenris's mouth turned upward, everything that was and had ever been in Hawke's life instantly became right and wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I suck at chapter titles. Sorry about that. :-)
> 
> As always, my sincere thanks to the awesome Mary for her superb beta skills! Even if she does say bad words. ;-)

Hawke's eyes opened to blackness. Not the blackness of night - whereupon, once one's eyes had adjusted to the gloom, vague outlines and shapes would at least be faintly discernible - but here, there was a vast, impenetrable _nothing_. A creeping, hermetic blackness that chilled his blood and seeped into his very bones…

He clawed at his eyes, thrashing around in panic. "Help! Maker help me! I've gone blind!"

He stopped flailing as his fingers made contact with something crusty. And a bit oozy. "Oh, crap, my eyelids are stuck together. That would explain it, then."

He slumped in relief and began plucking chunks of sleep away from his eyelashes. He shifted, and the blackness turned to redness as he felt warmth fall across his face.

Where was he? Wherever it was, he wanted to stay there - it was warm and soft and smelled of… a huge, languid smile stretched his mouth. Wherever he was, it smelled of Fenris. Fenris _without_ the garlic, that was.

He reluctantly opened his eyes, quickly closing them again as the morning sun stabbed into them. He placed his hand over them and cautiously opened them again. He was lying down on the settee at the mansion, his boots sitting on the floor.

"I don't remember taking them off," he mumbled, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. He pushed himself up a little and yawned.

"Fenris? Are you about?" he called out, his husky voice scratching the back of his throat, causing him to cough, which quickly turned into a hacking bark. He did his best to suppress it as it wasn't the most attractive of sounds.

"Fenris?"

His voice echoed around the reception hall and then fell dead. Hawke knitted his brows together and concentrated as best he could. Where would Fenris be? Didn't he mention that he had to go to the barracks this morning? Or was that yesterday?

Glancing to his side, he noticed that a sandwich and a large glass of water had been left for him on the small table next to the settee. The sight of the sandwich awoke something savage within him and he snatched it, cramming it into his mouth. Anything to take the taste of garbage away.

Garbage? Had he been…? Oh, yes! Of course, he'd been drinking. He sat back and recalled the fun evening he'd had with Anders, especially the look on Anders's face when he'd realised where they were. As Hawke replayed the night's events in his mind, his memories became fuzzier and fuzzier the later into the evening he went.

Frowning as he took a sip of water, he vaguely remembered… a guard? He then recalled a blurry walk back to Hightown with Anders. And then… he'd called at the mansion, where Fenris _hadn't_ been angry with him.

"Thank the Maker for that!" He gulped down the rest of the water and slowly stood up, noting with relief that, although he had a headache, it wasn't _too_ bad.

Gathering his glass and plate, he trudged towards the kitchen, a faint ditty playing in the back of his mind, which he hummed along to. It was a love song that was well-known in southern Ferelden, and he was pleased that he still remembered some of the words.

"You're beautiful…" he sang, and then stopped dead.

Uh-oh.

He hadn't… no, he _wouldn't_ have… sung it… to _Fenris_?

His eyes widened into perfect circles and his mouth followed closely behind. "You didn't… oh! You did! Come on, brain, help me out, here!"

His brain duly complied and the image of a laughing elf was brought to the forefront of his mind. Good! Good. Fenris had _laughed_. He might have been a little embarrassed, but a laugh was good. Better than being punched. Or having his heart crushed.

Somewhat relieved, he continued into the kitchen and stood next to the sink. So, what else had happened the night before?

Calling on his brain again, he fervently hoped he hadn't done anything else to show himself up in front of Fenris, like being sick or doing something he wouldn't normally do when sober. He tried in vain to remember taking his boots off, lying on the settee and covering himself with blankets. When had that happened? And what had happened before that?

The clatter of the glass and plate as they crashed into each other on their way down into the sink startled him into near-sobriety.

"What, what, what? What did you do _that_ for? Oh, Maker, now he _knows_! Actually, he probably got an inkling when you _sang_ to him, you bloody fool! No wonder he's disappeared!"

A spike of panic drove into his belly and he suddenly felt very hot. And sick. He rushed to the rear door of the kitchen and turned the key, stumbling out into the rear courtyard, gasping for fresh air. "I'm _not_ going to be sick. I'm _not_. Wait…" A cool breeze tickled his clammy skin. "Wait… it's not _that_ bad. You didn't wake up with a hole in your chest. He left a sandwich for you - he didn't have to do that, did he? He took your boots off… he didn't take your robe off, but you can't have everything. It's fine. I can-I can save this. Uh…"

He clasped his chin and stroked his beard, which felt greasy. "Right, bath first, and then I just need an excuse to visit the barracks without him thinking I'm some drooling stalker. Wait… Anders will be there! No, that's not good enough. Anders is a grown man and doesn't need me to collect him. Come on, brain, just help me one more time and I'll never bother you again."

His eyes wandered over to the compost heap on the far side of the courtyard, where he spied a few pieces of lemon peel and some discarded nettles.

He gasped. "Of course! I'm a genius! Thanks, brain!" He grinned and gave his head a pat, and then his heart sank when he remembered exactly _why_ he was going to the barracks. The spike of panic in his belly twisted like a knife.

"Bath first. One thing at a time. It's going to be fine," he reassured himself, not in the least bit convinced, and headed for the scullery to take his bath.

~o~O~o~

Donnic cleared his throat for the second time and folded his hands behind his back, straightening his posture. If she didn't say something soon, by the Maker, he was going to strangle her.

"Yes, Guardsman?" Aveline asked apathetically, not even bothering to look up from her paperwork.

"Guard-Captain Vallen," he began formally. "I am here to submit myself to the disciplinary process of the Kirkwall Guard."

Aveline's quill stopped on the parchment, and a small blot began to form. "Blast it!" she uttered, throwing the quill into the inkwell. She looked up at Donnic, who stood in front of her desk. "What? What did you say?"

He took a deep breath before clearing his throat for the third time. "The way I spoke to you yesterday. It wasn't right. I overstepped the bounds of my authority. Um… _your_ authority, I mean. I, uh…" Realising that he'd brought his hands to his front, and was toying with his gauntlets, he immediately placed them behind his back again. "I had this all prepared. What I was going to say, I mean. It's not really going as I'd planned."

She sat back in her chair and fixed Donnic with her _stern captain_ look. "And?" she prompted, hoping the edges of her mouth were pointing downwards.

"And… may I speak candidly, Guard-Captain?"

"You didn't feel the need to ask me that yesterday."

"I'm asking now."

She folded her arms, again reminding her expression to remain stern. "By all means."

"The thing is, I sort of expected you to welcome Fenris into the Guard with open arms. When you didn't, I reacted strongly because I thought you were being unreasonable. It didn't occur to me that you have a job to do, and part of that job is protecting us lot. I should have considered that, but I didn't, and that was wrong of me. I would have said anything to get Fenris into the Guard. What I did say was unworthy of both of us. I'm sorry, Av... Guard-Captain."

"Right."

"What I said about you being callous… that's not true. You're tough, but you're also fair. And you're certainly not a coward. In fact, you're one of the bravest people I've ever met. I, um, I had no right to act the way I did, and I expect to be suitably punished."

"Right," she repeated, unable to come up with anything cleverer than that. She frowned, and began rifling through some of her papers. Placing a small stack in front of her, she ventured a glance up at Donnic and, noticing that he'd broken out in a sweat, again reminded herself not to smile. Tough, that was what he'd just called her. Tough, but fair.

"One month's night duty in Darktown, starting tomorrow," she told him, and saw him once again correct his posture. "Dismissed."

"Yes, Guard-Captain," he said with a stiff bow. "Thank you." He turned and walked towards the door.

"And take Fenris with you," she added as he opened the door. "It'll be a good education for him."

He turned back, barely managing to keep the smile that threatened to burst his face contained. "As you command, Guard-Captain," he finished and, with another bow, exited the office and closed the door.

"Well, you look like the cat that got the cream!" a familiar voice greeted him.

"Hawke! What brings you here?" asked Donnic, reaching for the mage's hand. "Come to check on Anders?"

Hawke grimaced and clasped the back of his neck. "Ah… you heard about that, then?"

"I heard that the two of you were escorted from an _establishment_ last night, yes," Donnic replied, his mouth twitching with mirth.

"It was just a misunderstanding," Hawke mumbled sheepishly, and Donnic laughed. "Is Anders still here?"

"No, he was turfed out at first light. He went back to Darktown to sleep off his hangover. I must say, you look quite chipper this morning, Hawke. Drinking and getting thrown out of pubs obviously agrees with you. Your face is positively glowing."

Hawke didn't mention that the fact his face was glowing was due to his heart and nervous system working at twice their normal rate. "I don't suppose Fenris is here this morning, is he?" he asked casually.

"Why, yes, he was here first thing. He's teaching some of the younger recruits a few moves. I can't tell you how excited we all are to have him among us. We're the first regiment in the Free Marches to have an elf in our ranks, you know, and with skills like his, I can see him rising pretty quickly."

"That's great," Hawke said with a bright smile, before the spike of panic he'd been carrying around once again made its presence known.

"Do you want me to fetch him for you?" asked Donnic.

"Uh, no. I-I don't want to disturb him. I just brought his medicine, for his foot, you know? He forgot it this morning." He held up a small waterskin.

"I can pass that onto him if you like," Donnic offered.

"Oh, thanks," replied Hawke, and both men made way as a large group of sweaty men, and a few women, spilled into the barracks.

"Here he is now," said Donnic, and for a second Hawke wondered if he could lose himself among the crowd of recruits and sneak out. Too late, his heart stilled as the crowd parted and a pair of large green eyes bored into him. Fenris didn't look displeased to see him, but neither did he look pleased. He looked neutral. Hawke couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not.

"You have a visitor, Fenris," Donnic declared, and the elf stepped forward, not taking his eyes off Hawke.

"So I see," he said in a perfectly _neutral_ tone.

"I, uh, was just passing by," Hawke stammered. "You-you forgot this." He held the water skin up and Fenris frowned. "Your medicine," Hawke explained.

Fenris's frown melted away and once again the neutral expression settled over his features. "Oh. That was thoughtful of you," he mumbled with a nod, taking the water skin from the mage.

"I'll be going, then," Hawke blurted, feeling as though his heart had expanded to fill the whole of his torso as both it and his stomach thudded in tandem.

"One moment," said Fenris, who walked over to Donnic and said something Hawke couldn't hear.

Donnic pointed to a door at the far end of the room. "Use my quarters if you like, there's no one sleeping in there at the moment," he told the elf. "I need to speak to you afterwards. We've been given an assignment together," he said with a grin.

"That is good to hear," Fenris replied before walking towards the room, casting a backward glance at Hawke as he opened the door.

"I think he wants you to go in," Donnic pointed out with a glance at Hawke.

"Oh, yes, uh, all right." Hawke's feet somehow carried him forward to Donnic's quarters, and he took a deep breath before entering.

"Close the door," Fenris quietly instructed. Hawke's hands, seemingly under the control of someone else, pushed the door shut.

"How are you feeling, Hawke?" Fenris asked from across the room.

 _A nervous bloody wreck, thank you very much._ "Oh, fine. Thanks for asking. Erm… sorry I wasn't up in time to make your medicine. I hope you didn't mind me bringing it to you."

"I did not want to wake you. I am grateful you brought this to me."

Hawke nodded and released a shaky breath, taking a few cautious steps closer to the elf. "Fenris, look... about last night…"

Fenris held up a hand, cutting Hawke off mid-sentence. "There is no need to explain. You were intoxicated. We all do things under the influence of alcohol that we would not normally do." His voice and posture were stiff and formal, and it occurred to Hawke for a moment that he almost sounded offended.

"Wait… you think… you think I kissed you because I was drunk?"

"Well, you were, weren't you?"

"Y-yes, I was, but…" Hawke pushed out another breath and ran his hand through his hair. "You think I needed to be drunk to want to kiss you?"

A slight chink appeared in Fenris's mask of neutrality. His eyes fell to the floor and he gave no reply.

"You think I came here to tell you that I'd made a _mistake_?" Hawke asked, not knowing where his surge of courage had suddenly come from, but he was going to make the most of it while it was here. "Fenris, can't you see what's right under your nose? How much more obvious do I have to be?"

Fenris's mask slipped completely, and his brow furrowed as Hawke took a further step closer.

"Do I look drunk to you now?"

"What?" Fenris's eyes darted from side to side and he shifted his weight, but didn't back away.

Hawke took one more step closer, bringing him less than a foot away from the elf. "Do I look drunk now?" he repeated, his voice soft.

Fenris's mouth fell open slightly and, after a pause, he slowly shook his head.

"So, let's say if I kissed you again, while I was sober, would you think _that_ was a mistake?"

Fenris's eyes stopped moving and settled on Hawke's chest. He shook his head again and Hawke noticed the rise of his shoulders that accompanied his sharp intake of breath.

Without another word, Hawke gently rested his hands on Fenris's shoulders and bent forward, placing the gentlest of kisses on his lips. He let them rest there for a few seconds and, although Fenris did not move his own lips, Hawke felt the elf's eyelashes tickle his cheeks as his eyes closed.

As Hawke slowly pulled away, the pounding he'd felt in his chest and stomach had now also manifested itself in his head, throat and arms. He removed his hands from Fenris's shoulders, his breathing matching the fluttering in his chest.

"Well, Fenris? Was that… all right?"

For a moment, Fenris didn't speak. Hawke had never felt so excited and terrified in his entire life.

"Was what all right?" asked the elf quietly.

"E-eh? I meant… I…" Hawke's eyes narrowed and he affected a scowl. "Is this elven humour, or something?"

As one edge of Fenris's mouth turned upward, everything that was and had ever been in Hawke's life instantly became right and wonderful.

"Do I need to jog your memory?" asked the mage softly, again moving his head close to Fenris's.

"That _would_ be appreciated." The elf's lips spread into a shy smile, and his face flushed.

As Hawke's lips once again brushed against Fenris's, it occurred to him that the elf was not an experienced kisser. He took Fenris's hands and placed them around his own waist, Hawke's hands moving upwards, one tangling through Fenris's hair, which was damp with sweat. With the other, he placed a finger against Fenris's lower lip and gently pushed it down, taking it into his own mouth and softly tugging on it.

Encouraged by the shudder that vibrated against him, Hawke deepened the kiss and felt Fenris's arms snake around him, slowly and tentatively searching out the contours of his back. Feeling Fenris's lips part of their own accord, a fire ignited and raged through Hawke's core and he pressed his body hard against Fenris's, moaning as he devoured the elf's lips.

Then, Fenris quickly pulled away, panting.

"I-I'm sorry," Hawke gasped, taking a step backward. "I'm sorry. I got carried away."

"No, it's-it's fine," said Fenris quietly, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"No, it's not fine." Hawke had a feeling that that was the first time Fenris had been kissed or, at least the first time he could remember. "I-I didn't intend to turn into an animal. I should have been gentler."

Fenris bit his bottom lip and laughed softly. "You are hardly an animal, Hawke. Do not trouble yourself. It was…" He tilted his head and his eyes briefly locked with Hawke's before he averted them. "…nice."

"Oh. Well, that's good, then." Hawke also bit his lip and for a moment, neither man spoke.

"I... should probably go," Fenris mumbled. "People will talk."

Hawke looked up and his belly fluttered at the mischievous smile that met him. "Let them," he breathed.

A brilliant flash of white teeth accompanied Fenris's laugh, and Hawke felt like hugging him and sweeping him off his feet.

"Yes, um, I-I'll be making tracks," Hawke stuttered.

"I will be finished here shortly," Fenris told him. "Where will you be?"

"Oh, I'm going to pay Anders a quick visit, and then I'll probably be at the Hanged Man. Varric and I are going to discuss some ways to come up with more funds for the expedition."

"Well, I hope you are not considering anything illegal," Fenris said sternly, crossing his arms. "I am a guard of Kirkwall, you know."

"Fenris, why do you think I was so desperate for you to join the Guard in the first place?" Hawke teased. "We need a bent guard in our little group to cover up our more unsavoury activities."

Fenris's slender shoulders shook and he threw his head back and guffawed. Tears momentarily sprung to Hawke's eyes at such a wonderful sight before he quickly dissolved into laughter.

The two men once again stood in silence, the occasional quiet snigger bursting forth.

"I'll be off, then," Hawke said.

"That is the third time you have said that, and yet you remain here," Fenris observed with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Hawke nodded and moved to the door, making sure he put some distance between them before he spoke. "You're right, I shouldn't keep you. See you later… Fen-Fen."

"I _told_ you never to c-" Fenris's words were cut off as Hawke slammed the door and scampered out of the keep.

~o~O~o~

Hawke sailed through Hightown, humming softly to himself and bidding everyone he passed a good morning, whether he knew them or not. He had to hold himself back from hugging the few passers-by he did know. His steps were light, and his spirits, soaring. His belly, which had been in a tight knot for most of the morning, still fluttered, but it was a _good_ kind of fluttering. If it hadn't been for the guard presence along his route, he probably would have burst into song, but he knew he'd had a lucky escape last night, and didn't want to be thrown in the cells for being drunk when he _wasn't_ drunk.

He called on Anders at the clinic, who immediately guessed that something had happened because of the shit-eating grin his friend wore.

"So… get lucky last night, did you, Hawke?" he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"I've _always_ been lucky," Hawke answered, and gave Anders a bear-hug, lifting him off the ground.

"Put me down!" Anders protested, and Hawke complied. "I don't want any jealous boyfriends coming in here, sorting me out!"

"Boyfriend," Hawke repeated with a snicker. "That sounds weird. I wonder what Fenris would make of that?"

"So… _did_ you?" Anders asked again.

"No! We just… kissed," he said with a dopey grin.

Anders smiled, and Hawke could see that it was genuine. "Well, it's nice to see you so happy, Hawke. I hope you get on all right."

"Come 'ere, you!" Hawke grabbed Anders's cheeks and kissed him firmly on the forehead. "I love ya!" he chirped, throwing an arm around Anders's shoulders. "Fancy some lunch? On me."

Hawke's happiness was infectious, and Anders also laughed. "You bet. Not at the White Swallow, though, eh?"

"I don't think we'll be welcome back there, somehow," Hawke guessed with a shrug. "I said I'd meet Varric at the Hanged Man - we're going to discuss some money-making ventures, if you're interested. Fenris will also be joining us, later on."

Anders nodded. "I'll be good," he promised.

Hawke tightened his grip on Anders's shoulders. "I'm so glad things are all right again between us, Anders. I've missed you, friend."

"Me too," Anders replied, smiling brightly, no longer feeling as isolated and troubled as he had for the last few days. "Tell you what, I'll get the first round this time, eh?"

"Too bloody right you will," Hawke grinned, and the two friends left the clinic with their arms around each other.

~o~O~o~

After Hawke, Varric, Anders and Bethany had taken lunch, Fenris joined them, and the five of them discussed various ways – legal ways – to boost the expedition's coffers. Although Fenris and Anders didn't really speak to each other, they were on their best behaviour and, to Hawke's pleasure, they didn't argue, either.

Just before six bells, Hawke remembered that Fenris's next dose of medicine was due, and they bid farewell to their friends. Anders stayed behind, having been invited to Varric's card game.

As they left the pub, Fenris and Hawke discussed the elf's appointment in the Guard.

"My armour will be ready in a few days' time, and I will be able to move into the barracks," Fenris told Hawke.

"You know, it's a pity," Hawke began. "I mean, I'm glad you'll be safe at the barracks, but I'll kind of miss the settee."

"Take it, if you wish," Fenris offered.

"I won't just miss the settee, and you know it," Hawke teased.

"We will think of something," Fenris promised him, and they smiled at each other.

"You haven't had a reading lesson, yet," said Hawke. "How about we have it when we get back?"

"It will be dark, soon," the elf reminded him, pointing in the direction of the setting sun.

"That's all right, we can get some candles going, grab a bottle of wine, and cosy up on the settee with a book. What do you think?"

Fenris glanced sideways at Hawke and smiled warmly. "I would enjoy that."

As they slowly progressed through Lowtown, the streets became emptier as the sun began to set. In the distance, they heard the bells of the chantry toll six times.

"The Guard is changing over," Fenris stated, drawing his sword. "I am just being cautious," he explained quietly. "The number of guards in town is at its lowest during changeover." He increased his pace and walked ahead of Hawke, indicating for him to fall back.

After they'd walked a short distance, Fenris held up a hand for Hawke to stop, and then pressed a finger against his lips, beckoning the mage closer. Fenris pointed toward an alleyway, where a group of men were heading around a corner with a lone female dressed in Chantry robes.

"What's she playing at?" Hawke whispered.

"She will be robbed, if she is lucky," Fenris whispered back. "Come."

Hawke groaned, annoyed that an idiotic woman was going to ruin his romantic plans for the evening.

"We will still have time for the reading lesson," Fenris smiled.

"We'd bloody well better." Hawke readied his staff, and they quietly walked forward towards the alley.


	33. The Way Things Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Had the rebels not attacked, I would still be a slave, and I never would have experienced any of… this," he said softly, glancing around the street.
> 
> "You mean picturesque Lowtown?" Hawke teased, hoping to lift Fenris's spirits a little.
> 
> "No." Fenris shook his head and held Hawke's gaze. "That is not what I meant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mary for a detailed, thoughtful and very fast beta!

Fenris and Hawke waited around a corner and watched from a discreet distance to see if, as they strongly suspected, the gang of men would attack the woman.

Their suspicions were soon confirmed: after a brief conversation, one of the men attempted to grab the woman's coin purse. Stupidly, she resisted, and was seized by two of the men and dragged into a shop doorway.

Having the element of surprise as their advantage, Fenris and Hawke charged to the woman's rescue and, after a surprisingly easy fight, most of the men were disabled by Hawke's magic, while a few others lay dead, courtesy of Fenris.

After the elf had informed one of the guards on duty in Lowtown of what had occurred, the two men returned to the woman to check on her, finding her cowering in a corner, not far from where the attack had taken place.

"You are… a mage?" she asked warily as Hawke approached her. "An apostate?"

"An apostate who has just saved your life," Fenris reminded her sternly.

"What did you think you were doing, going off into an alley with a group of armed men?" Hawke questioned.

The woman shook her head and clasped her hands together. "I am searching for able men to assist me with an urgent matter. Those…men assured me that they would aid me."

"They almost _aided_ you to the Maker's side," Fenris remarked acerbically, wiping blood off his sword with a rag. "Come with us. We will escort you to the chantry."

"No," the woman asserted, smoothing down her robes. "There is no time to lose. Perhaps… you two seem able, as well as honourable, men. Yes… you could be just what I'm looking for."

Hawke shook his head decisively. "I'm sorry, but whatever it is you think we can help you with, we have plans. We're on our way to Hightown. Let us escort you there."

The woman took a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and pressed it into Hawke's palm. "Please, meet me at this address as soon as you are able. I will explain everything when you arrive." With that, she turned and left the alley.

"Wait! I didn't agree to-!" Hawke's mouth gaped open, and he stared at the woman's retreating back.

"Where is this address?" Fenris asked, stepping closer to Hawke.

"No! We've already helped her! We have to get back for your reading lesson," whined Hawke.

"If we do not assist her, she may turn to street thugs again," Fenris quantified, gesturing at the note in Hawke's hand. "I would not want to be responsible for her placing herself in danger again - she is clearly dull-witted."

"Is this Guardsman Fen-Fen speaking?" Hawke teased, unfolding the note, and Fenris crossed his arms, a hint of a warning in his eyes. "By the way, I loved the way you told her off. That was _very_ authoritative of you," Hawke added with a wink. "And I'm dying to see you in this new armour of yours."

One of Fenris's eyebrows rose, and the edges of his eyes crinkled softly. "…The address?"

Hawke tutted and scanned the piece of paper. "It's in Lowtown, not far from here."

"Then let us see what is afoot," said Fenris, walking ahead.

"But, Fenris…"

"There will be plenty of time for reading lessons, Hawke," Fenris called from ahead. "We should investigate this."

"I couldn't give a monkey's nuts about the reading lesson," Hawke bleated, trudging behind the elf.

Fenris halted and his head slowly turned towards Hawke, his dark brow rising higher.

"Doesn't that _eyebrow_ of yours ever get tired?" Hawke asked with a note of petulance in his voice.

"No. In fact, since we met, it has had so much exercise that it is now the strongest eyebrow in all of Thedas."

"Bloody cheek," Hawke muttered as he caught up.

"You were saying that you did not care for the reading lesson?" queried Fenris with a playful glint in his eyes.

"No… I didn't actually _say_ that," Hawke began, holding his hands up in appeasement, trying not to laugh at Fenris's ever-ascending supercilium. "What I _meant_ was… um… your medicine. Yes! That's it… the reading lesson pales in significance compared to your medicine. You _have_ to have that, it's important."

"I… see," said Fenris slowly, not at all convinced. "And the cosying-up on the settee?"

"Weeeell," Hawke drawled with a shrug, "that would have been _nice_ , I suppose, but the medicine really is what I'm concerned about. I'm just being a conscientious healer."

Fenris stared at Hawke, his face expressionless.

"What, no eyebrow?"

"The unthinkable has occured," Fenris stated as he continued to walk on. "You've worn it out."

Hawke stood in place, shaking his head and trying not to laugh, but failing miserably.

Fenris turned back again. "I am merely being a conscientious guard, Hawke."

Hawke groaned and started to follow the elf. "Whose stupid idea _was_ it for you to become a guard, anyway?" he complained.

"Not mine," Fenris chuckled quietly.

Although crestfallen that his plans for an evening of snuggling had been all but destroyed, the memory of Fenris's earlier kiss lingered, making Hawke's lips tingle, and he bounded forward with renewed zeal, nudging Fenris with his elbow as he arrived next to him. "I expect a double reading lesson when we get back."

Fenris glanced at Hawke's elbow and nodded solemnly. "And will that also entail a double cosying-up on the settee?"

"Only if we can find the time. Priorities and all that, you know?"

"I am certain we will find a way to make time for… priorities," replied Fenris, and he shyly nudged Hawke back, who barely resisted the urge to giggle like a loon, striving for a modicum of decorum. A chuckle escaped, despite his efforts.

Before long, they arrived at the address provided by the blonde-haired woman. "Let's get this done quickly," said Hawke. "Medicine," he reminded the elf.

Fenris stepped in front of Hawke and once again drew his sword. He then pushed the door open without knocking upon it.

As soon as they entered, a man dressed in templar armour leapt out of a chair and unsheathed his sword, advancing on them.

Hawke stumbled back in surprise and reached for his staff. "A templar? What the bloody hell?"

"Just try it," snarled Fenris, his own sword already at the templar's throat.

"Varnell! Stand down!" commanded a familiar voice. A look of doubt came into the templar's eyes and he slowly lowered his weapon as the blonde-haired woman entered the room. Fenris, however, did not lower his.

"All right, just what's going on here?" demanded Hawke.

"Please," implored the sister. "Varnell is my bodyguard. Precautions were necessary. We did not mean to frighten you." With a nod at Varnell, the templar stepped back and sheathed his sword, but Fenris advanced on him, keeping his own sword directed at Varnell's throat. "I see you have similar protection," the woman said to Hawke. "Please instruct him to withdraw."

"He is _not_ my bodyguard," Hawke said angrily. "He'll _withdraw_ when _he_ sees fit!"

"Then you have my apologies," she said to Fenris. "Please… when I explain, you will understand our caution."

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a glance, and Fenris lowered his sword, but kept it at the ready.

"Talk," Hawke ordered.

"I am Sister Petrice, and this, as you know, is Ser Varnell," she said, gesturing at the templar. "Might we know your names?"

Met with silence, she nodded. "Your reticence is understandable. I have come into possession of… well, see for yourselves." She walked through to the next room, followed by Varnell. Fenris once again pushed in front of Hawke, his sword at the ready.

Both men stopped in their tracks at the sight that met them. At the rear of the room stood a gigantic qunari, who was bound with heavy chains and a restraining collar. His horns had been removed and his mouth sewn shut, although it appeared an attempt had been made to remove the stitches.

Fenris cautiously approached the captive and studied him carefully. "A saarebas?" he asked no one in particular.

"A Qunari mage? What have you done to him?" cried Hawke, arriving beside Fenris.

"His bonds are not of our making," explained Petrice, "but of his own people."

"Where is his karataam, his Arvaarad?" demanded the elf.

"He became separated from them," replied Petrice.

Fenris regarded Petrice suspiciously for a moment, and then turned his gaze back to the saarebas. "Then he will be put to death," he surmised.

"What?" spluttered Hawke. "What do you mean? And what's a… karataam?"

"Perhaps you should ask Sister Petrice," Fenris answered shortly, once again casting a doubtful glance at her. _"She_ seems to know what it means, despite the fact the Chantry has nothing to do with a heathen race such as the qunari."

"I have heard the term in passing," she claimed, "but I would not be able to provide an adequate description, I fear."

"His karataam are the group with which he travels, under the command of Arvaarad. I suppose they are similar to your templars," Fenris clarified, not taking his eyes off Petrice. "In accordance with the Qun, a saarebas that becomes detached from his karataam is _Issala,_ meaning dust."

"But why?" asked Hawke, clearly disturbed. "Why don't they just recapture him? Why must he be put to death?"

"The Arvaarad are not as lenient as your templars," Fenris explained, turning back to Hawke. "Whereas the Templars would _suspect_ an apostate of practising blood magic or of being possessed, and would study the mage for signs of those occurrences, to Arvaarad, possession is inevitable once a saarebas has been separated from its karataam. They do not leave anything to chance."

Fenris took a step closer to the saarebas and looked up at him. "Asit tal-eb1."

The creature nodded once, but made no sound.

"He sees the way of things," Fenris stated gravely. "He must be returned to his karataam forthwith."

"And what is _your_ opinion, serah?" Petrice asked Hawke, sensing that he was moved by the saarebas's plight. "Would _you_ condemn this proud being to ritual death for nothing more than being a mage?"

"It is the way of the Qunari," Fenris interjected. "Their affairs are not for us to meddle in."

Hawke stepped closer to the saarebas and examined his collar. "Does this hurt?" he asked the creature. "Are you in pain?"

The saarebas gave no answer.

"Hawke," Fenris said quietly, placing a hand on the mage's arm. "This is not our affair. We should not interfere."

"Serah Hawke," Petrice interrupted, having heard Fenris say his name. "Your friend seems quite willing to walk away from this, but you yourself have not yet spoken."

"Wait a minute," said Hawke, turning to face her. "What do _you_ care what happens to him? The Chantry certainly has no love for mages, I can testify to that."

"That may be so," Petrice answered smoothly, "but the more enlightened among us are able to look past such things. When I heard of this creature's predicament, I knew I could not turn my back on him."

"What do you want from us?" Hawke asked, hearing a quiet sigh from Fenris.

"Take him away from here, where his captors cannot reach him and he can be with others of his kind… the Tal-Vashoth, I believe they are called. You, as a mage, walk freely among us, Serah Hawke. Does this creature not deserve the same?"

"If you care for his predicament as you claim, why do _you_ not emancipate him?" Fenris demanded, his demeanour hostile.

"As you so shrewdly stated, Ser Elf, the Chantry considers his kind to be heathens. I cannot be seen rendering aid to the Qunari, as much as I would desire to."

Hawke exhaled and once again looked up at the saarebas. "What do _you_ want to do?" he asked the creature.

Again, the saarebas did not answer.

Groaning in frustration, Hawke was taken aside by Fenris.

"What he wants is clear, Hawke. He is bound by the will of the Qun, and knows his fate. We should take him to the Arishok."

"But they'll kill him!" Hawke whispered.

"Yes, that is their way. It is not up to us to decide his fate. That has already been determined."

"But I can't…" Hawke placed his hands on top of his head. "I respect what you're saying, I really do, but I can't just let him to be put to death, can I? Surely he has a right to decide his own fate?"

Fenris exhaled and went to reply, but instead shook his head.

"Fenris… when we first came in here, I was determined to say no to whatever it was this Petrice wanted. But, now I've seen him… I-I can't walk away from this. I'm sorry."

Fenris held Hawke's gaze for a moment, and then nodded. "Let us be off, then."

"Y-you'll help me? But… what changed your mind?"

"I have not changed my mind. We will discuss it later," said Fenris, his voice free of reproach. Hawke placed a hand on Fenris's shoulder and softly squeezed it before turning back to Petrice.

"All right, we'll help," he told her.

"Wait," Fenris interrupted, stepping between Hawke and Petrice. "We should bring the others. I do not trust her motives," he said with a stony glance at the sister.

"That is your privilege, Ser Elf," she answered calmly, but her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Good idea, Fenris," Hawke replied. "We'll be back soon," he told Petrice.

~o~O~o~

Varric was pleased that Hawke and Fenris interrupted the card game, as his hand was rotten. Anders, however, was not as happy, as he appeared to be winning. The game was soon forgotten, though, once Hawke had explained the reason for the interruption, and Anders and Bethany eagerly walked on ahead, neither of them having ever seen a saarebas before. Varric followed closely behind, humorously taunting Anders for having lost the game. Hawke and Fenris fell behind a little.

"So, tell me what made you reconsider," Hawke prompted. "I'm grateful and everything, but for a moment there I thought we were going to have an argument."

The elf considered this briefly before a faint smile ghosted across his lips. "Well, apart from the fact that you are a consummate _pertinax asinus_ ," he quipped, eliciting a laugh from Hawke, "something you said gave me pause."

"Oh, yes?"

Fenris nodded and stared at the ground as they walked along. "When you said that the creature should be allowed to decide his own fate, it occurred to me…" He glanced up at Hawke for a moment, and then once again looked at the ground. "When I was a slave, I never entertained any notions, any hopes, of ever escaping or of changing my lot in life. Being Danarius's slave _was_ my life. I had resigned myself to my fate, Hawke, just as the saarebas has. And, although I am not entirely comfortable with interfering in Qunari affairs, perhaps there is a larger issue at stake, here."

Hawke smiled at Fenris in admiration, and then a frown formed as the elf's words sunk in. "You never… thought of escaping? Then how _did_ you escape?"

"Danarius and I were travelling through Seheron one time, when we were attacked by Qunari rebels. Such skirmishes are commonplace, as the rebels and the Imperium have fought over the island for centuries. I managed to get Danarius to a ship, but there was no room for a slave. I was left behind, and I barely managed to escape the city alive."

"Was that when the…" Hawke began, but hesitated, not wanting to dredge up unpleasant memories for Fenris.

"Yes. That was when the Fog Warriors took me in," Fenris said, his voice barely a whisper. "Up until that moment, I had never dreamed that another life was possible, that-" He fell quiet, and they slowed their pace, allowing the others to walk further ahead. Fenris once again glanced up at Hawke, but this time did not look away. "Had the rebels not attacked, I would still be a slave, and I never would have experienced any of… this," he said softly, glancing around the street.

"You mean picturesque Lowtown?" Hawke teased, hoping to lift Fenris's spirits a little.

"No." Fenris shook his head and held Hawke's gaze. "That is not what I meant."

They shared a moment of silence, and Hawke stepped a little closer to Fenris, his breathing heavy as he ventured a quick glance around. He then raised his hand up to Fenris's cheek and gently ran his fingers down the elf's face.

"You know something, Fenris?" he whispered. "I think you're amazing."

A soft light came into Fenris's eyes, and he hung his head slightly, taking a deep breath, and neither man spoke for a moment.

"Hey, Hawke!" called Varric from up ahead. "Is this the place?"

Hawke moved his hand from Fenris's face and he groaned, his head falling back. "Now, whose stupid idea was it to bring _them_ along, Fenris?"

"Ah… that _was_ my idea," Fenris conceded, and he flashed a radiant smile at Hawke, who laughed in return.

"Coming," Hawke called over, sighing. "Yes, that's the place."

~o~O~o~

This time, Fenris _did_ knock at the door, having first warned Anders and Bethany that a templar was inside. Ser Varnell opened the door, and the group was ushered inside without a word. Anders took a moment to cast the templar a dirty look before he was dragged further inside by Hawke. Once the three newcomers laid eyes on the saarebas, the silence seemed to deepen as they stared mutely at it.

"Maker's breath!" Anders and Varric exclaimed as one, and Anders charged forward toward the creature before spinning around, his eyes glinting. "What have you bastards done to him?" he demanded of Petrice and Varnell.

While Petrice repeated her story, Bethany and Varric approached the creature and attempted to talk to him, with no success. Although Anders seemed wary of Petrice, and even more so of Varnell, he was eventually convinced of her concern for the creature, and urged Hawke to get going.

"We can't very well take him through the streets, can we?" Hawke stated and turned to Petrice. "How are we supposed to move him?"

Petrice went behind the creature and uncovered a trapdoor in the floor. "There is a series of underground passageways that will take you out of the city," she began to explain, before she was interrupted by Fenris.

"No. Too convenient. I do not like this, Hawke."

"Well, of course you don't like it," Anders piped up. "Anything that would lead to a mage gaining his freedom-"

"Fenris happens to agree with us, Anders," Hawke defended.

"He _what_?" A questioning look came into Anders's eyes, then, but he offered no apology. "Oh," he mumbled.

"I don't really see what choice we have," Hawke said to the elf, and he looked at Petrice warily, put on the defensive by Fenris's suspicions. He walked over to the saarebas and explained what they intended to do. He then called Fenris over. "Can you ask him what his name is, Fenris?"

Fenris shook his head. "Qunari have no names, as you and I do, but designations. He is Saarebas."

"I have named the creature," Petrice announced, looking pleased with herself. "I call him Ketojan, a bridge between worlds."

"You demean the creature with your pidgin-Qunlat," Fenris spat shortly. "He will not dignify your romantic drivel with an answer."

Forcing back a smile, Hawke looked up at the creature. "Saarebas, we are going to take you out of the city. This way, if you please."

"After me, Hawke," Fenris insisted as he opened the trapdoor. With a final dark look at Petrice, he lowered himself down, and was followed by the others.

~o~O~o~

The group journeyed through the underground tunnels and chambers, at all times keeping a safe distance from Saarebas, as none of them knew what he was capable of. Their curiosity was soon sated, however, when they ran into a gang of thugs who attacked them without provocation. Saarebas not only fought alongside Hawke's group, but appeared to protect them on several occasions, proving himself to be a highly capable mage. Much to Hawke's annoyance and frustration, however, Saarebas still refused to, or was unable to, answer any of his questions. Even an attempt by Fenris, speaking in the creature's native tongue, proved fruitless.

By the time they emerged from the tunnels, finding themselves somewhere on the coast, they determined from the position of the moon that it was well after midnight.

They had not gone far when Fenris, who led the group, held his hand up. They all came to a halt.

"What is it?" Hawke asked as he caught up with the elf.

Fenris jerked his head forward, his expression grim. "His karataam."

Hawke squinted and looked ahead, barely able to discern a large group of Qunari up ahead. "What?" Hawke whispered. "What are _they_ doing here? How did they know?"

"Precisely," muttered Fenris as the others also caught up. "Just how _did_ they know?"

"Are you saying we've been set up?" Anders demanded.

"Looks like they've spotted us, Hawke," Varric said quietly as the Qunari began to walk in their direction. "I hope you've got your story straight."

"I will speak with them," Fenris volunteered, "although... I am not optimistic."

"Basra Vashedan2," the leader of the karataam called out. "I am Arvaarad, and I claim possession of saarebas at your heel."

Fenris walked ahead and approached the karataam. "Arvaaradkost. Maraas shokra3."

Ignoring Fenris's greeting, Arvaarad pointed at Saarebas. "The members of his karataam were killed by Tal-Vashoth," Arvaarad told Fenris, "but their disposal leads only here, to Saarebas, and you."

"We've only just got here," Hawke explained, stepping forward to stand at Fenris's side. "We had nothing to do with this. Do we _look_ like we've just engaged Tal-Vashoth?"

"Irrelevant, Bas Saarebas4," Arvaarad stated with a withering look at Hawke. "The crime is his freedom, his leash held by unknowing basra. We will not allow that danger to continue. Your kind may doom your own people, but saarebas will be properly confined." Arvaarad produced a long, yellow-metal rod, which he waved at Saarebas.

"And what if he doesn't _want_ to be confined?" Hawke demanded, sounding much braver than he felt.

Arvaarad took a few steps forward. "Saarebas! Show that your will remains bound to the Qun!" he commanded.

Immediately, Saarebas dropped to one knee and lowered his head.

"He came quite willingly with us," Hawke argued.

"He has only followed you because he _wants_ to be led," countered Arvaarad. "He is allowed no other purpose."

Doubt entered Hawke's thoughts for a moment as he held Arvaarad's gaze. Perhaps Fenris had been right - although Hawke strongly disagreed with the Qunari's stance on mages, did he have any right to interfere? In his peripheral vision he could see Anders, hopping from foot to foot - he would definitely have something to say if Hawke released Saarebas to Arvaarad, but Hawke couldn't make his decision based on Anders's opinion, which was far from impartial. Hawke glanced at Fenris, hoping for guidance.

Sensing that Hawke was uncertain, Fenris stepped closer to him and whispered, "Whatever you decide to do, Hawke, I will stand with you."

Hawke nodded, emboldened by Fenris's loyalty. "I'm sorry, Arvaarad. I believe this mage should be free to choose for himself."

"Oh, crap," Varric was heard to mutter, and the clank of Bianca as it was hefted from his back echoed around the cove.

Arvaarad turned to face his men and uttered a guttural command, and then spun around, pointing his rod at Saarebas, and a field of arcane energy surrounded the Qunari mage.

"You're using _magic_?" blustered Anders. "You're nothing but hypocrites, just like the bloody templars!"

"Bas Saarebas4!" yelled Arvaarad, his eyes flitting between Anders and Hawke as he readied his sword. "You spew your words at me like a demon trying to poison my control. Like this mage, the Qun requires your death!"

"Not while I draw breath!" Fenris vociferated and, before Arvaarad could react, the elf's fist had penetrated his breastplate. A sickening crunch was heard as it surpassed bone, followed by a wet sucking sound as a heart was squeezed, and the Qunari slumped, dead, onto the sand. The elf cried out in rage and pain, his markings blazing intensely, and he advanced on the Qunari group, supported by Hawke and the others. Saarebas, seemingly immobilised, could do nothing to help them.

Following a hard and protracted fight, during which Fenris valiantly defended his more vulnerable companions, the elf sank to his knees, exhausted and in severe pain. Hawke rushed to his side as the other three attempted, in vain, to communicate with Saarebas.

"Fenris," Hawke said soothingly, kneeling next to him. "Just take deep breaths. You'll be all right. You're not injured, are you? Please, you must tell me if you are."

Fenris shook his head and swallowed hard between gasps.

"Just take it easy," Hawke gently advised, stroking Fenris's back. "Take as much time as you need."

Hawke looked up as a shadow fell across them, to find Anders standing a few feet away. "Is he all right, Hawke?" he asked, taking a few tentative steps closer.

"He'll be fine in a minute," Hawke replied. "It's his markings."

Anders nodded, crouched down, and watched the elf for a moment. "Fenris… I just wanted to thank you for what you did, there. I must say, I wouldn't have expected-" he exhaled and stood up. "Well, that was all I wanted to say. If it means anything."

"Thanks, Anders," Hawke answered. "It does." Anders gave a single nod and walked away from them. "What did I tell you?" Hawke asked the elf. "You're amazing."

Fenris closed his eyes and shook his head before leaning on Hawke, who helped him to his feet. Slowly, they walked over to the others, who all thanked Fenris for his bravery. Their attention then turned to Saarebas, who was still immobilised by Arvaarad's magic. Hawke walked to where Arvaarad's rod lay on the sand, and called Anders and Bethany over.

"Any ideas on how to use this?" he asked them, and both of them shook their heads. "I wonder if it's safe for me to touch?" he wondered. "Only one way to find out." Taking a deep breath, he reached for the rod and, as he touched it, a bolt of sharp pain shot up his arm, and he instinctively dropped it.

The clanking of chains could be heard as Saarebas, now freed, rose to his full height. "Hawke," warned Fenris, and he positioned himself in front of the creature.

Saarebas walked over to Hawke, with Fenris at his side, and bowed. "You are now Basvaarad5, worthy of following," the creature said to Hawke. "I thank your intent, even if it was wrong." Saarebas began to walk away from the group, and Hawke followed. "I know the will of Arvaarad. I must return as demanded. It is the wisdom of the Qun."

"Return where?" Hawke asked, not understanding.

"To the Qun," Fenris clarified, walking alongside Hawke. "He intends to end his life."

"But why?" Hawke implored. "You're free, now. You don't have to do this. Please - we went to a lot of trouble to bring you here. You have a _choice_."

"I have made my choice. It is the only choice. Asit tal-eb1," he said with a small bow to Fenris, who returned the gesture.

"What about Petrice?" Hawke suggested, grasping at straws. "Perhaps she could take you back? Get you some help, I don't know… find others of your kind?" He briefly glanced at Fenris, who shook his head.

"The sister was not honest, as the elf suspected," Saarebas told Hawke. "Her kind has no honour. Her kind does not know the Qun."

"Fenris," Hawke appealed, though he knew deep down he was not going to sway Saarebas.

"He has made his choice, Hawke," answered Fenris with finality.

Hawke exhaled and his posture drooped. Fenris placed a hand on his arm.

"Take this secret thing, Basvaarad," Saarebas said to Hawke, holding out a huge hand. Hawke extended his own and Saarebas pressed something into Hawke's palm. "Remember this day."

Saarebas then turned and walked towards the shore. Hawke went to follow him but was stopped as Fenris's hand gripped his arm tightly.

When Saarebas was at a safe distance, Hawke watched in horror as the creature immolated himself and dropped to his knees; stoic and dignified to the end, no cries of pain or anguish came from him as flames licked up his body. A gasp was heard from behind as Bethany's hands covered her face, and Anders cried out, "No!"

"It-it was all for nothing," Hawke whispered, watching, stupefied, as Saarebas was consumed.

"Not entirely," Fenris replied softly. "In the end, thanks to you, he chose his own fate."

"Did he?" Hawke asked, unblinkingly looking ahead. "Did he really?"

Fenris took Hawke by the arm and led him away from the shore, where they met the others.

"Let us depart," advised Fenris.

"Yes, _let's_ ," Anders agreed hotly. "That Chantry bitch has some explaining to do."

"And I'm kinda hungry," Varric piped up. "Anyone else hungry?"

"Not really, Varric," Bethany answered, shaking her head. "Not after that."

Varric groaned softly, and steered Bethany toward the cave through which they'd come. Anders walked alone, occupied with his thoughts. Fenris and Hawke followed closely behind, and Fenris laid a hand on the shoulder of the subdued Hawke as he opened his palm to find a simple amulet on a leather cord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Asit tal-eb: ‘It is the way things are'.  
> 2 Basra Vashedan: 'Foreign (non-Qunari; literal: thing) trash'.  
> 3 Arvaaradkost. Maraas shokra: ‘Peace, Arvaarad. There is nothing to struggle against’.  
> 4 Bas Saarebas: 'Foreign dangerous thing (mage).  
> 5 Basvaarad: 'Foreign leash-holder'.


	34. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Surely you would not harm an unarmed sister of the Chantry?"
> 
> "I would," Anders threatened, readying his staff, as did Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mary for another speedy and thoughtful beta!

"Ensure the trap door is secured, Varnell. We do not want anyone to follow them."

"It's done," replied the templar.

Petrice took one final glance around the main room of the small house and nodded. "I think that's everything, then. Let us leave without further delay."

Varnell walked to the door and opened it before taking a step back, holding his hands up in front of him.

"Varnell? What is--"

"Going somewhere?" A large sword appeared in the doorway, followed by the white-haired elf, who backed Varnell up against a wall as the rest of his group entered.

"Ser Elf," Petrice began.

"Surprised to see us, are you?" Anders cut in, his face red with indignation.

"What do you mean?" Petrice asked, her voice and face betraying no emotion. Varnell's expression, however, told a different story entirely.

Fenris held the tip of his sword against Varnell's windpipe, his cold gaze on Petrice. "The corpses of your _Ketojan's_ karataam led directly to us. But you already know that, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're--" Petrice's words were cut short as Fenris's sword bit into Varnell's throat, drawing blood.

"Urk! P-Petrice!"

"All right," she said calmly, seemingly unconcerned for Varnell. "I will explain. Just lower your weapon. There is no need for such uncivilised behaviour."

"No deal," Fenris spat as blood trickled down Varnell's neck, much to Anders's satisfaction. "Start talking. Quickly."

Petrice took a deep breath and slowly paced the room. "I must confess, I did not expect you to return. The fact that you did, unscathed, is a testament to your skills."

"Insincere praise won't get you out of this, lady," Bethany interrupted, before Varric touched her arm and shook his head, not wanting to get too involved. She sighed and ventured a concerned glance at Hawke, who so far had not spoken.

"The mage is dead," Anders added. "Do you even care about that?"

"That _is_ regrettable," replied Petrice, shaking her head. "Especially now that, when the vanquished Qunari are found, there will more sympathy for them."

"You planned all of this to turn people against the Qunari, didn't you?" Fenris demanded. "You intended for us, and the saarebas, to die."

"You heartless bitch!" Anders blustered.

Varric grabbed Anders's arm and pulled him back a little, taking a step forward. "I think we should be fairly compensated for our trouble, don't you, Sister?"

Petrice exhaled and waved her hand at Varnell. "Pay them."

Varnell, his eyes locked with Fenris's, slowly reached into his pocket and produced a small purse. Fenris snatched it from him and threw it to Varric, who examined the contents, showing it to Hawke.

" _Oh_ , no," Hawke muttered darkly from the rear of the group. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that."

"But we have no other funds," Petrice claimed unconvincingly.

Fenris moved his sword away from Varnell and pointed it at Petrice, but did not touch her with it. "Do as he says."

"Surely you would not harm an unarmed sister of the Chantry?"

" _I_ would," Anders threatened, readying his staff, as did Hawke.

"Come on, fellas, there's no need for this," Varric said. "Let's just take our money and go."

Fenris felt a faint thrum along his markings as arcane energy radiated off the two mages, and then another sensation, which he was unfamiliar with, also crept along his skin. It was similar to magic, but not quite the same. Whatever it was, it was powered by lyrium, there was no doubt about that.

Before anyone could blink, Fenris's hand was at Varnell's throat, and the templar was lifted a few inches off the floor. "Nice try," Fenris said malevolently to Varnell, who could only gurgle in reply as his legs thrashed and his hands grabbed desperately at the elf's.

Petrice, finally realising that they meant business, hastened to a small lock box that had been placed on top of a pile of belongings. She quickly unlocked it and handed it to Varric who, upon opening it, let out a long whistle.

"You have what you want, now unhand him!" she ordered.

Fenris tossed Varnell to the floor like a rag doll and finally retracted his sword. "You had better pray to your Maker that we do not meet again," he hissed at Petrice. "Get out."

She helped the gasping Varnell to his feet and they quickly gathered their belongings, making a hasty exit.

Varric closed the door behind them and shook his head in admiration. "Elf, I think _I'll_ be praying to the Maker that I never get on your bad side! You scared the crap outta me!"

"You were great, Fenris," Anders added quietly. "It's nice that someone else stood up for Saarebas."

"I did not do it for the mage," said Fenris. "The templar was about to attack you and Hawke."

"I know, I could feel Justice stirring," Anders replied. "I'm glad that you reacted so quickly. If Justice _had_ attacked in such a confined space, well, things might have become… unpleasant."

No one else spoke as a few uncomfortable looks were exchanged. The only person who did not look surprised was Fenris.

Varric noisily cleared his throat and held up the lock box. "Well, Hawke, looks like we'll be paying Bartrand a visit tomorrow," he declared with enthusiasm. "There are fifteen sovereigns in here and, with the six in the purse, let's see… two each, ten for the kitty and one left over. What say we go back to my room and celebrate?"

"You three go," Hawke replied. "Fenris has missed out on two doses of his medicine. If we're heading to the Deep Roads soon, we've got to have our hero at his best," he added with a wan smile at the elf, who rolled his eyes.

"Ooh, rather you than me, Fenris," said Anders with a wince, knowing exactly what went into such medicine. "We'll have a drink for you both, won't we, Varric?"

"Just the one, Blondie? You underestimate me."

They stepped outside and Varric pocketed the key that had been left in the door. "Well, I think it's safe to say that this place has been abandoned. Maybe I'll find a use for it."

"Have fun, you three," said Hawke. "Beth, let Mother know you're safe."

"I will," she promised, and gave her brother a peck on the cheek. "Are you all right?" she whispered.

He forced a smile and nodded, and they all said their goodnights.

Fenris and Hawke took a slow walk back to Hightown, during which both men were quiet. Fenris knew that Hawke had been affected by Saarebas's death, but decided to give him the space to speak in his own time, if he wanted.

When they reached the top of the steps, Fenris broke the silence by remarking that Hawke was now able to travel up them without needing to stop. Hawke allowed himself a small smile and rifled through one of the pockets in his robe, producing the amulet that Saarebas had gifted him with. Fenris stepped closer as Hawke thumbed the irregularly-shaped pendant.

"I wonder what this is?" Hawke pondered.

"May I see that?" asked Fenris.

"Of course." Hawke passed it to him and Fenris examined it carefully, running his fingers along the rough surface.

"I would surmise that this is a piece of the creature's horn."

"Really?" Hawke reached across to touch the pendant, his fingers brushing against Fenris's. Both men paused, looked at each other and smiled. "Any idea why his horns were removed?"

"From what the Fog Warriors taught me, the practice of removing the horns marks the saarebas out, thus warning others of their dangerous nature. On rare occasions a non-saarebas is born without horns. Such qunari are held in high esteem among their people and often rise to positions of great prominence."

"I remember a hornless qunari in Lothering who'd been locked up by the Chantry. I walked past him a couple of times. He didn't look at me or speak to me, he just chanted under his breath the whole time. I think his name was Sten. He was _massive._ I remember how scary he looked, but how... I don't know, peaceful he seemed to be."

"Sten." Fenris nodded in admiration. "They are warriors of the Beresaad who have no equal in battle. His peaceful demeanour was imparted by the certainty of the Qun. You were privileged indeed to encounter such a creature. What became of him?"

"I don't know, but one morning he simply wasn't there. The cage had been broken into and he was gone. I don't know if it has any relevance, but he disappeared the same time that a small group of visitors--among whom was the future king and Hero of Ferelden--left town."

"You _met_ Llewellyn Surana and Alistair Theirin?"

Hawke grinned. "Yes, they stayed in our barn for the night. At the time, though, they were just a couple of grey wardens. They knocked on our door looking for work. They had a hedge witch with them and Beth and I didn't want the templars getting wind of her."

"I wonder..." Fenris retreated into his thoughts for a moment. "Perhaps they recognised the value of the qunari and recruited him. I'm not certain he would have tolerated apostates, but if they released him he would have owed them a debt. Interesting to speculate, isn't it?"

Hawke nodded. "I often wonder what happened to him. That's as good a story as any." Fenris released the amulet to Hawke, who placed it in his pocket. "You seem to be well-versed in Qunari culture. You knew Petrice was up to no good, didn't you? That she was setting us up? I should have listened to you."

"I did not know of her plans, only that her motives were questionable."

"How?"

"When I queried the location of the creature's karataam and Arvaraad, I expected to be asked for clarification of those terms, but she knew exactly what they meant. And yet, although the creature could not speak, she declared that he desired his freedom. How would she know such a thing? Her knowledge of the Qun rivalled my own, but I knew that the creature's hours were numbered. He was destined to die, either by his karataam or his own hand. She would also have known that. That was her mistake."

"So she would have known that Saarebas would die at the end of it, one way or another?"

Fenris nodded. "Precisely. But she claimed that he had a chance of freedom among the Tal-Vashoth. Even _they_ would not have accepted an un-collared saarebas, and would have put him to death. She hoped to play on our ignorance of their ways, but was unaware of my knowledge of the Qun."

Hawke stopped walking and Fenris also halted. "Why didn't you stand up to me? You knew what was going to happen. You knew I was wrong."

Fenris sighed and shrugged. "I wanted him to make his own choice. While he was under Petrice's care, that was not possible. Perhaps a small part of me also wanted him to claim his freedom, though I knew that was unlikely to happen. He was strong at the end, and his convictions and belief in the Qun gave him courage. Do not doubt, Hawke, that he made the right decision. The right decision for _him."_

They resumed their walk, and Hawke watched Fenris for a moment before speaking. "You sound like you admire the Qunari."

"I do. They are staunch and single-minded, and conduct themselves honourably. It is easy for me to see why many outsiders convert to the Qun. They are known as Viddathari. I also see, though, how their ways are baffling to those who have no experience of them."

Hawke shook his head and sighed. "I just can't fathom why, once he'd gained his freedom, he opted to end his life. I'm not really a religious person, though. Maybe I underestimate the strength faith can give someone."

Fenris nodded and glanced up at the chantry as they passed it. "Faith is a powerful notion, but it can be abused. It can change someone's entire outlook on life. Take Sebastian, for example. He told me, quite freely, that he was once a philanderer, a man of poor morals."

"What, Sebastian?"

"Yes, but his faith in the Maker has made him a stronger man, better able to channel his baser urges into doing good. He is a fine example of a person of faith. Then, there are those like Petrice, who take their faith and its teachings and contort them to fit their own purposes. She is _not_ a moral person, yet would claim to be while using the Chant to obnubilate herself."

Hawke glanced at Fenris in admiration. "I've never really thought about it in that way. You know, Fenris, I really enjoy our conversations. Even if you do use big words, sometimes. Ob… obnuli…?"

Fenris, relieved that Hawke's spirits had lifted a little, smiled. "To conceal oneself. I will endeavour to keep the big words to a minimum."

"Liar," Hawke accused with a laugh before stretching his arms and yawning.

"Let us make haste," Fenris said through a yawn of his own, and they turned towards the Hightown Estates. "You will need your rest, Hawke, if you are to meet Varric later this morning."

"I need to prepare your medicine, first," Hawke said with an impish smile. "Bet you thought I'd forgotten about that, didn't you?"

"Not at all," Fenris replied, firmly supressing his own smile, before a frown darkened his features. "Must I take two doses?"

"Three," Hawke deadpanned as they reached the mansion. "Your third dose will be due in a few hours, so you may as well get it out of the way."

"The Wise Woman with her leeches is sounding more appealing by the minute," Fenris grumbled as he unlocked the door.

"I see the eyebrow's back with us," Hawke chortled, following the elf inside and closing the door behind them. He then reached for Fenris's face and pushed his other eyebrow up to match the other. "You should exercise them both at the same time, you know."

Hawke's belly flipped over as Fenris grinned, and he felt the eyebrows relax. He ran one finger down Fenris's cheek and stopped at his mouth. "You know something? I'd really like to kiss you right about now."

Fenris tilted his head slightly. "So, what's stopping you?"

Hawke clamped his lips together and his body rocked as he held in a goofy laugh. "You-you make me come over all shy, do you know that? Nobody has ever had this effect on me before." He felt his cheeks burning, and the sensation intensified as Fenris took the initiative and stood on tiptoes, softly pressing his lips against Hawke's. He then stood back and scratched his chin, the soft firelight illuminating his face.

"Fenris, what's that on your face?" Hawke asked, gently turning Fenris's face toward the fire. "You have a rash."

"My face has been itching all day," Fenris replied with a shrug. "Perhaps the sea air irritated my skin? I am not concerned."

Frowning, Hawke ran a finger along the affected parts of Fenris's skin, which were mainly around his mouth. "I'll make up some balm for you when I go back home. I wonder if…?"

"You wonder what?"

"Oh, nothing, it doesn't matter," Hawke replied, idly stroking his beard, though his frown remained in place. "Well, I'll go and make up your medicine. And some tea?"

"Thank you. I will check around the mansion."

"Want me to come with you?"

Fenris shook his head. "That will not be necessary. I would prefer to have the tea made quickly."

"You're just dying for your medicine, admit it!"

"It would seem you are onto me," Fenris remarked with a soft laugh, and Hawke headed for the kitchen.

"Medicine coming up. _One_ dose."

"You are too kind," said Fenris with a small bow. He then hefted his sword from his back and proceeded to conduct his sweep of the mansion.

When he returned, he went to his bedroom and removed his breastplate and gauntlets. He then proceeded downstairs, where Hawke had made up a bed on the settee, refreshed the fire and lit a few candles, which were set on the mantelpiece next to three steaming mugs. Fenris wondered for a moment where Hawke was, and then guessed that he'd gone to fetch some food--it had been several hours since they'd last eaten.

Deciding to get his medicine out of the way, he reached for the mug, blew on it several times and then drank it with a grimace. He picked up the other two mugs, walked to the settee and placed them on the small table. He then sat on the settee, covered himself with the blankets and brought his legs up, bending them so that Hawke had ample space to sit.

A short time later Hawke entered, carrying--naturally--a tray full of food. "Everything all right, Fenris?" he asked, and the elf nodded. Reaching the settee, he passed the tray to Fenris while he also got under the blankets. The tray was then placed in between them and they helped themselves to the cold chicken, bread and pickles that Hawke had piled onto a plate.

"It's good to see you're buying decent food," Hawke remarked. "You've come a long way from biscuits and porridge, haven't you?"

"Indeed I have. It would appear that you also are eating well--unless I am mistaken, you have lost some weight."

"Oh, you noticed?" Hawke flashed a dazzling smile, which he quickly subdued. "Not that I've been trying or anything."

"Of course not," Fenris replied quietly, a mischievous gleam in his eyes that sent a shiver through Hawke.

Hawke cleared his throat and reached for his tea. "Would you like to come with me in the morning?"

Fenris shook his head. "I should endeavour to get as much sleep as possible. I will be on duty tonight with Donnic."

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten about that! Your first shift as a proper guard," said Hawke proudly. "Will you be wearing your new armour?"

"It will not be ready for a few days," Fenris answered, smiling. "You will be among the first to see it, I assure you."

"How are you going to get on wearing heavy plate?"

"I will not be wearing heavy plate. The armourer at the Keep is fashioning a special light tunic and greaves for me, and will be adapting the cuirass of the guard to better suit an elf. Also, I will not be required to wear boots, but will wear my slippers, instead. I am quite looking forward to seeing what he comes up with."

"So am I. I'm sure you'll look very handsome." Hawke sighed and placed the tray on the floor, moving closer to Fenris, who laid his legs over Hawke's lap. "I'll miss this, you know."

"As will I, Hawke." Fenris also scooted a little closer, and Hawke snaked an arm around the elf's shoulder.

"If the offer's still on, I think I will have this settee."

"Take what you wish. You should make your family home more comfortable for your mother and sister."

Hawke laughed. "The way Varric's talking, I'll have enough money to buy back the family estate once we leave the Deep Roads. But, just in case I don't, I'll take you up on that offer. You're very generous."

"I am not generous. None of this belongs to me."

"I think you'd give it to me even if it did," Hawke said softly, once again running a finger down Fenris's face.

"I… like it when you do that," Fenris said in almost a whisper.

"Do you?" Hawke's belly tightened and he took a deep breath, moving his hand to stroke Fenris's hair. "How about this?"

The elf nodded and raised his own hand, resting it against Hawke's cheek, and inclined his head. Hawke gulped and his heart hammered in his chest as he leaned in, feeling Fenris's warmth as their lips touched. As they found a slow rhythm, Hawke was very conscious of not moving his hands below Fenris's neck, at least not until Fenris indicated that he was comfortable with Hawke doing so. After a few moments, Fenris slowly pulled away and placed a hand over his mouth.

"Forgive me. My breath must smell atrocious after the medicine."

"I happen to like garlic." Hawke grinned, and yawned before placing a soft kiss on Fenris's chin and laying his head on his shoulder.

"Liar," Fenris quipped, and Hawke chuckled softly. "You should get some sleep," Fenris advised, breathing into Hawke's hair.

"I'm way ahead of you," mumbled Hawke. "Night night."

"Goodnight, Hawke." They both shifted and settled against each other, finding warm nooks to tuck their hands and arms into, and each fell asleep wearing a gentle smile.

~o~O~o~

That night, Hawke discovered that Fenris fidgeted in his sleep. A lot. Once the sun had risen, Hawke took advantage of one of the elf's restless spells to get up. Fenris mumbled something and reached out a hand, but Hawke tucked it back under the covers and whispered to him to go back to sleep. He arranged the blankets around Fenris and, catching a glimpse of his face, noted with consternation that that the elf's rash had worsened.

"Shit," he muttered, once again stroking his beard. After going to the kitchen and preparing Fenris's medicine, he ate a light breakfast of tea and toast, and left a snack with a glass of milk for Fenris. He then departed for home, where he bathed, changed and gathered together the money he'd saved for the expedition, before setting off for the Hanged Man.

When he entered the pub, Varric, who was leaning against the bar chatting with Corff, did a double-take when he saw Hawke. Hawke cleared his throat and strode nonchalantly over, also leaning against the bar, and ordered a pot of tea.

"Hawke," Varric greeted with a slight inflection in his voice.

"Varric." Hawke nodded once and casually looked around the lounge, which was almost empty.

"There's something different about you, today, young Hawke, and I can't quite put my finger on it," said Varric, pointedly staring at Hawke's face.

"Different?"

"New robes?" Varric guessed, and Hawke shook his head. "New staff? No?" Hawke folded his arms and once again let his eyes wander around the room.

A teapot and mug were plonked down on the bar beside Hawke, and Corff joined in with the staring. "You gone and shaved your beard off then, Hawke?" asked the barman, and Varric snapped his fingers.

"Of course!" exclaimed the dwarf. "What happened, Hawke? Lose a bet or something?"

"No," Hawke replied, squirming a little. "I just fancied a change, that's all."

"Has the elf seen it, yet?"

"No."

Varric burst into laughter and slapped his knee. "Beard burn, huh?"

"What?"

"Happens all the time in Orzammar, or so I'm told. Never had that problem myself," he said, stroking his smooth chin. "Well, Hawke, if you have everything, let's go find that nug-humping brother of mine. He'll probably be hanging around Hightown. Thinks it'll make him classy by association."

"Will I need to stand clear when you give Bartrand the good news?" asked Hawke as they left the pub after a quick cup of tea. "When you see the look on his face?"

"Might be a good idea, Hawke," Varric advised, chuckling at Hawke's disgusted expression. "Listen up. My brother… well, he's a bit of a dick."

"I know. I've met him, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, just don't take anything he says too seriously, that's all. He doesn't have our charm or tact, but then who does? Poor bastard can't help being such an insufferable oaf."

"I'm sure I've met more obnoxious people in my time."

"Wanna bet on that?" asked Varric hopefully, spitting on his palm and offering it to Hawke.

"Er… no thanks," Hawke replied, looking disparagingly at Varric's hand. "Something tells me this is a bet I'd lose."

They eventually found Bartrand berating a merchant in Hightown for short-changing him. They stood and waited patiently for the haranguing to stop. When after several minutes it didn't, Varric cleared his throat and stepped closer.

"Oh, Bartrand?"

"What?" Bartrand wheeled around to face them, his face dropping. "Oh, it's you."

"Did you miss me, Brother?" Varric teased. "Family reunions are always so touching, aren't they?"

"Whadd'ya want?" demanded Bartrand, and the merchant closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping in relief that Bartrand's ire had been directed elsewhere.

Varric grabbed Hawke's arm and pushed him forward a little. "Brother, I'd like you to meet our partner in the expedition."

Bartrand gawked at Hawke for a moment before moving directly in front of him, looking him up and down. "This streak of piss? Take a hike, Varric. I'm not in the mood for your practical jokes."

"Hawke?" prompted Varric.

Hawke removed a large purse from beneath his robes and handed it to Bartrand. "Fifty sovereigns. Count it, if you like."

Bartrand grabbed the purse and did indeed count the contents.

"He has maps of the Deep Roads as well," Varric added.

"Here you go." Hawke passed him the maps that Anders had given him.

"Well, I'll be a nug's hairy-backed, fat-assed uncle!" proclaimed Bartrand loudly, and Hawke scratched his head while Varric groaned. "I told you this kid had potential, didn't I, Brother?"

Varric rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

"So, what are you going to do with this money?" asked Hawke. "When do we set off?"

"Whoa! What's with all the questions? Kid's making my head spin!"

"I _am_ an _investor_ ," Hawke said sternly, "and I think I have a right to ask questions. Now, what's this money going to be used for?"

"Sheesh! Touchy little sod, aren't you? All right, all right! Put together with my and Varric's money, this'll pay for workers, food, safety equipment, you know, boring stuff like that, plus a few entertainments."

"Entertainments? Such as?"

"We'll be taking a bunch of men into the deeps, so we'll need a little something to keep them from going crazy, what with being trapped under miles of sodding rock. I'll hire a couple of girls to share among the men. Just leave it to me."

" _Girls_?" exclaimed Hawke in dismay. "Oh, no. _Oh_ , no."

"What?" spluttered Bartrand. "What's your problem?"

Hawke crossed his arms, fixing the belligerent dwarf with a hard look. "We are _not_ procuring girls to keep the men entertained."

"What is he, some kind of faggot?" Bartrand shouted at Varric, who slapped a hand over his eyes.

"My sexual orientation has no bearing on this conversation whatsoever," Hawke declared, nonplussed.

"Could have fooled me, Twinkle-Toes."

"We are not taking _any_ women into the Deep Roads. A Grey Warden will be accompanying us, and he has provided compelling reasons for their exclusion."

"I couldn't give a rat's tits what some fairy-ass Grey Warden thinks!" Bartrand shot back. "Those girls are _coming_ , and that's that! How else do you expect the men to let off steam?"

"They can use their hand, like everyone else," Hawke retorted. "As an investor, I have equal say. If you don't like my ideas, you can find another investor, and I'll just take my money and spend it on prostitutes. _Male_ ones."

"I knew you were a sodding shirt-lifter the minute I set eyes on you!" Bartrand moved away a step, keeping his back firmly facing a wall.

"I think you'd better take him seriously, Brother," advised Varric, sounding uncharacteristically irritated. "The only other choice we have is Dougal Gavorn, and if you have _him_ as a partner, you can count me out."

Bartrand threw his arms up into the air and began to pace back and forth. "Of all the bronto-fucking sons of bitches!" He continued cursing for several minutes, and Hawke and Varric again waited patiently, exchanging the occasional bored glance, until he was through. "All right, damnit!" Bartrand conceded at last. "Just you keep your limp little hands to yourself when we're down there, got it?"

Hawke moved closer to Bartrand, who scooted further back, pressing himself against the wall. "Bartrand," the mage whispered seductively. "You're _quite_ safe, trust me."

Bartrand squeezed his way around Hawke and stomped over to Varric. "All right, now I've got the money, you can take off, and take Fruitdrop here with you."

"You're not getting rid of us that easily," Hawke declared. "We'll be back every day to check on your progress. I want detailed and accurate reports on how my money's being spent. If I get so much as a whiff of impropriety, I'll withdraw. Nice doing business with you… _partner_."

"Partner, my hairy balls," Bartrand growled under his breath. "Fine. Now piss off and let me get on with my work."

"See you tomorrow, Brother," Varric promised in a sing-song voice. He and Hawke walked away, feeling Bartrand's eyes burning holes in their backs. "Hawke, I've gotta hand it to you. You dealt with him beautifully. I'm guessing he's not your biggest fan in the world right now, but you put him in his place. I'm proud of you, kid."

"Oh, stop," Hawke teased. "I'm filling up, here!"

"Well, if you're gonna get all weepy on me, I think I'll do the manly thing and disappear. I'm guessing you have an elf to show off your new look to, huh?"

Hawke's eyes widened and he reached for his face. "I'd forgotten about that. How do I look?"

"Weird, but I guess it'll grow on me. Or not, as the case may be."

"Thanks, Varric. I can always rely on you to boost my ego."

"That's what I'm here for." Varric held out his hand and Hawke shook it. "See you for lunch?"

"Maybe. If not, I'll see you tonight."

"Gotcha," Varric replied. "Hope the elf appreciates your new look."

"So do I, Varric."

With a nod to each other, the two friends turned and went their separate ways.


	35. Secrets And Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Hawke's eyes were closed, Fenris allowed--for a brief and perfect moment--his walls to recede, and his heart to open to possibilities that had never before presented themselves; that he'd believed were never meant for someone like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once again, to Mary for her wonderful suggestions, which she very generously lets me steal, and also for her encouragement!

As Hawke's right hand rapped at the door, his left moved up to his face. He knew Fenris would have to look at him sooner or later but, at this moment, he felt like a teenager about to have his first kiss, and his cheeks blazed red just as they had all those years ago.

A shadow skittered along the edges of his memory, then, but he quickly dismissed it. His first kiss or, rather, what had come after it, was not something he cared to remember. He thought of Fenris, instead, and felt heat creep back into his face, clumsily clearing his throat as the door opened.

"Hawke--"

"Hello, Fenris." Hawke breezed past the elf, obscuring the left side of his face with his hand, hoping he'd made a good job of pretending to scratch it. He moved to the settee and then, not quite knowing what to do once he was there, fiddled with the vase on the small table to its left.

The door closed and Hawke felt a pair of sagacious green eyes on him. The _eyebrow_ was there as well. Hawke couldn't see it, but could feel its presence as surely as he felt Fenris's.

"Catch up on your sleep all right, Fenris?" he enquired, his feigned nonchalance destroyed by the cracked, high-pitched timbre of his voice. He cleared his throat again and inwardly cursed.

"Mmm," Fenris intoned languorously, and Hawke felt a snigger rise from his toes, catching it just before it rushed out of his mouth. He cleared his throat for a third time and walked to a window, keeping his back to the elf.

"And what have _you_ been up to?" asked Fenris. There was a smile in his voice, and Hawke knew the elf was on to him, but played along nevertheless.

"Oh, this and that. Went to see Bartrand. Interesting character, y'know. Nothing like Varric at all."

"Mmm."

Hawke bit his bottom lip and squeezed his eyes closed, a treacherous snort escaping through his nose. Fenris's shadow, cast across the floor, slowly darkened and shortened in length. Although Hawke couldn't hear his approach, he knew he was coming up behind him. Hawke quickly left the window and walked to the next one, realising that soon, Fenris would have him cornered.

"And what else have you been up to, Hawke? I see you've changed your robe," Fenris observed casually, his shadow once again darkening by an infinitesimal amount. "You have also washed your hair."

"Well, aren't _you_ the observant one?" Hawke twittered, pretending to brush dust off the drapes. "Good for you!" He caught sight of a pale reflection of Fenris in the window, and could see that the elf's head was cocked, his stance that of a cat stalking its prey.

"Turn around."

"Hm?"

"You heard me," said Fenris, his tone warm.

"Don't think I'll bother," sniffed Hawke. "I'm rather enjoying looking out of the window."

"At a _wall_?"

"Yes, it's rather interesting as walls go. You don't see craftsmanship like that anymore. It's a bloody shame, I tell you."

"What are you hiding, Hawke?" They both knew the answer to that, but they were also enjoying the game far too much to stop.

"Eh? What could I _possibly_ be hiding?"

"I could… _make_ you turn around."

Adrenaline flooded Hawke's belly at the elf's sweetly-uttered threat. Remembering how easily Fenris had manhandled a fully-armoured templar, he didn't doubt that his assertion was true. "Go on, then," he challenged in a husky whisper.

"Are you certain?" asked Fenris, his voice a tide of velvet lapping over jagged, perilous rocks.

"Quite certain."

Hawke's breath was forced out of his lungs as slender hands tightly grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back, not quite hard enough to hurt but sufficient to render any attempts at resistance useless. The fact Hawke offered _no_ resistance whatsoever helped matters considerably.

"Are you still certain, Hawke?" Fenris's voice, still behind him, was quieter, but nearer.

"Maker," Hawke breathed raggedly, his laughter finally liberated in a nervous burst.

He was spun around and softly pushed against a wall, his arms still held behind his back. Fenris's eyes rose to meet Hawke's and a smile--half wicked and half playful, but wholly sublime--illuminated the elf's face.

"Well, well. You appear to have acquired a chin since I last saw you."

Hawke, out of breath and dazed, could only nod in reply.

Fenris's head tilted slightly, and his eyes roamed over Hawke's fuzz-free face. Hawke felt the elf's grip on him loosen. "Why have you removed your beard?" asked the elf.

"Well, um…" Hawke hung his head, a furious blush scalding his cheeks. "Your-your rash. That's... I think that's what caused it."

The smile melted away from Fenris's face, and he tilted his head the opposite way. He released Hawke's arms but rested his hands on them. "You removed your beard… for me? For my sake?"

Hawke shrugged. "I wasn't that attached to it, anyway. The only reason I grew one in the first place was because I can't be bothered to shave every day. _Not_ shaving gives me an extra two minutes in bed. But I think you're worth the sacrifice," he finished with a cheeky wink.

Fenris eyed Hawke uncertainly, trying to determine whether he really was joking. "Are you sure? You will not miss it?"

Hawke, propelled by nothing but the adrenaline in his veins, stepped closer to Fenris, their chests barely touching, and nodded. "We can't have Guardsman Fen-Fen reporting for duty with a kissing rash on his face," he uttered softly.

Fenris finally released Hawke's arms and folded his own. "I thought we had discussed this, Hawke," he said with a puckish smile. "You were not to call me that again, and yet you persist in your folly."

"I never agreed to that. _You_ decided that, and in doing so, completely removed me from the decision-making process. I was quite upset by that," Hawke proclaimed, affecting a hurt expression.

"Really."

"Yes, really." Hawke leaned a little closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "What are you going to do to me?"

"I will surprise you, when you least expect it."

"Promises, promises."

This time, they sniggered together, and Fenris raised a hand to Hawke's face. "May I?"

"You don't need to ask."

Fenris rested the back of his hand against Hawke's cheek and slowly stroked downwards. Hawke sighed and leaned into his touch, his eyes closing, adrenaline once again surging through him. He found Fenris's other hand, which rested at his side, and gently clasped it. "What do you think, then?"

"I think I like it," murmured Fenris, believing Hawke had never looked so handsome. A sensation, unfamiliar, but sweet and wholesome and real, bubbled up inside him and warmed his chest and face. While Hawke's eyes were closed, he allowed--for a brief and perfect moment--his walls to recede, and his heart to open to possibilities that had never before presented themselves; that he'd believed were never meant for someone like him.

Hawke's opened his eyes and, as Fenris's head dipped, he caught a tantalising glimpse of bright eyes, wide with the innocence of a man untouched by Danarius's foulness, before long, dark lashes lowered.

Hawke moved his hand to the slender one that rested against his cheek, and brought both of Fenris's hands against his own chest, his larger hands covering them. Not remembering how, his lips found the elf's. He felt Fenris's hands turn and grip his own, before slowly snaking up his arms and around his neck. Hawke moved his own hands to Fenris's waist, his touch gossamer-light, painfully conscious of not forcing his ardour upon Fenris, afraid of unearthing some long-buried memory. Longing, trepidation and joy warred within him, and as Fenris pressed himself against Hawke, urging him deeper in, Hawke felt his control slipping, spiralling, careering...

A split-second image flashed through his mind: sweat glistening on bare skin, hands tangling through white hair, fingers sinking into flesh, licking, biting, sucking, scratching, moaning, pleading, panting--

Gasping, Hawke broke the kiss and clasped Fenris by the shoulders, holding him at arms' length.

"Hawke? What's the matter?"

Hawke blinked and swallowed hard. "Nothing, nothing's wrong, I-I don't want to…" He raised his hands to Fenris's face, caressing his cheeks, and placed a soft, almost chaste kiss on his lips, ensuring that their hips didn't touch. Hawke didn't want Fenris to know just how close he'd come to losing control.

"Hawke, you do not need to… I know what you are trying to do. There is no need. You are… you are not _him._ " His last words came out as a whisper and Hawke pulled Fenris against him, his nose resting against Fenris's forehead. They stood there, warmed by the sun that streamed through the window, for several minutes, listening to the other's breathing, hands gently resting against arms, thumbs slowly stroking.

"Hawke," Fenris said eventually, his words humming against Hawke's chin. "Do you remember when you boldly proclaimed that one day you would be the first mage I've ever trusted?"

Hawke lowered his head a little. "Yes, I remember that."

"Well," Fenris raised his head and looked into Hawke's eyes. "You are. I trust you, Hawke. I wanted you to know that."

A warm glow, and then a cold, hard slap across the face were elicited by the elf's words, and Hawke forced a smile. Fenris trusted him, and yet there was something he didn't know, something that Hawke hadn't had the courage to share with him. He pulled Fenris close again and stared over his shoulder as Fenris curled against his chest, breathing onto his neck.

"Fenris, I--" He pressed his mouth against the elf's temple, breathing in his smell, his warmth. Not so long ago, those things were out of his reach, held back, but were now freely given. Fenris had made a leap, taken a huge risk, and had decided to trust someone. Could Hawke take that away from him, destroy it and, with it, the possibility that Fenris would ever trust again? Could Hawke do without his touch, his friendship, his trust?

But could Hawke continue lying to him? It _was_ a lie. For all that Hawke told himself that he was merely withholding information, and that wasn't the same as a lie, he knew that by believing that, he was also lying to himself.

"Fenris, I-I need to…" He sighed, his mind split into two opposing forces. On one side, the right thing to do, and, on the other… the right thing to do. The question became--the right thing for whom?

"Yes, Hawke?" Fenris looked up, his expression already accepting of whatever Hawke would say.

_I can't give you up. I can't._

"I… trust you, as well, Fenris. With all my heart."

_But one day I'm going to break your heart. Or you'll break mine, figuratively or literally. The difference is: I'll deserve it._

_But I can't give you up._

"I am pleased to hear it, Hawke."

A shadow passed across one of the windows and Hawke's breath was released in a gust. "Someone's here." Almost glad of the interruption, he released Fenris and headed straight for the door.

"Wait," Fenris said in warning, and walked to one of the windows, pulling the drapes aside. Hawke waited behind the door and noticed a confused frown on Fenris's face. "A child?"

"Shall I answer it?" asked Hawke. Fenris nodded but took up his sword and moved to the door, standing just behind it.

Hawke opened the door to a young lad, maybe thirteen or fourteen. He was poorly-dressed and his hair hung in lank strands. A bumfluff moustache graced his upper lip.

"Pardon me, ser, but are you Hawke?" the boy asked. Before Hawke could answer, he went on. "It's just that I've been sent with a message. I was told to try the Hanged Man and the slums, but that you might also be here. At least, I think I have the right address."

"Who sent you?"

"Anders, ser. You _are_ Hawke, aren't you? I think I've seen you at the clinic."

"Wait, I know you, don't I?" Hawke asked the boy. "You were on my ship when we came over from Gwaren. Yes, I remember now. Cricket, isn't it?"

"Yes, ser, you were on my ship. Cricket's my friend. I'm Walter."

"Of course!" Hawke snapped his fingers and shook hands with the young man. "Well, Walter, what's the message?"

"Anders asked me to find you because he's heard another refugee ship's just docked. He said he was to let you know if he needed any help. Oh, and when I asked after you at the Hanged Man, Varric said he also wanted to talk to you, and that it was important."

"All right, then. Tell Anders I'll be along soon, I just have my own patient to see to first. I'll talk to Varric on the way to the clinic." He reached into his pocket and produced a few coins, which he passed to Walter. "That's for your trouble."

"Oh, but ser, Anders has already p--" Walter stopped himself and glanced down at the money in his hand.

"I don't think I heard that," Hawke said with a wink.

Walter slipped the coins into his own pocket and grinned sheepishly at Hawke. "Thank you, ser! I-I'll tell him right away!" With that, he took off across the courtyard.

Hawke closed the door with a sigh, in time to see Fenris laying his sword against the wall. "Bugger," he muttered. "And there was me hoping that we could spend the afternoon together. I won't see you tonight, will I?"

"You might, it depends on how long you are needed at the clinic," answered Fenris.

"Oh, that's right, you'll be in Darktown, won't you? What time do you start?"

"I am to report to the barracks at six bells. Shortly after that, I would expect."

Hawke nodded. "Well, you get a break, don't you? Maybe we could have supper together at the clinic? Play cards with Donnic?"

"I would like that, assuming it will even be possible."

"Oh, I'll make it possible." Hawke laughed, and then his face fell a little. "Would, um, would it be all right if Anders joined in? It's just that, well, I think he's a bit lonely. I know that you two don't--"

"No objections."

"Thanks, Fen." Hawke approached him, placing his hands on the elf's shoulders. "As a reward for your generosity, I may have some good news for you."

"Oh?"

"Let me take a look at your foot. I think the dressing can finally come off. And that means…"

"No more medicine?" asked Fenris hopefully.

"No more medicine."

Fenris gave a lopsided grin and walked to the settee, sat down and elevated his right leg. Hawke took a seat further along and, after removing the dressing, began to palpate Fenris's heel. "Any pain?"

"None."

"Are you _certain_?" asked Hawke, his eyes narrowing in jest. "You're not just saying that to get out of taking the medicine?" Hawke pressed his thumb hard into Fenris's heel, but the elf didn't flinch.

"I am of the Kirkwall guard," declared Fenris. "My word and honour are beyond reproach."

"You're a guard, Fenris, not the Divine!" teased Hawke. "Maker, this is going to your head already!"

Fenris chuckled and wiggled his toes. "No it isn't! Aren't you supposed to be examining me?"

"I was until you started getting delusions of grandeur." Hawke set Fenris's foot down. "Well, I think you're in the clear. There's one more batch of medicine left, and I'd like you to take that, just to be on the safe side, but we can make it your last one. Start looking after your feet," he added sternly. "Wear your slippers, and _tell_ me if you feel unwell again."

"I will," the elf promised, reaching for one of Hawke's hands. "I cannot thank you enough for your care, but also for seeking alternatives to magic. You went to a lot of trouble. I will never be able to repay you."

"I don't _want_ repaying, silly," Hawke replied with a daft smile. "Actually, I'm almost glad your foot got infected. I'm not glad you were in pain, obviously, but if you hadn't acquired that infection, you and I would probably still be bickering. That, or we'd have killed each other."

"I had not thought of it like that," said Fenris with a smile of his own.

"Everything happens for a reason." Hawke scooted a little closer to the elf, keeping hold of his hand. "You know, there is something you could do for me in return."

"Yes?"

"Well, you could call me Fletcher instead of Hawke. Everyone calls me Hawke, which is fine, but you're… you're different from everyone else."

A soft smile graced Fenris's lips. "Not _everyone_ calls you 'Hawke'. Your mother and sister use your given name."

"Which is?"

"Fletcher," chuckled Fenris. "But… your mother and sister are your family. They _should_ use your given name," he added.

"Not just my family, Fenris, but people who, well, people who… mean something to me. _They_ get to call me Fletcher."

Neither man spoke for a short time, and their eyes wandered over to the window. Briefly, Hawke worried that he'd come on too strong, but his fears were allayed when Fenris squeezed his hand.

"You honour me, Hawke."

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that," said Hawke, cupping his ear.

"You honour me… Fletcher."

They smiled at each other and Hawke leaned closer, placing a soft kiss against Fenris's cheek.

"I suppose I'd better get to the clinic, before I forget," he said, releasing Fenris's hand. He patted the elf's thigh and stood up. "Oh…" Hawke scratched the side of his neck and grimaced.

"Oh?" Fenris repeated.

"Well, you know how you said I could have the settee, and maybe a few other things, for the house?"

"Yes?"

"I, um, sort of mentioned that to Varric in passing. Uh… he wanted to know when you're moving to the barracks."

"Ah, yes. He plans to place traps around the mansion, does he not?" asked Fenris.

"Yes, that, and he also sort of has a team of men standing by to clear the mansion out."

Fenris shook his head, frowning a little. "Hm. This is… awkward. As a member of the guard--"

"I mentioned that, and how it might make you feel ."

"And what was his response?"

Hawke laughed nervously. "Well, he said that you're the one squatting in a mansion that doesn't belong to you. Varric's words, not mine."

"Squatting _is_ legal in the Free Marches… _technically_ ," Fenris added with a rueful smile.

"Believe me, Fenris, Varric will come up with some reason why it's also _technically_ legal for him and his friends to swipe anything that isn't nailed down. Besides, you're not officially a guard until six bells."

Fenris sighed and pushed himself to his feet. "Quarters have already been assigned to me at the barracks. I suppose I could stay there from now on." He glanced around the main reception hall and then looked at Hawke. "This place, and its contents, mean nothing to me. What happens after I have vacated the premises is not my affair." He took a few steps closer to Hawke. "The only thing I will miss is your company, Haw… Fletcher. I enjoyed the evenings we spent together."

Hawke tapped his temple and grinned devilishly. "Don't worry about that, I have plans."

"Plans? Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not." He wrapped his arms around Fenris and pulled him close. "Hope your first shift goes well, Guardsman. I can't wait to see you later."

"Neither can I."

Hawke leaned down and their lips met in a brief but firm kiss. Not wanting to get carried away again, Hawke pulled away and brought his hands up to Fenris's face, resting them against his cheeks. "I suppose I'd better go, if Varric wants me as well. He probably wants to talk about what will happen once you vacate."

"Not listening, Hawke," Fenris said mischievously.

"Fletcher." Hawke released Fenris and scampered over to the door. "I knew we'd make a bent guard out of you," he joked.

"Only until six bells, Hawke… Fletcher. This will take some getting used to."

"Well, you can practice, during quiet spells on your shift. Just walk around, muttering 'Fletcher' under your breath. Shouldn't get you _too_ much attention – not in Darktown, anyway. Every other person down there talks to themselves."

Fenris folded his arms. "Don't you have to see Varric?"

"Ah, good morning, eyebrow!" Hawke laughed, and Fenris immediately relaxed his expression. Hawke walked back over to him and pushed Fenris's brows up with his thumbs. "What did I tell you about exercising them together? The other one will get fat if you're not careful."

"Dolt!" Fenris dissolved into quiet laughter, his shoulders trembling.

"Aw, Fen, I do love to see you laugh. I wish I didn't have to go to the bloody clinic. I should have kept my big gob shut."

"You will enjoy it," Fenris stated. "You are a healer. It is what you do best, and I have seen first-hand that it is what you were born to do."

Fletcher's eyes softened and he gave a wistful sigh. "Well, thanks, Fen. That means a lot to me. I'm glad you understand. Do you mind if I call you Fen?" he asked cheekily. "I _have_ invited you to call me Fletcher."

Fenris rolled his eyes and sighed softly, one edge of his mouth twitching. "If you must. But not the other one."

"The other one? You mean Fen-Fen?"

"Yes, Hawke. _That_ one."

"Fletcher. And it's a deal," declared Hawke. "I'll… _try_ to remember."

"See that you do," warned Fenris, and the fact that his eyebrow rose was not lost on Hawke.

"There he is again! I think I'll give him a name… Bill? Yes… I think that quite suits him."

"Hawke…"

Noticing Fenris's eyes move to his sword that rested against the wall, Hawke relented. "I'm going. And it's _Fletcher_." With one last peck to Fenris's cheek, he sailed out of the door, leaving Fenris smiling and shaking his head.

~o~O~o~

It was a sombre-looking Varric who was waiting at the Hanged Man for Hawke, and he quickly ushered the mage into his room.

"All right, Varric, what's so important?" a concerned Hawke asked as he closed the door.

"Siddown." Varric pointed to the chair next to the fireplace, and Hawke sat upon it while the dwarf perched himself on the edge of the bed. "Hawke, I've just had some news. It might not mean anything, but I thought you should know."

"News?"

"My man in the Vinmark Mountains sent word to me not long ago. A large group of people arrived last night and have holed up somewhere on Sundermount. He was pretty sure they were slavers--they had that look about them, and there were several mages among them."

Hawke stood up and stared at the fireplace, a hand at his chin. "Did he get a good look at them? The mages, I mean?"

"There was no one among them matching Danarius's description, Hawke. I was very specific about that."

Hawke exhaled and nodded, but said nothing.

"They're not necessarily here for the elf," Varric tried to reassure him. "These bastards make forays into the Free Marches a few times each year. They don't come more often than that, because of the length of the journey, _and_ they'd have to travel across the Silent Plains, which I can't imagine is pleasant."

"A few times a year, you say?" asked Hawke. "How many's a few?"

"I dunno," said the dwarf with a shrug. "Two or three? If that."

"Two or three a year?" Hawke repeated, and Varric nodded. "And yet this is the second group of slavers that have arrived in Kirkwall in as many months. We saw off the first lot the night we met Fenris."

Varric slowly pushed himself up and poured them both a snifter of whiskey. "That's unusual, Hawke, but not unheard of," he said, passing Hawke his drink. "There was something else, though, which could also be considered unusual."

Hawke paused as he brought the small glass up to his mouth.

"This group was led by a woman," Varric elaborated. "The Tevinters are a patriarchal bunch, what with all the qunari and magisters running around. Most magisters are male, and I'll be darned if I've even _heard_ of a female qunari, let alone seen one."

"Was she a mage?" Hawke asked. Varric slowly nodded his head.

"Still doesn't mean anything, Hawke, but it might help if the elf could give you a description of that woman he told us about? The one that used to beat on him?"

Hawke downed the contents of his glass in one and passed it to Varric for a refill. "You say they're on Sundermount? Is _that_ unusual?"

"Nuh-uh. They usually set up a base there before they waylay the poor sods that travel up the mountain path. They've been doing it for years. I'm still amazed by the stupidity of people who go rambling up there alone." He shook his head and passed Hawke another snifter.

"Don't the Dalish have anything to say about that?" Hawke asked, dismayed. "Aren't _they_ in danger?"

A brief flash of irritation flickered across the dwarf's face, before his features returned to their usual placid state. "The Dalish don't own the mountain," he explained. "If I were a betting man, Hawke, I'd say there's an arrangement in place there. In other words, the Dalish leave the slavers alone, and vice versa. The Dalish have only ever looked after their own kind." He shook his head again. "I can see it from their point of view, I guess, but it does kinda leave a nasty taste in the mouth."

Hawke turned away from Varric and stared down at his drink.

"You gonna tell him, Hawke?"

Met with silence, Varric moved to his friend's side. "Look, they're not going anywhere right now, and I've got a couple of guys keeping an eye out. I _would_ recommend that the elf moves out of the mansion sooner rather than later, though."

"He's leaving tonight," Hawke said quietly. "His first shift starts at six bells, and he won't be going back, so the place is all yours after that. Are you sure that none of the slavers have left Sundermount? He's on his own at the mansion, and I'm supposed to be helping Anders out at the clinic, but I… you've got me thinking, now."

Varric nodded. "Fifteen came through the mountain pass, and fifteen are up on the mountain. They're going nowhere for now. Six bells, huh?" he mused. "Well, think I'll pay him a courtesy visit. Give him the honour of being whipped at Brag again. After all, if he's on night duty, I guess he won't be joining our game for a while."

"Thanks, Varric," Hawke said through a shaky sigh. "For everything. Just… don't mention this to him yet. Like you said, it might be nothing."

"Forgive me for saying so, but you don't seem to think it's nothing."

"It's just… if we _were_ to tell him, he might take off into the mountains. I don't think we'd be able to stop him. I don't want _anything_ jeopardising his position in the guard. From what Donnic told me, Aveline took a lot of convincing to accept Fenris, and the whole point of him becoming a guard is to keep him safe. I want him to turn up on time for his shift. I want him out of that mansion. I want him to be _safe_ before anything else is considered."

"All right, Hawke, but if he finds out you knew and didn't tell him…"

"I'll deal with that if and when the time comes," Hawke said resolutely. "When he goes after them, which he _will_ , I want us to be with him, and Anders as well, if he'll come. That just isn't possible, today. A refugee ship has just docked and Anders needs my help. And you have a mansion to booby-trap."

"I'll get the place cleared out as soon as the elf leaves for the barracks," Varric promised. "I'll even walk him there. Now, you'd better go and see to your patients."

"Varric…" Hawke extended his hand, and the dwarf shook it. "One day I'll find a way to repay you."

"Hey, forget it! You already made my wet dreams a reality, remember?"

"Oh, did you _have_ to?" Hawke complained, snatching his hand back.

"Get out of here," Varric told him with a chuckle. "I've got an elf to humiliate."

Hawke nodded and slapped Varric's arm before departing, a heavy feeling settling in his chest as he headed for Darktown.


	36. Until Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, at least let me take a look at your weapon."
> 
> "I beg your pardon?" Fenris demanded with mock-severity.
> 
> "Your sword, you nitwit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere thanks to Mary and Carrie for brainstorming on this chapter with me, and an extra special thank-you to Mary for helping to add extra polish and emotional depth to this chapter :-)

Hawke entered the clinic just as the first of the refugees started to arrive, and he and Anders were kept busy for the next several hours. Hawke had spoken to Walter again upon his arrival, asking the youngster to inform him when the guard complement changed over. Although Hawke didn't doubt Varric's promise to keep Fenris company and escort him to the barracks, the thought of the slavers' presence in Kirkwall weighed heavily on his mind.

It was a huge relief to Hawke, therefore, when Walter reported that the guard had changed over at seven bells, and the new complement comprised Donnic, two others and a new guard who wore a helm, and had the build of an elf.

After that, Hawke, who had been a little quieter than was usual, relaxed and actually started to enjoy himself. Some of the more genial refugees helped Hawke and Anders out; one man, Drake, had served under General Loghain and had survived Ostagar. Having received medical training in the army, he set up a triage for the wounded and ill, which took a huge load off the grateful mages. A number of the women kept the children--some of which were orphans--occupied, and one of them, a former cook for a noble family named Mallory, had a whip-round and arranged for some cheap vegetables and flour to be purchased from the surface. She then made a huge pot of chunky soup for the refugees, and insisted that Hawke and Anders take regular breaks.

"This is what I love about doing this," Anders told Hawke during a lull. "All of these people from different backgrounds, none of whom knew each other before they left Ferelden, have all become friends on the way over and they're all pitching in together. Life down here can be grim sometimes, but this is the part I enjoy. Just look at them."

With an approving nod, Hawke watched the new refugees help each other set up makeshift beds for the night, aided by the 'regulars': the refugees that had been there for longer, or didn't yet have the means to move elsewhere.

"I can't wait to work down here with you, Anders," Hawke said, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. "We could make things so much better for them, you know. With a bit of money behind us, we could set up tutors for the kids, maybe even some of the adults, or have them learn a skill or trade of some kind. That way, they'd be able to stand on their own two feet instead of vegetating down here."

Anders grinned at Hawke, his eyes shining. "I see you've been thinking about this."

"I have. I mentioned it to Sebastian one time, and he said there'd be plenty of volunteers from the chantry to teach the kids their letters. Maybe we could get some of the local merchants and artisans to give a few pointers on starting up businesses, or to actually teach some of their skills? We'd probably have to pay them, but wouldn't it be great?"

Anders laughed. "You have some wonderful ideas, there, Hawke, but where's all this money coming from? I don't charge for my services, remember? The only reason I can keep the clinic going is because I do jobs with you. Lirene helped me out at first, but she's done enough for me."

"Well, I have a few ideas on the money front, as well," Hawke replied. "Varric reckons that we'll all be fabulously wealthy after the expedition, but I'm not relying on that. You know how he exaggerates. There was _one_ thing I thought of, but you probably won't like it."

"I'm not going to start charging people, Hawke," Anders said, shaking his head.

"No, wait, just hear me out," urged Hawke, holding a hand up. Anders rolled his eyes but nodded.

"I'm not suggesting we charge the refugees. I didn't have a pot to piss in when I came here, and I suspect that most of these people are no better off. No, what I propose is charging the people who _can_ afford it. What about that Seneschal Bran? He was in here again today, all because he can't keep it in his pants. He must be rolling in money. Is it fair that he uses up your resources because of--let's be honest--a self-inflicted illness? What about the guards, the merchants? They're getting a regular wage. You're using your own money to treat these people, yet they could easily afford a few silvers, couldn't they?"

Anders's brow creased as he considered Hawke's words.

"I know you love what you do," Hawke went on, "but do you want to be stuck down here forever? Don't you want a place of your own, a family, even? Don't you deserve that? You need to start saving some money for yourself."

A wistful look came into Anders's eyes, then, and he hung his head a little. "That's a nice thought, Hawke, but a family…" He shook his head and sighed.

"Even if that's not what you want, there are so many other things you could do. You could still work here, but you need to have a life of some kind _outside_ the clinic. You spent half your life locked up in a tower. Get yourself out there. Meet someone. Do something for _Anders_ for a change."

"That _would_ be nice, wouldn't it?" Anders considered with a forlorn note in his voice.

"You should listen to your friend," said a voice from behind them. They turned to see Mallory, the refugee who'd made the soup, beaming up at them, her blue eyes twinkling. "You don't want to be stuck down here all the time, Anders. I certainly have no intention of being here forever. I have plans," she added with a bright smile.

"Oh, yes?" asked Anders. "What are these plans of yours, then?"

"Tomorrow I'm going up to the surface to look for work. I'm not fussy. I'll do anything. Well… _almost_ anything," she added with a wink. "Some of the people that came with us on the ship are bemoaning their new lot in life. Not me. I had a decent job before, but fate has placed me on the bottom rung. Nothing to do but work my way back up. Moaning's not going to get me anywhere, is it?"

"To be fair, Mallory, some of them have good reason to moan," Anders told her. "I've heard some very sad stories."

"Oh, I'm not arguing with you there, Anders. But have you noticed that the ones who are the most down on their luck are the ones who've helped out today? Some of them just walked in here, got treated by you or Hawke, and left without so much as a please, thank you or kiss my arse. _They're_ the ones I'm talking about. They think they'll have everything handed to them on a plate. Well, they're in for a shock, I can tell you."

"Can't argue with that," said Hawke.

"No, I suppose not," replied Anders thoughtfully. "Well, Mallory, we really appreciate what you've done here, today." Hawke nodded his agreement.

"Call me Mal," she insisted. "And thank _you_. I think you're both Maker-sent, honestly, I do. Well, you don't want me in your hair, I expect you'll be wanting to get some rest."

"No, it's all right." Anders shrugged his shoulders. "Hawke and I were thinking of having some supper. Any of that soup left?"

"Plenty," she replied. "Shall I warm a bit up for you both?"

"Oh, that's very kind of you," Anders said warmly.

"I've brought some bread and cheese with me," said Hawke. "It's a shame there's not enough for everyone, but it'll go three ways."

"Well, for that, Hawke, you're getting a double helping!" she chirped and, with another wink, she headed to the pot to get a fire going.

"She's a spirited lass," commented Hawke. "And she's only a tiny little thing as well!" He glanced askance at Anders and nudged him. "Pretty, too."

"Hm? Who's pretty?" mumbled Anders, his mind elsewhere.

"Well, if you can tear your eyes off her for a second, maybe you'll know what I'm on about," Hawke joshed.

"Don't know what you mean," Anders replied quickly. "Where's that bread and cheese you mentioned?"

"All right then, Anders, change the subject by all means."

"Shut up, you," Anders shot back with a smirk. "Speaking of changing the subject, your idea about charging the ones who can afford it? Justice thinks that's fair."

"Well, it's nice to know I have Justice's vote, but I asked _you_. This is your clinic, Anders. I'm not going to just stroll in here and start laying down the law. I just have a few ideas, that's all. We will need to make _some_ money, though."

Anders thought about that for a moment and nodded. "I do like your ideas. Tell you what, let's get the expedition out of the way first, and if we're _not_ fabulously wealthy by then, we'll talk seriously, yes?"

"You're on!" Hawke agreed and, with a slap to Anders's back, the two healers joined Mallory to see if she needed a hand.

A short time after supper, Mallory cleared away, assisted by Anders, while Hawke began to tidy the clinic. They seemed to be getting on well, and Hawke made a mental note to ask Mallory if she'd like to help out around the clinic more often. If Anders made more friends, Hawke reasoned, then maybe he wouldn't be so fixated on Hawke, or feel left out when he wasn't around. The fact she was a very pretty girl didn't hurt, either.

After bidding goodnight to Mallory, and treating a few more refugees that had wandered in, Anders extinguished the lantern, thus closing the clinic for the night, but left the doors open as he always did in case of an emergency.

Hawke had made some tea and they took a seat on a couple of crates while they drank it.

"Anders, do you think you'll be free tomorrow?" Hawke asked him.

"Why, is there a job?"

"Sort of." Hawke took a deep breath. "The thing is, I've had word that some slavers have arrived in Kirkwall and are hiding up in the mountains. Varric and I suspect that they may be here for Fenris. Now, I know that you and Fenris are not the best of friends, but I could really use your help. There are fifteen of them and I don't know if one healer will be enough."

"Who else is coming along?"

"Me and Fenris, obviously, Varric, and hopefully Beth will come, too. I'll pop into the chantry in the morning and see if Sebastian will help. Might try the alienage as well, see if Merrill's up for it."

"That's not much against fifteen, Hawke. I'm assuming that some of them will be mages?"

"About half of them and, if we're correct in assuming they've been sent on behalf of Danarius, there's a strong chance that some of them will be blood mages. I need you and I need Justice, Anders, that's the truth."

"All right, Hawke, I'll come for _you_. It's the least I can do after the help you've given me today."

Hawke released a relieved sigh. "Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it."

"Actually, I'm surprised Fenris is prepared to wait until tomorrow. I would have thought he'd be chomping at the bit."

Hawke gave a nervous laugh. "He... doesn't actually know yet."

"Eh? How come?"

"If I'd told him, he would have just taken off after them. Neither you nor I would have been able to go with him, and I wasn't about to abandon you after promising I'd help with the next lot of refugees. And Fenris's first shift is tonight. If he hadn't turned up for that, he might have been kicked out of the guard. He's only on trial. He would then have to return to the mansion, and I'm just not prepared to let that happen. And there are fifteen of them. We need time to get people together."

Anders nodded and raised his eyebrows. "I can see your point of view, Hawke, but I can't imagine he'll be happy you kept it from him."

"Oh, he won't be, I'm certain of that. But it's better that he's pissed off with me than dead or captured. I doubt Fenris will see it that way, but I stand by my decision, and I'd do it again."

"Well, I'll stick up for you, Hawke, you know that."

"I don't need anyone to stick up for me, Anders. Like I said, I stand by my decision. I'm going to let him finish his shift, and go back to the barracks and sleep, where he's _safe_. Then I'll tell him."

"Have you told him… about the other thing?" Anders asked cautiously.

Hawke shook his head, his posture slumping. "I know I should, and I want to, just as much as I _don't_ want to. I almost told him earlier today, but… the words just wouldn't come out. I don't know what to do for the best."

Anders shook his head disapprovingly. "I think you _do_ know what's best, you just don't want to do it. Wouldn't it be better to come from you than from someone else, or for him to find out some other way?"

Hawke gave Anders a hard look. "Someone else? What's that supposed to mean? Anders, I thought--"

"No, I'm not going to tell him!" protested Anders. "I know there was that one time when I was being an idiot, but I know it'd kill you for him to find out like that. I won't do that to you, I swear."

Hawke released a long breath and rolled his head against his shoulders. "Well, I don't see how else he _would_ find out. I don't use it anymore. I don't need to."

"If you're so confident of that, why do you look so worried?"

"I just… I just hate lying to him. He's accepted me, as a mage, I mean. It took a lot for him to trust me, and if I were to tell him now, that trust would be destroyed. We'd be finished. But with every second that I don't tell him, I'm deceiving him. Oh, bollocks, Anders, what should I do? I… I don't want to lose him."

For several minutes, neither man spoke, and then Anders stood up, taking Hawke's empty mug. "If I were you, I'd tell him. You said that he's accepted you, despite you being a mage. Maybe that means he's prepared to be a little more open-minded? I'm not saying he'll jump for joy, but maybe he'll see that a person who knows blood magic is not necessarily evil. And…" Anders sat back down next to Hawke. "I don't know if you two have… you know, but what if one night you talk in your sleep while he's next to you? Have a dream? Have a _visitation_?"

Hawke stood up, clapping a hand over his mouth in horror. Anders also got to his feet and stood in front of him. "For him to find out like that… all right, I'll admit, the thought of that doesn't bother me as much as the thought of how _you'd_ feel. You _have_ to tell him before things start getting really serious between you."

"Shit," Hawke said, his voice shaking a little. "You-you're right. I have to tell him. This is weighing me down. I'm just afraid of what he'll do."

Anders placed a comforting hand on Hawke's shoulder. "Look at it this way. He's got to know you, and likes you a lot. He's never met a blood mage who is actually a decent person. He knows that about you already. You just have to make him see that you've renounced your powers and don't use them anymore. It won't be easy, but it'll be a lot easier than him finding out some other way."

Hawke nodded and swallowed hard, his stomach in knots. "Maybe… maybe tomorrow, when we go after Hadriana? If it _is_ her. Maybe seeing her again will reinforce the differences between mages like her and mages like us?"

"Exactly," Anders replied. "And we'd better make sure we kill her. Hopefully then he'll see how much you want to protect him and how much you care about him."

"Maker, this is going to be one of the hardest things I've ever done," Hawke said in a hushed tone, looking at the ground. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Anders replied with a firm nod. His eyes wandered over to the doors, and he cleared his throat noisily. "Speak of the devil," he whispered, nodding over to the doors.

Seeing Fenris and Donnic enter the clinic, Hawke turned away, took a deep breath, plastered a smile across his face and turned around. "Ah, here come our brave defenders!" he said brightly as they approached. Donnic shook Hawke's hand while Fenris, who had removed his helm upon entering, exchanged a perfunctory nod with Anders for Hawke's sake.

"I don't believe you've met Anders, have you, Donnic?" asked Hawke.

"No, I've not had the pleasure," replied Donnic, reaching for Anders's hand. "I've heard a lot about you, but I've been fortunate enough not to need your services yet."

Anders shook his hand and smiled. "And I hope that doesn't change. Good to meet you."

"You've really got this place organised, haven't you?" Donnic complimented, looking at the meticulously-arranged array of potions, unguents and balms that were situated at one end of the clinic, protected by a magical field. While they were talking, Hawke grinned at Fenris, who smiled back with his eyes.

"Well, I'd be happy to show you around, if you you'd like?" offered Anders, and Donnic accepted, leaving Hawke and Fenris alone.

"Evening, Guardsman," Hawke greeted, looking at Fenris's new armour.

"Good evening, Fletcher," Fenris replied, his smile moving to his lips.

"How's Bill?"

"Rested, though I feel him stirring even as we speak," joked Fenris, and Hawke burst out laughing.

"How's your first shift going? Anything exciting happened?"

Fenris shook his head. "Not so far. It's strange," he said thoughtfully. "Donnic told me that most of the other guards abhor shifts in Darktown, but I am quite enjoying it. I have you to thank for that, Fletcher. I know that you suggested this in order to protect my identity, but I also feel like… like I…" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Like you belong?" Hawke ventured.

"Yes," Fenris answered with a warm smile. "I want you to know how grateful I am. I… may not always show it, but…"

"I know." Hawke glanced over his shoulder and, seeing that Anders and Donnic were deep in conversation, he reached for Fenris's hand and gave it a squeeze before releasing it. "You called me Fletcher."

"I did." Fenris cleared his throat and glanced down at his chest. "What do you think of my armour?"

"You're still wearing your old breastplate."

"The new one will not be ready for another few days. What do you think of the rest of it?"

"Give me a twirl?"

Fenris shook his head.

"Well, at least let me take a look at your weapon."

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Fenris demanded with mock-severity.

"Your sword, you nitwit." Hawke moved behind Fenris, and then, remembering that Fenris disliked anyone standing behind him, moved to his side. "That's a lovely sword, Fen. Very shapely and... _firm_ -looking. It'd take two hands to grab that properly."

"Since when have _you_ been interested in swords?" Fenris asked sceptically. "If I did not know better, I would suspect that you are looking at my posterior."

Hawke grinned, craning his neck for a better look at Fenris's arse as the elf fully turned to him. "Really? Whatever gave you that idea?"

Fenris crossed his arms, _Bill_ making his umpteenth appearance. "I asked what you thought of my armour?"

"Killjoy." Hawke tutted and took a step back, clasping his chin and eyeing Fenris as he made an appraisal. "I like the colour of the tunic, it goes nicely with your eyes. Fawn and moss green, the colours of nature. Very nice."

Fenris pulled a face. "Colours? I was talking about the craftsmanship." He held up a polished steel vambrace for Hawke to inspect. "If you can appreciate the craftsmanship that goes into a _wall_ , I'm certain you can appreciate the work that has gone into this."

"Oh, yeah, lovely," Hawke mumbled indifferently, holding back a snigger at Fenris's disapproving frown. "I'm not sure about combining fawn with steel, though. You see, fawn's a warm colour, and steel is cool. They sort of clash."

" _Clash_? What are you… is that all you have to say?" Fenris, strongly suspecting that Hawke was teasing him, held back his own smile and deepened his frown.

"I like your tunic and greaves, though," Hawke added, lowering his voice, his eyes roaming down to Fenris's legs. "They're very… tight-fitting. I _do_ appreciate that. A lot."

A quiet snicker escaped the elf's mouth and he lowered his head, shaking it. "Stop it," he remonstrated. "I am supposed to appear stern and authoritative."

"Oh, don't let me stop you," Hawke teased. "I like it when you look stern."

"I am going to walk over there, now," Fenris told him with laughter in his voice, moving to stand with Donnic and Anders.

"Hey, Fenris," Hawke called after him, and Fenris stopped, but didn't turn around. "You look even better from behind."

Fenris shook his head and continued walking, but, just before he reached Donnic, he turned back and gave Hawke a playful glance.

Hawke joined the other three and, after a brief discussion, Donnic apologised that there would be no time for a card game tonight because of the influx of refugees, but promised that he and Fenris would have more time later in the week.

"Well, I'll walk out with you both," Hawke told the guards, "as I'm going home. I think we're finished here for the night, aren't we, Anders?"

"Oh yes, Hawke, and thanks again for everything that you've done. See you tomorrow." Anders shook Hawke's hand and bade them all goodnight. Fenris replaced his helm before exiting the clinic.

"I will walk you home," Fenris said to Hawke as they made their way through Darktown.

"Oh, there's no need, but I appreciate the offer," replied Hawke. "I don't live far from here."

"It was _not_ an offer," Fenris said firmly. "Besides, I am still officially on my break, so I can go where I choose."

Donnic laughed. "You sound like one of us, all right. I wouldn't argue with him, Hawke. I'll go and see how Davy and Filbert are getting on. They'll be taking their breaks soon, so we'll relieve them when you get back, Fenners."

Fenris shook his head at the use of his nickname. "I will have to think up with a suitable moniker for _you_ , Donnic. _Donners_ , perhaps, or something similarly trite."

Donnic chuckled and slapped Fenris's shoulder. "I'd be honoured if you called me Donners! What a great name!"

Fenris groaned and shook his head again.

"I love this guy's sense of humour," Donnic said to Hawke.

"So do I," Hawke agreed with a discreet nudge to Fenris's arm. A helmed head turned towards him and Hawke knew that _Bill_ was once again present, but decided not to mention it, preferring to keep his own teasing of Fenris a private thing.

After saying goodnight to Donnic, Hawke and Fenris went up to the surface and took a slow walk to Lowtown. On the way, Hawke asked Fenris what time he would be available the following day.

"For our reading lesson," Fenris said. Hawke nodded stiffly, not wanting to compound the lie by saying it out loud. "My shift ends at four bells, and there will be an hour or so of paperwork at the barracks, which Donnic will assist me with. Then, I will sleep. I would envisage that I will be available from around midday. Would that suit you?"

"Absolutely," Hawke answered, already planning a visit to the Alienage and the chantry on the way. "Whenever's best for you. I'll meet you at the barracks, if you don't mind? I need to see Aveline about something anyway."

"As you wish, Fletcher."

Hawke grinned. "Have you been practising, like I suggested?"

"If you mean, have I been walking around Darktown muttering under my breath, the answer is no," quipped Fenris.

"Then more credit to you for remembering!" Hawke chortled with another nudge.

"Kindly refrain from _nudging_ my armour," Fenris chided, dusting his arm down. "This is new, y'know."

"All right, but I get double nudges when you're off-duty."

Fenris gave a soft laugh. "You are incorrigible."

"Yes, but you wouldn't change me for the world… right? Right, Fenris?"

The silent helm once again turned towards him, and then faced straight ahead.

"I don't think I like that helmet of yours," said Hawke with an exaggerated pout. "I can't tell what you're thinking."

"You can't, can you? Perhaps I will wear it more often."

"What, you mean when you're _not_ on duty?" Hawke asked with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. "Can we play 'Guardsman and Criminal'?"

Fenris immediately quickened his pace and walked ahead to the slums, but the trembling of his arms and shoulders was unmistakable.

"You're laughing under there, aren't you?"

"No," replied Fenris, his voice wavering slightly. "Ah… we appear to have reached your home."

Hawke arrived beside him and looked up the steps leading to Gamlen's house, which was in darkness. "I wonder if Varric's cleared the mansion out yet?"

"I didn't hear that," Fenris claimed.

"I _said_ \--" Hawke stated loudly, but stopped and laughed when Fenris clamped his hands over his ears. Slowly, he removed them, and Hawke folded his arms, giving Fenris a stern look.

"Some bent guard _you_ turned out to be."

"I apologise if I've proven a disappointment to you." Fenris glanced around and, seeing nobody else about, removed his helm and smoothed his hair down, taking a step nearer to Hawke. "Quickly," he whispered.

"Quickly, what?"

Hawke's question was answered decisively when Fenris pulled him close for a brief but sweet kiss.

"Is that all I get?" moaned Hawke as Fenris pulled away and replaced his helm.

"For now," Fenris replied with a quiet chuckle. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Hawke's gut lurched at the thought of what that would bring, but he kept his smile fixed in place. "Will you be all right going back on your own?"

"Of course, why would I not be?" answered Fenris confidently.

"Yes, of course you'll be fine." Hawke's heart rate quickened, and he hoped his doubts didn't reflect in his voice, even though Varric had assured him that the slavers were staying put for now. "Thanks for walking me home, Fen," he said softly.

Fenris removed a gauntlet and reached up, resting his hand against Hawke's cheek. "Sleep well, Fletcher. Goodnight."

Hawke clasped Fenris's hand and moved it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. "Goodnight, Fen. Be safe on the way back."

"I will." Fenris squeezed Hawke's hand and then released it. "Until tomorrow." With a nod, he turned and headed out of the slums, turning back once he was almost out of sight and gesturing for Hawke to go up the steps. Hawke did so, and waved his hand in farewell. Fenris gave another nod before rounding a corner and disappearing.

Hawke slumped against the wall next to the front door and closed his eyes, taking in several lungfuls of the chilly evening air. Tomorrow. Possibly the day when someone who had long tormented and humiliated Fenris would finally be out of his life.

Possibly the day that Fenris would walk out of Hawke's life.

He fumbled around for his key and, upon entering, laughed mirthlessly at the fancy new furniture that Varric had 'liberated' from the mansion. Locking the door, he walked to the dying fire and tossed a few pieces of wood onto it, careful not to wake anyone.

He forced himself to walk to the settee--his and Fenris's settee--and sat down, immediately standing up again, and dragged his fingers through his hair as he paced next to the fireplace. He then glanced at the spot on the settee where Fenris always sat, wondering if, after tomorrow, that spot would remain forever vacant.

With a heavy sigh, he trudged back and sat next to Fenris's spot, running his hand along the seat, feeling a connection with Fenris that gave him a fleeting sliver of comfort. He removed his boots and brought his legs up, knowing that he'd need a good rest in anticipation of what the coming day would bring, and did his best to clear his mind of all troubling thoughts.

He didn't sleep a wink that night.


	37. What Really Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can you not see?" Fenris rasped. "You took it upon yourself to decide where _I_ should be, what _my_ movements are, and what _I_ should know! _You_ have sought to manipulate and control me at every turn! I am not in the market for a new master, Hawke!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give a very special thank-you to Mary for tackling a very long chapter, with her usual speed and skill, despite being quite poorly. Despite this, she still had the wits to remind me, yet again, that sometimes I need to actually _explain_ to my readers what is going on in my head! Get well soon! :-)

"Maker's breath, Hawke, you look like shit. Bad night?"

"Yeah. Bad night." Hawke dragged his feet into Aveline's office and took a seat without being invited. "How are things with you?" he asked listlessly.

"Fine." She took her own seat and closely watched Hawke, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. "What brings you here?"

"Hm? Uh… what _did_ bring me here?" His brow wrinkled in confusion, and he rubbed his forehead hard.

Aveline laughed. "So, how many did you have last night?"

"None. Absolutely none. I wish I _had_ got drunk. It might at least have been worth me feeling like this." He made a half-arsed attempt to sit up straight. "Oh, I know why I came here, now. You're aware that Fenris does jobs with me from time to time, aren't you?"

" _Yes_ , Hawke. I did one with you both, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Um, well… I know that Fenris has only just joined the guard, but he has a job to do with me tonight. It's very important and I need him. I know he hasn't told you, but that's my fault. I forgot to remind him about it."

Aveline folded her arms. "That's funny. Fenris doesn't seem the forgetful type to me."

"Well, I guess he's been so excited, what with joining the guard and all, that it slipped his mind."

 _"Excited?_ Fenris? Are we talking about the same man here?"

"Well, it doesn't matter, anyway," Hawke retorted, a little irritated that Aveline hadn't fallen for his story. "The fact is, I need him tonight, so he won't be able to do his shift. And let me make it clear that it's _my_ fault that anyone forgot. It doesn't matter _who_ forgot, does it? So I just wanted to tell you that, and would appreciate it if he didn't get into trouble for not turning up for his shift. As I was saying, I forgot to tell him. Remind him, I mean. About this job."

Aveline sat back in her chair and folded her arms tighter. "Are you aware that you ramble when you're lying?"

Hawke blinked several times, his somnolent brain haltingly processing her words. "Are-are you calling me a liar?"

"Is there some doubt here? You _are_ a liar, and a pretty terrible one, at that." She leaned across the desk. "I'm a busy woman. Is this something to do with those slavers up in the mountains?"

"E-eh? How do you know about that?

Aveline groaned. "You know the patrols up in the mountains? Who do you think they work for?"

Hawke looked at her, his puffy eyes wide. "Uh… the city guard?"

"The city guard," she confirmed. "We've been keeping an eye on them. So far, they haven't broken any laws, so we can't touch them. Does Fenris plan on going after them?"

Hawke looked to his side and, at first, didn't answer. "He has a job with me," he stated again.

"Hawke, I can't condone one of my men going off on a private vendetta," she said firmly, watching him for a reaction. "Particularly when he's supposed to be on duty."

"Who said anything about a vendetta?" Hawke protested hurriedly. "I told you, we have a job!"

She fixed him with a look so hard, it made him blanch. "That's enough. I don't have time for this. Either tell me the truth or go. I've a lot to do."

"Oh, all right," he lamented, accepting that he wasn't going to outwit Aveline today. "We're going after them. We have reason to believe that Danarius's apprentice, Hadriana, is among them."

 _"'We'?_ Who's we? Who else is going with you?"

"Varric, Bethany, Anders, Sebastian and Merrill are all meeting me in about an hour. I'm here to collect Fenris."

"I don't know Sebastian or Merrill. Are they reliable?"

Hawke nodded. "You did meet Merrill once, in the pub. Briefly, though."

"So that's seven of you. From what I've heard, there are quite a few slavers up there. You're going to be outnumbered," she said thoughtfully, and paused for a few moments before standing up. "Where are you meeting?"

"The usual place."

Aveline tapped her index finger against her chin and walked back and forth slowly. "I think I can spare a few… all right, I'll meet you there. I've had enough of waiting for them to attack someone. Let them attack _us_ , then I can finally arrest them. Don't worry, they'll be behind bars before nightfall."

Hawke groaned and pushed himself to his feet. "Look, I really, _really_ appreciate the offer, don't get me wrong. But you have to realise that I don't think Fenris has any intention of _arresting_ them, particularly Hadriana."

"Fenris is a soldier in my regiment and is aware of the laws and statutes of the city. He can't just go around killing, willy-nilly."

Hawke shook his head sombrely. "This woman is not just a criminal. She's evil. You _don't_ know what she did to him. She deserves everything she gets."

"That's just your opinion," Aveline argued. "It's not up to you, or Fenris, to hand out death sentences."

"Like I said, I appreciate your offer, but I think it's best you have nothing to do with this. Forget you saw me." Hawke started to walk to the door.

"I can't do that, not now you've told me," she replied. "I'll be there in an hour with a few of my guards to make sure the law is upheld. If the slavers attack us, then sure, we'll need to defend ourselves. If that results in their deaths, then that's fair enough. What you can't do is just go after someone with the intention of killing them simply for being here. That's murder with malice aforethought. They hang people for that in the Free Marches."

"And what about Hadriana's malice of... whatever you said? Rest assured, she _will_ attack us with everything she's got, and we _will_ have to kill her. Just do one thing for me. Leave her to Fenris."

"It might not work out that way."

 _"Leave_ her to Fenris," he persisted. "This is very important to him. He needs to be the one."

Aveline sighed and reached behind her neck, tightening her ponytail. "I can't officially sanction that as you well know. If he's in trouble, we _will_ step in."

"We all will, but don't kill her unless there's no other choice. Please."

She stared at him. "Like I said, I can't _officially_ sanction that. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

Reading between the lines, Hawke exhaled. "Thank you," he said sincerely, stifling a yawn. "This is so much more than I hoped for. I owe you one."

"Don't expect me to make a habit of it."

He shook his head. "Never. Is Fenris about?"

"Yes, he's up. His shift went for ablutions not long ago, so he should be around. He did very well, you know. Last night, I mean."

Hawke's face lit up. "Oh, yes?"

"Some of my guards look down their noses at the refugees, but Donnic told me Fenris was very compassionate and patient with them. He dealt with a couple of drunks, and was firm, but not heavy-handed. I'm actually thinking of permanently assigning them to Darktown. They seemed to enjoy it. And to think, it was meant as a punishment."

"Really?" Hawke's grey and drawn face brightened a little. "You had to punish Donnic? What for?"

"Never you mind," she said sternly, pushing him towards the door. "Off you go. I need to find a few volunteers."

"You're brilliant, Aveline," he called as he was shoved out of the office, "And I'm still going to marry you one day."

"From what I hear, Fenris might have something to say about that."

"Is there anything you _don't_ hear?" groused Hawke.

"Not a thing. Now, sod off. See you in an hour."

Hawke blew her a kiss and she firmly closed the door, shaking her head.

~o~O~o~

After finding Fenris--who was with Donnic talking to a small group of their colleagues--Hawke was introduced to Davy and Filbert, the other two guards who'd been on duty in Darktown during the night.

"This is my friend, Fletcher Hawke," Fenris told them. "He is teaching me to read, and we are going to have our lesson, soon, aren't we?" Fenris glanced up at Hawke, who nodded, and the smile they shared made it obvious that they were more than friends.

"Teaching him to read, eh?" remarked Davy, folding his arms. "Well, when you get to the letter 'R', can you teach him the meaning of the word 'round'?"

The guards fell about laughing, and Donnic clapped Fenris on the shoulder. "That's right. We nipped into the pub last night before our shift, and Fenris's round never seemed to come about."

"There was insufficient time," Fenris contended, as if they'd been over this several times. "I told you, I will stand you all to the first round this evening."

"Now, you're a witness to that, Hawke," Donnic said.

"Aren't you guards supposed to be sober when you're on duty?" Hawke queried in amusement.

"Look, mate, it's bloody cold in Darktown, y'know," Filbert piped up. "We need a little something to warm our blood, don't we?"

"Fair enough." Hawke chuckled. "Well, Fenris, are you ready to go? There's something I want to show you."

"Probably best we're not here for that, then," joked Donnic, and Hawke rolled his eyes. After much shaking of hands, the other three guards departed.

"Something to show me?" asked Fenris. "I'm intrigued."

"Well, don't get too excited. I haven't discovered Andraste's birthplace or anything," replied Hawke as they left the barracks. "I'm hoping you'll like it, though."

"I'm sure I will," Fenris answered warmly. "Whatever it is."

As they walked through Hightown and down the steps into Lowtown, Fenris, after some prompting, told Hawke about his shift. Hawke was so proud and immersed in the conversation that he almost forgot what had been on his mind, what had kept him awake all night. However, as they neared their destination--an anonymous-looking building not far from Gamlen's house--the conversation lulled slightly, and Hawke's mind, and stomach, began doing somersaults.

"Here we are," Hawke said, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking the door. "After you."

"Isn't this the place Sister Petrice abandoned?" Fenris asked with a frown as they entered, his frown intensifying as he noticed that the small house had been done out very nicely with several pieces of furniture from the mansion.

"Yes," answered Hawke, closing the door. "Varric's looking after the place for the time being."

Fenris removed his helm and placed it on a table, and his sword against a wall. "What you mean is, he has claimed possession of it without having any legal right to do so."

"Look, you're off-duty, now," Hawke said, doing his best to keep his tone light. "This is something that Varric needs to work out with Aveline. It has nothing to do with us."

Fenris sighed, knowing full well that Hawke would charm himself out of any his protestations. "What does he intend to do with the place?"

Hawke smiled lopsidedly and gave a rueful shrug. "Well, he said it's for his friends to use when they need some privacy."

"Privacy?" There was a question and a hint of amusement in Fenris's voice as he took a seat in a wingback chair, groaning softly and stretching his legs out in front of him.

"All right, then, if you must know, it's for him and Beth, and for you and me."

Fenris slid down in the chair a little, finding it very comfortable, and folded his hands in his lap. "For us to have… _privacy_ in?"

"Now, now, Fenris. It was very generous of Varric to give us the use of his place… uh, his place that doesn't actually belong to him," Hawke joked, taking a seat in a chair opposite Fenris. "I suspect you're misinterpreting his intentions."

"And _I_ suspect I am not." A playful smile danced across the elf's face. Any other time, Hawke would have taken full advantage of it. Instead, he hung his head, sighed and sat forward.

"Is… something wrong, Fletcher?"

Hawke cleared his throat and sighed again, rubbing his forehead. "Look, I need to tell you something. You know that Varric's had a few people keeping their ears to the ground?"

Fenris eagerly leaned forward in his chair. "He's heard something?"

"Yes. A group of slavers has arrived in Kirkwall and are hiding out in the mountains. I want to make it clear, though, that no one matching Danarius's description is among them."

By now, Fenris was on his feet. "But still, they may be able to provide information as to his whereabouts. We should go immediately." He retrieved his sword and turned back to Hawke. "Will you help me?"

Slowly, Hawke rose, his legs leaden as he stepped closer to Fenris. "You don't need to ask me. You know that."

"I should have known." Fenris raised a gauntlet-clad hand and gently rested it against Hawke's cheek. "Thank you." He took a step closer to Hawke but halted when Fletcher's posture stiffened. "What is it?" he demanded, a mite of anger or panic in his voice, Hawke wasn't sure which.

"Listen," Hawke said quietly, licking his lips nervously. "This group… it's led by… a female mage."

The soft light that had been in Fenris's eyes dulled and waned, and he removed his hand from Hawke's face, turning away slightly. "That is… unusual."

"Do you-do you think it could be Hadriana?" Hawke asked anxiously. He noticed Fenris's hands clenching at his sides, and his shoulders rising and falling.

"Yes, I think it could be her." Fenris's voice was cold, obdurate; his posture rigid. Hawke instinctively reached a hand out but, just before it made contact with Fenris's shoulder, he drew it back.

Hawke's odd reaction and nervous demeanour triggered a note of alarm in Fenris, and a distinct feeling of unease gripped him. "When did you learn of their arrival?" asked the elf suspiciously, slowly turning back to face Hawke, but not looking at him.

"It doesn't matter, Fenris, let's just--"

"I _asked_ you a question," snapped the elf. "I need to know how long they have been here. How many of them are mages. Do you know this or not?"

"There are fifteen of them, and Varric's contact said that about half of them are mages."

"And?" prompted Fenris. "When did they arrive? This morning?"

Hawke shook his head, his cheeks burning. "Yesterday. No, actually, the night before."

" _Yesterday_? And you were informed of this when? Today?"

"No, I-I was informed yesterday, but listen--"

"Listen? _Listen_ , Hawke? Why…" He took a deep, unsteady breath. "Perhaps you do not understand how important this is to me!"

"I understand only too well."

"Then how… why are you telling me this a full day _after_ they arrived? What is in your mind? Why did you keep this from me?"

"There are _fifteen_ of them, Fenris, and some of them are possibly blood mages. I needed time to get people together to help, and you were safest at the barracks. _That_ is why I kept it from you. I'm sorry that--"

"So _you_ , alone, decided this?" Fenris gesticulated wildly with his hands, and Hawke could hear genuine panic in his voice. "Do you not think it should have been _my_ choice to decide where I was safest?"

"You would have just taken off after them, on your own, without a thought for your safety!" Hawke protested.

"You know this for certain, do you?"

"Yes!"

"If you _know_ me as well as you claim, then you should have _known_ not to keep this from me!" Fenris turned his back on Hawke and shook his head. "You knew of this last night when I came to the clinic. When you joked and flirted with me. You _knew_ the entire time, and yet duplicity came so easily to you. I thought I could trust you," he said darkly. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"You _can_ trust me! Do you think I enjoyed keeping you in the dark? I've been up all night worrying over this!"

"I can trust you, can I?" Fenris mocked, spinning around, and he fixed Hawke with an icy glare. "You proclaim that I can _trust_ you, and yet you speak of gathering people together behind my back, without my knowledge! You… you _and_ Varric knew of this, but decided to keep it from me? Who else knows about this? Who else _knew_ before I did, Hawke?"

"Look, I _told_ you I needed to get people together! They've all dropped whatever they were doing to help you. And Varric is blameless in this," he insisted. "He thought I _should_ tell you, but I made the decision not to."

"That would make sense," growled Fenris. "I thought you were different from other mages, but you are no better than Danarius."

Hawke blinked hard, shaking his head. "What? How-how can you compare me to him? I was _trying_ to protect you!"

"Can you not see?" Fenris rasped. "You took it upon yourself to decide where _I_ should be, what _my_ movements are, and what _I_ should know! _You_ have sought to manipulate and control me at every turn! I am not in the market for a new master, Hawke!"

The sudden silence, onerous and fraught, was permeated only by Fenris's heavy breathing. Hawke was utterly dumbstruck, his mouth gaping open.

After some moments, he whispered, "I can't believe you just said that! I knew you wouldn't take this well, but… I can't believe… how could you even think that?"

Fenris, as shattered at the words that had left his mouth as Hawke was to hear them, gave no answer, unable to look Hawke in the eye.

Hawke moved briskly to the door and opened it. "Well, I suppose I've wasted enough time," he said, his voice thick with injury. "We should go. They're waiting for us at the Hanged Man." Without waiting for an answer, he departed, leaving the door open.

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach pitching and roiling as heat and nausea suffused his core. Fortunately, he hadn't yet broken his fast, else he would have spilled the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He knew that he'd hurt Hawke, and badly, but couldn't allow himself to dwell on that now.

All that mattered was making _her_ suffer. Making her beg for mercy. Seeing the look in her eyes when she realised he would not grant it. Feeling her life ebb away, slowly, and forever committing that moment to memory. He couldn't allow his feelings for Hawke to get in the way of that. He _couldn't_.

Hawke's eyes, moist and dull with hurt and fear, winked into his mind, and his own eyes stung as he stared, unblinking, at the door. Angrily, he rubbed them hard enough to hurt, and hefted his sword onto his back.

"This is what comes of getting too close to someone! You should never have allowed it to happen!" he castigated himself before leaving the safehouse, slamming the door behind him.

~o~O~o~

"Here he is," Aveline told the group assembled outside the Hanged Man as Hawke emerged from an alley near to the pub. "Hawke, where have you been? We've been waiting here for…" She glanced behind Hawke and frowned. "Where's Fenris?"

"He's coming. I think." Hawke gave a weary sigh and nodded at his friends. "Afternoon," he said to them, and they murmured or nodded their replies.

"You _think_?" pressed Aveline. "He either is or he isn't, Hawke. Have we wasted our time coming here? Is he coming or not?"

"I don't know, all right?" Hawke snapped, and then covered his eyes with his hand. "Look, I'm sorry. Like I said before, I've had a rough night. I've just told him to meet us here. I assume he's on his way."

"I'll go and look for him," offered Donnic, who had accompanied Aveline with two other guards.

"No need," said Sebastian, who was standing nearest to the alley. "I can see him approaching."

Bethany moved to Hawke's side and gently touched his arm. "Are you all right, Brother?"

He shook his head. "Look, Beth, if I'm snappy, please take no notice, all right? I had a bad night and I feel like shit. Sorry. Crap."

She squeezed his arm and smiled sympathetically as Anders also moved to Hawke's side. "He didn't take it well, then?" he guessed.

"No, he didn't," Hawke answered gruffly and, as Fenris entered the square, Hawke turned away and moved to Varric's side.

"There you are, Fenris," Aveline said to the bewildered-looking elf.

"I… had not realised there would be so many of you," he mumbled, not knowing whether to feel grateful or irritated that so many people had known about the slavers before he had. His gaze moved to Hawke, who was standing away from the others with Varric, talking quietly. His eyes then moved towards Anders, who was giving Fenris a distinctly disparaging look. Fenris readily returned his glare, not knowing the reason for the abomination's displeasure, but not needing much of an excuse to shoot daggers at him, either.

"Over here, Fenris," called Aveline, and he walked to her, not taking his eyes off Anders until the last moment. "Right, listen," she said to the group. "Hunter and Donnic, you'll take the vanguard with me. Fenris and Clara, you'll take the rearguard, directly behind the archers. Mages in the middle. How many mages do we have? Three?"

"Four," piped up a small voice. "I'm a mage."

"Oh, right. Mary, isn't it?" asked Aveline.

"Daisy!" shouted Varric.

"No, it's not, you pillock," Merrill chided him. "My name's Merrill, as you very well _know_." She pulled a face at him and then turned back to Aveline.

"Merrill," Aveline repeated. "And what kind of mage are you?"

"I'm a blood mage," she said plainly, and Hawke clapped a hand over his eyes, groaning. The quiet chatter that had rippled through the group ceased abruptly.

"Oh, my," Sebastian was heard to remark.

For once, Aveline was lost for words. "Um…"

"She's a battle mage, same as Beth," Hawke offered through an exasperated sigh. Fenris ventured a quick glance at Hawke, noticing how utterly exhausted he looked as the sun peeked out through the clouds.

"Right. Well, Merrill and Bethany will flank the healers," Aveline directed. "Hawke and Anders, you stay in the middle. No moving away unless it's absolutely vital."

"Healers work best from the rear," Hawke argued, and Anders nodded his agreement.

Aveline shook her head in dismissal. "No. I want you two protected. If you can find a decent hiding spot when we get up there, then by all means take it. While we're out in the open, though, you'll stay in the middle. Any more questions?" she asked the group.

With no further questions forthcoming, everyone slowly moved into their positions. "We can keep the formation pretty loose until we get out of town," said Aveline, "but once we leave the city we'll need to tighten up. You all got that?"

Everyone answered or nodded in the affirmative, and Aveline moved to the head of the group with Donnic and Hunter--an experienced scout who carried a crossbow on his back, as well as a number of daggers.

As Fenris dropped back alongside Clara, his fellow guard, he found he was unable to take his eyes off Hawke. Clara was very chatty, which Fenris found highly irritating, but he answered all of her questions or statements with a polite nod or brief reply. It seemed that Hawke wasn't very talkative, either: the abomination was chatting to him animatedly, but Hawke only nodded once or twice, and didn't seem to engage in the conversation at all.

Fenris knew that once this day ended, if he was still alive, he would need to make apologies, perhaps several. All of these people had given up their own time to help him, and yet he'd barely spoken a word to any of them.

A numbness seemed to settle over him, which he embraced: he couldn't let guilt or regret interfere with what had to be done. When he looked at Hawke, however, the numbness dissolved, bile rose in his throat, and the heat and nausea returned in incapacitating waves. After a while, he made a conscious effort _not_ to look at Hawke. _He_ was the chink in Fenris's armour: the one thing that would divert the elf's focus.

Once Sebastian could get a word in edgeways around Clara, he engaged Fenris in conversation, which Fenris found a welcome diversion, and rather soothing in comparison to Clara's inane prattle.

When they reached the outskirts of the city, Aveline called a halt and ordered the group to tighten their formation.

"Just a minute, Aveline," Anders called from the centre of the group. "Before we get going again, I need to see to Hawke."

"All right, but make it quick," she called back.

Fenris's ears pricked up, and he strained to hear the conversation up ahead.

"Is he all right?" Bethany quietly asked Anders.

"He's got a migraine through lack of sleep," he answered, and placed his hands on the sides of Hawke's head.

Fenris moved slightly away from the group for a better look, and was dismayed at how pale Hawke had become. He felt his markings jump, and grimaced as Anders sent assuasive energy through Hawke, which translated as fire surging through Fenris's veins.

Noticing the elf's discomfort, Varric glanced at him and jerked his head upwards. With a grateful nod, Fenris assured Varric that he would be fine in a moment, and he once again turned his attention to Hawke and Anders, noting with repugnance that Anders was looking directly at Fenris, wearing what appeared to be a faint smile.

His spell complete, Anders looked back at Hawke and gently cradled his face, looking directly into his eyes. "Better now?" he asked softly. Hawke nodded and patted Anders's arm before turning to face the front of the group. Anders once again glanced at Fenris before also turning away.

"The healers are ready, Aveline!" Anders announced cheerfully, unaware that a pair of cold green eyes were boring into the back of his head. Or, if he was aware, he didn't seem to care.

"Good," replied Aveline, looking over the rest of the group. "Let's keep our wits about us."

They made their way to the Dalish camp at the foot of Sundermount without incident, and were escorted to Keeper Marethari upon their arrival. Merrill noticeably squirmed as all eyes turned to her and her group.

"We're going up the mountain to take care of some slavers," Aveline told the Dalish leader. "If any of your people are up there, I'd recommend you call them back, as there might be trouble."

"I appreciate your concern, Captain," Marethari said with a small bow. "None of my clan are up on the mountain at the moment, though I see that one of our own travels with you. Welcome home, da'len."

Merrill stepped forward and dipped her head reverentially. "I-I'm not coming back, Keeper, I'm just helping out for a bit, that's all."

"Be that as it may, it gladdens my heart to see you again, and in such august company," answered Marethari kindly. "Please look after her," she said to Aveline, who nodded.

As the women talked, Fenris distanced himself from the group and looked up at the mountain, the summit of which was shrouded in mist. In his peripheral vision, he noticed Hawke's head turn in his direction, and lowered his eyes to the ground, his stomach knotting tightly as Hawke slowly approached him, stopping a short distance away.

"How… how do you feel, Fenris?" Hawke asked hesitantly.

Unable to speak at first, Fenris looked up at Hawke and swallowed hard. After everything Fenris had said to him, Hawke was still concerned for his wellbeing. His gut tightened further, twisting into a painful knot as he noticed Hawke's pallor and red-rimmed eyes.

"I-I am fine. You... should not have come. You are clearly unwell."

Hawke shrugged, toying with his hands. "I just didn't sleep very well."

"Because of me," Fenris stated, hanging his head. "Hawke… Fletcher…"

"Right, let's get going!" Aveline commanded loudly, having finished speaking with the keeper. "Back into your positions!"

"Come on, Hawke!" Anders called out impatiently.

"I know you're scared, Fenris," Hawke said softly. "I'm with you, whatever happens. We all are. Never doubt that."

"Fle--" Fenris's voice broke before he could finish, and he watched as Hawke moved back into the centre of the group, no longer caring that Anders was still watching him. He took several deep breaths, each one fortifying him and hardening his resolve. Fletcher was with him. Fletcher _understood_. Suddenly, putting an end to Hadriana was no longer the only thing that mattered to him.

 _Fletcher_ mattered to him, perhaps more than anyone or anything ever had.

~o~O~o~

The journey up the mountain was long and arduous, but they saw no one for most of their journey. If any bandits were lying in ambush, they didn't show themselves, perhaps intimidated by the size of the group. As they drew nearer to the summit, almost as one, the four mages called a halt.

"What is it?" Aveline demanded, striding across to them.

"There's a number of people spread out further up the path," Bethany told her.

"How do you know that?" Aveline enquired. "Hunter? Any tracks?" she asked her scout.

"No, Captain," he called back. "Nothing recent, anyway."

"We can feel them," Merrill explained. "It's hard to describe to someone who's, well, not a mage. We just know they're there."

Hawke took Aveline's arm and led her to one side. "I recommend you let us head up the group, Aveline."

"I don't know, Hawke. Those robes of yours are no protection against a stray arrow."

"But we _know_ where the sentries are, and we can put them out of action before they have a chance to even nock an arrow," he argued. "You lot can't see them. We _can_. And I didn't want to question you in front of the others, but I want Fenris moved from the back. He's too vulnerable there. They may attack us, but he's the one they're really after."

She shook her head. "I'm not happy about that, Hawke. This is a tried-and-tested formation. The armoured warriors take up the lead and rearguard positions."

"Tried-and-tested doesn't apply here, Aveline," Hawke asserted. "They'll pick you off one by one and scarper with Fenris before you know what's happened! And they probably have mages out there, too, who'll know _we're_ here. You _armoured warriors_ won't have time to blink. Issue the command, Aveline. Don't make me embarrass you in front of your guards."

"You're a stubborn bugger, Hawke, you know that?"

"So I've been told. Look. Trust me, please. I'll never be able to repay you for your help here today, but I know what I'm doing."

She groaned. "All right, then, you take over. You'll know the best position in which to deploy the mages."

"We'll be fine, Aveline. Come on." They walked back to the group, where Aveline addressed them.

"Hawke is in charge from now on. You'll take your orders from him."

"Only until we reach the mountain pass, though," added Hawke with a smile at Aveline, which she returned. "Anders, you take the rear with Clara. Donnic and Merrill, right flank. Beth and Varric, left, and Fenris and Sebastian in the centre. Aveline, Hunter, you're with me. Fenris, may I speak with you for a moment?"

Fenris nodded once and joined Hawke, who led them around a bend in the path, out of sight of the others. "Fenris, I want Anders and I to cast a spell that will afford the group some protection. With me at the front and him at the rear, the sphere of the spells will overlap, meaning that everyone gets the benefit. It's not like most of the spells we usually cast--it's not cast upon one person in particular, so I'm hoping it won't cause you too much discomfort."

"There is no need to explain," Fenris said stoically. "I would not deprive our group of protection."

"I know, and I also know you can bear discomfort, but I want you to let me know if it causes _pain_. If it does, we can decrease the sphere so it doesn't touch you and Sebastian, but I'd rather you were protected as well."

"I understand."

"Promise me."

"I promise, Fletcher."

A moment of silence passed between them and Fenris took a hesitant step closer to Hawke.

"…Apologising to you yet again would be facile," he began.

"Fenris, it's--"

"No, let me finish, please."

Hawke nodded, and Fenris removed his gauntlets, letting them fall to the ground, and tenderly cradled Hawke's face in his hands. "In spite of everything I've said to you, of everything I've put you through, you have always stood at my side. I know that I don't deserve you, but for some reason you came into my life, and for that, I am grateful beyond words. I… I admire you, Fletcher. You inspire me and make me feel… you make me want to be a better person. I can think of no greater compliment to pay another."

Deeply touched, Hawke hung his head and drew in a deep breath. "I don't know what to say. I think that's possibly the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"There is more where that came from," Fenris said softly, "but it can wait for another time. I… wanted you to know. When we confront Hadriana, you may see a side of me that… well, you have not seen the worst of me yet. Before you do, I wanted to tell you how I felt. I'm _sorry._ "

"I may not have seen the worst of you, but I _have_ seen the best," Hawke murmured, bringing his hands up and clasping Fenris's. "And that's why…"

Fenris tilted his head to one side. "That's why…?"

"Perhaps that can also wait for another time," Hawke whispered, sliding his hands down Fenris's shoulders and back and pulling him close.

Before Hawke knew what was happening, Fenris's mouth was upon his, and he was pushed, hard, against the rock. Slim, taut, arms snaked around his neck and slender fingers tangled through his hair as hungry lips devoured his in a searing, greedy kiss. Up until now, Fenris's kisses had been soft, brief, and halting, but there was real hunger, real need, this time. A deep moan escaped from Hawke as Fenris pressed his body against him, and Hawke's hands balled, grabbing fistfuls of leather tunic, his breath coming out in gasps.

Then, another groan was heard, but it came from neither of them.

"I think they need a little while longer, folks," they heard Varric say. They pulled apart, but could not see him. "They're discussing _tactics_ ," the dwarf added from around the other side of the rock.

"Hm. I sort of forgot that there are other people here," Hawke said with a grimace.

"As did I," Fenris replied, and he gently smoothed down Hawke's hair before picking up his gauntlets and putting them on. "Perhaps we should return."

"We'll finish this later," said Hawke with a nod.

"Count on it," Fenris promised and, with a sigh, they reluctantly re-joined the group on the other side of the rock.

"Come on, you two, we need to get going," Aveline urged.

"They need to get a damned room, that's what they need," Varric remarked to Bethany, just loudly enough for the red-faced pair to hear.

After taking up their positions--Hawke at the head of the group and Fenris in the middle with Sebastian--Hawke called out to Anders, who was standing at the rear, looking rather dour. "Ready, Anders?"

His fellow mage nodded once, and both of them raised their staves aloft, reciting their spell in unison. A pale blue mist burst forth from the ground, quickly dissipating, and everyone in the group felt their skin tingle, and strands of their hair stood on end. The spell complete, Hawke's eyes moved to Fenris who, with a brief smile, assured Hawke that he was not in pain.

"Everyone ready?" asked Hawke.

"One moment," said Fenris, clearing his throat before addressing the group. "I may not have said so earlier, but I want you all to know how grateful I am for your assistance. You did not have to do this, and you will reap no reward from it."

"We'll know you're safe, Fenners," Donnic answered. "That's all we want out of this."

The rest of the group--minus Anders--uttered their agreement. Fenris smiled modestly, feeling his insides glow. "Thank you," he said with sincerity.

"Fenris," Hawke said firmly, and the elf looked at him. "Let's put this bitch in the ground."

With a determined nod from Fenris, the group resumed their trek up the mountain, the summit in sight.


	38. Chicanery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We could keep you alive like this indefinitely," Fenris snarled with a malicious smile. "I could keep you as _my_ slave, a plaything to be tormented when my sense of failure demands it, just as I once was to you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary, you are an angel sent from the Maker. Despite still being laid up, you have taken my pestering and need for reassurance over this chapter with your usual grace, as well as brainstorming and performing your beta services (one-and-a-half times) with distinction. Words cannot sufficiently convey my gratitude. :-)
> 
> Thanks also to Carrie the Scrubber for the mini-brainstorm. And yes, I did chicken out of using _that_ word :P
> 
> I'd also like to thank all of you for your very kind comments and for bookmarking, leaving kudos or just for reading!

Ever since Hawke and Anders had cast their protective spell over the group, Fenris had felt a vague throbbing running along the edges of his markings. It wasn't painful, exactly, but it _was_ irritating. As Hawke led the group around yet another bend of the seemingly-interminable mountain path, the throbbing intensified, gradually segueing into sharp stinging.

With a glance to his left and right, he observed with dismay that Bethany and Merrill seemed to have entered a trance-like state. From his stiff, halting movements up ahead, it appeared that Hawke had done likewise. Fenris did not look back to check on the abomination.

Then, swiftly and silently, Hawke stopped, holding a hand up, and Fenris immediately felt his discomfort diminish. The rest of the group came to a halt behind Hawke, who pointed up and to his left, placing the index finger of his opposite hand against his lips.

"Got him, Hawke," Merrill muttered, having left her trance. She closed her eyes and said a few words quietly under her breath. Fenris felt his markings scream in protest for a second, before the pain subsided. A moment later, a muffled crash was heard from up in the hills as a man fell, snoring, onto a spiky shrub, his bow dashed on the rocks below.

"Nice work," Donnic complimented her. "How long will he be out?"

"Ooh, bloomin' _ages_ ," Merrill boasted. "He won't wake up until it's dark, and I daresay he'll feel a bit _prickly_ when he does." She tittered, proud of her joke.

Hawke gave Merrill a thumbs-up and the mages glanced around before resuming their slow trek up the trail. Fenris's markings again pulsated as his magi companions partially entered the Fade, using their altered states to detect the life-force of any living creatures in the vicinity.

After a short while, Hawke called a halt again and could be heard whispering to himself, as could Bethany. This time, the pain came sharp and fast along Fenris's markings, and he hissed and gritted his teeth, causing a concerned Sebastian to place a steadying hand on the elf's shoulder.

Two more hidden sentries fell and Fenris, freed from his pain, released a burst of breath.

"I'm going to tell Hawke," Sebastian whispered to him. Although Anders was behind them, and Sebastian knew he was a healer, the archer had his own reasons for preferring to speak to Hawke.

"No," Fenris insisted, grabbing Sebastian's arm to stop him. "No. I will be fine. Please."

"You're sure?"

Fenris forced a strained smile and nodded. Sebastian, although not entirely convinced of Fenris's assertion, released his shoulder but kept an eye on him as the trail became steeper.

A further three sentries were incapacitated along the way and, before long, the entrance to the mountain pass became visible up ahead. Hawke called another halt and turned to face the group.

"I want you all to be very careful from now on. We haven't encountered any mages yet and I--"

"Captain!" Hunter yelled, catching Aveline in the nick of time as her legs gave way.

"Fuck!" Hawke and Donnic shouted together as Bethany, Varric and Sebastian also crumpled to the ground.

"A mage?" exclaimed Fenris, looking up toward the mountain pass. "Why did none of you detect them?"

"Move them back! Fast!" Hawke commanded. He and Hunter quickly moved Aveline to a safe spot while Donnic, Merrill and Clara ran over to assist Bethany and Varric. Fenris grabbed Sebastian under his armpits and dragged him over to where Hawke and Hunter were crouching over the unconscious Aveline, before running to help the others.

"Anders! Where are you going?" Hawke demanded angrily as the red-headed mage strode up the path without offering to help anyone. " _Anders_!"

Once Varric and Bethany were brought across Hawke checked them for injuries before attempting, without success, to dispel the sleep spell that had been put on them. Merrill stood a little away from the group, and Fenris could sense that she had once again entered the Fade.

"Hawke, I can't detect any mages nearby," said the Dalish mage. "They must be out of range."

"Out of range?" scoffed Fenris. "Then how did the spell reach them?" he demanded, pointing to their stricken companions.

"They must have just been caught in the sphere of the spell," Hawke explained with a grave glance at the others. "This is the work of a blood mage. That's why I can't dispel it and, I think, why Anders has pissed off up the hill. Or Justice, I should say."

Merrill slipped a small knife out of her belt and knelt down next to Hawke. "I can dispel it, Hawke."

"No!" dictated Fenris vehemently. "You will not practise your foul arts here!"

"Oh, and I suppose _you_ think we should just leave them here to be nibbled on by wolves, then, do you?" she bit back, heedless of Fenris's incensed glower.

"There _must_ be alternatives," Fenris insisted. "I do not think Sebastian would appreciate being revived by a _demon_ , do you?"

"And _I_ don't think he'd appreciate starving or freezing to death on a mountain, either! Do _you_?" Merrill retorted with surprising vigour.

"I would find that preferable!" Fenris snapped. "Do not presume to know what decent people would decide to do! You and your kind are as far removed from _decent_ as is it possible to be!"

Hawke almost flinched at Fenris's words, but kept his expression steady as they continued to argue.

"Well, remind me never to save _your_ life, then!"

"With blood magic? I would sooner perish in agony!"

"Noted," she sniffed disdainfully.

Hawke squeezed his eyes closed for a second, trying very hard not to think of the inevitable conversation he would have to have with Fenris, and released a sigh. "Let's see what Justice has to say, shall we? That is, if he even comes back. Bloody hell! Does he not realise that Anders's body is vulnerable? _He_ may be an immortal Fade spirit, but Anders is human, and we need him!" He shook his head and took a deep breath, glancing down at his sister. "They're fine for now. They're just sleeping, but we need them awake. We can't just leave them here, and we can't take on Hadriana and her cronies without them, either. Where the bloody hell is he?"

"Wait," Merrill said and, once again, Fenris felt his markings ache. "He's on his way," she told Hawke, who groaned in relief.

A few minutes later, Justice came stomping down the path and stopped a short distance away. "I have disabled two of their number, but more lurk within. Let us make haste," the spirit urged.

"Justice, can you help our friends?" asked Hawke. "They've been disabled by blood magic, and I can't reverse it."

An alarmed Hunter and Clara hastily made way for Justice and, although Donnic had never before seen the spirit manifest itself, Fenris had told him about it, and he wasn't about to move from his captain's side. Fenris also stayed where he was, watching Justice carefully.

Justice squatted over the slumbering foursome and shook his head. "A crude technique," he opined, and held one of Anders's hands above them. A sharp gasp was heard from Fenris as Varric, Bethany, Aveline and Sebastian stirred, and Hawke rushed to his side.

"Fenris! Oh, Fenris…" He placed a hand on the elf's shoulder, who held up his own hand to indicate that he was fine. "I'm so sorry," Hawke said quietly. "I've been so preoccupied with finding the sentries, it didn't even occur to me! You're surrounded by mages and we're all casting and slipping in and out of the Fade."

"I'm all right," Fenris asserted, vexed that he'd shown weakness in front of the group.

"No, you're not. How are you going to get on when we confront the other mages? Justice said there are more inside the mountain. With all of us casting at the same time--"

"I will manage!" Fenris answered sharply, and then closed his eyes for a second before opening them and looking at Hawke. "I will manage," he repeated in a softer tone. "I have awaited this day for three-and-a-half years, and I will _not_ quail now."

"I know, I just hate the thought of you being in pain," Hawke said quietly.

The bridge of Fenris's nose twitched and a dark scowl befell his features. "Any pain I am experiencing now is but a trifle compared to what I, and others, have endured at the hands of that… _termagant_ ," he uttered malevolently. "And I will repay her ten times over before the day is done, I swear it."

Hawke nodded silently, keeping his anxiety firmly in check while giving Fenris's shoulder a gentle squeeze, and then walked over to their four companions, who had started to sit up.

"Son of a bitch!" exclaimed Varric, clutching his head. "Sunshine? Are you okay?"

Bethany nodded blearily, and the foursome checked on each other before being helped to their feet by the others.

"You have rested sufficiently," Justice said to the group. "We must waste no more time."

"Justice," Hawke said firmly. "We'll leave when _they're_ ready, and not before. They've just been knocked out cold."

" _They_ could be devising all manner of fiendish schemes while we tarry here!" Justice argued, pointing up at the mountain's summit.

"My friends are not immortal, and neither is Anders," argued Hawke. "Your help is invaluable, Justice, but _we_ can't just go charging in without a thought for our safety."

"You have no need to do so. I will protect all," Justice declared haughtily. "These evil-doers will submit and will be delivered into Templar custody. I will see to it."

"They're not simply going to surrender to us, you know!" Hawke argued, determined that Hadriana die at Fenris's hands.

" _All_ will face justice," the spirit insisted. "You will not interfere with jurisprudence, Hawke. I will not sanction it."

Hawke sighed inwardly, foreseeing a major problem ahead, but he nodded. "Fine. Just consider this--Fenris was badly wronged by the leader of these _evil-doers_. Should _he_ not be the one to impose justice upon her?"

"Justice _will_ be done upon her. She will be incarcerated at the pleasure of the Templar Order," Justice asserted. "The elf does not hold her life in his hands."

"I disagree," Hawke stated emphatically. "She tortured and beat him, and caused him untold mental anguish and suffering. She deserves to die."

"That is not just!"

"Maybe not, but is it _just_ that someone like her is allowed to roam free to inflict torment upon others?"

"She will not be free!" Justice took a step closer to Hawke and glared at him. "Mark my words, Hawke. Do _not_ interfere in my righteous endeavour." Justice turned away and moved to the front of the group. "Make ready," he commanded. Several members of the group exchanged bemused glances.

"Justice," Hawke called over. "Aveline is in charge, and you'll take your orders from her. Otherwise, we have no need of you."

"No," Justice retorted. "You will all decease without me."

"We'll _decease_ anyway, if everyone is confused over whom they're taking orders from! Now fall into line, or wait here. As you said yourself, there's no time to lose."

Only the rustling of the grass could be heard as the spirit and Hawke stared each other down. Justice slowly walked up to Hawke and, for a moment, everybody in the group held their breath. Fenris and Donnic quietly unsheathed their swords.

"You are valorous, Hawke," Justice told him. "That will serve you well. I will not, however, permit you, or any other, to commit an unjust act. Take heed." With that, Justice turned on his heel and stood beside Clara, who quickly widened the distance between them.

"Before we go any further, I should introduce you all to Justice," Hawke said for the benefit of those who had not yet encountered the spirit. "Justice is a spirit of the Fade who inhabits Anders's body. You have nothing to fear from him, provided you don't commit any act of injustice, as he has just so firmly reminded me. In fact, Clara, you're pretty much the safest of the lot of us with Justice at your side."

Clara looked up at Justice, who nodded curtly at her, while Hawke wondered how the hell Fenris was going to kill Hadriana if Justice disabled her before she could attack… and what would happen if he tried.

"Let's have a little change-around," Aveline announced. "Fenris, you'll drop to the rear with Hawke. Sebastian, Hunter and Varric, in front of them. Bethany, Merrill and Anders… I mean Justice, I want you behind me, Clara and Donnic. Let's go." She clapped her hands twice, and her companions moved into their new positions. "Fenris, a physical description of Hadriana, if you please."

A sour look came over the elf's face, and he practically spat his words out. "Tall. Thin. Long, dark brown hair. Huge blue eyes, like an insect. She paints her face and wears gaudy robes, but neither improves her appearance."

"Justice, did you hear that?" Aveline asked, and the spirit, after a moment's pause, nodded once. "You are not to disable this woman. Instead, you will deal with any demons, blood magic or whatnot. That is your speciality, is it not?"

"You would have me _allow_ her to attack us?" Justice demanded.

"As you are so fond of justice, Justice, I think it's only fair that Fenris pays her back for some of the suffering she inflicted on him, _before_ she is turned over to the Templars, don't you?"

Hawke bit his lip to suppress a shit-eating grin. _Argue with that, then!_

Justice turned around and looked at the elf, who met his gaze.

"I have only your word that she inflicted suffering upon you, Elf, however, you have kept your word in the past," replied Justice. "Very well. That sounds fair. You will _not_ slay her, however, without just cause."

"I will not slay her without just cause," Fenris recited, his expression blank.

Aveline and Hawke exchanged a brief but pregnant glance. "How many more of them are there, Varric?" she asked the dwarf.

"Seven, by my reckoning," he answered. "Our mages took out six sentries, and Justice, two of _their_ mages. There were originally fifteen of 'em."

Aveline nodded grimly. "Now _we_ outnumber them."

"Do _not_ underestimate them," Fenris warned from the rear. "Or _her_. She is morally destitute, and her heart is black."

"We won't, Fenris," said Aveline. "Justice, how far inside are they?"

"They lie in wait a short distance within. It will not be long before we encounter them."

"Right, _that's_ specific," she mumbled. "Well," she said in a louder voice. "Let's get this done."

She led them through the entrance to the mountain pass, and Justice dropped back, placing wards at the cave mouth, before returning to the head of the group. The mages each summoned a tiny wisp to light their path which, in combination with Justice's own lambency, surrounded the group in an eerie, pallid nimbus. No one spoke as they ventured further in, and only quiet breathing and the occasional drip of stagnant water could be heard, unnaturally loud against the yawning silence within the cave.

Reaching a junction, Justice indicated that the group take the left-hand fork, and Hawke heard a distinct intake of breath from Fenris as he slipped in and out of the Fade.

"They're nearby," Hawke whispered to him, returning to the here-and-now. He caught the reflection of pale light in the elf's eyes as they turned to him, and Fenris sidled closer, his eyes moving forward. "Listen," Hawke counselled. "When we're in there, wait for an opening. We have to get you access to her without Justice interfering. I know you'll feel like disembowelling her as soon as you see her, but you must _wait_."

Fenris nodded, sighed and hung his head. "Whatever you see in there," the elf began, so softly that Hawke had to stoop to hear, "whatever you think of me… it must be done. You may never regard me in the same way again, but… I have to do it."

"I know." Hawke also moved closer to Fenris, his fingers brushing against the elf's hand. "Nothing is going to change the fact… nothing will change my opinion of you, Fen. Do what you have to do. I won't judge you."

"Thank you," Fenris whispered, suddenly feeling bereft. For once, Hawke's words offered him no comfort, no hope. He knew, when this was done, that he may be dead or back in Danarius's clutches, or that--even worse--Hawke may be dead. Were they both to survive, then Hawke would see what Fenris really was--a hate-filled killer with a black void in place of a heart--and would finally turn his back on him.

Whatever happened, Fenris saw only ruin in his future but, so long as _she_ was dead, he would embrace that ruination with the same fervour he had embraced Hawke with not so long ago. For if Hawke died defending him, Fenris would deserve no less.

Allowing his hand to brush against Hawke's one last time, he swallowed down the lump in his throat and unsheathed his sword, hearing the others ahead do the same. Staves were readied, and arrows and bolts nocked.

Following Justice and Aveline, they rounded a corner and found themselves in a large, well-lit chamber. At one end stood five mages, flanked by two bodyguards. None of the seven seemed concerned by the group's arrival, and they waited patiently for Aveline and her companions to enter, making no hostile moves.

As soon as Hawke and Fenris entered, a female mage at the centre of the group who matched Fenris's description of Hadriana raised her arms, one of which was bleeding from a fresh wound, and the entrance to the chamber crackled and fizzed with dark energy.

"Witch," barked Justice. "By using your corrupt and loathsome powers to bar our exit, you have only served to fashion your own gaol."

Hawke ventured a glance to his left, and noticed that Fenris fairly trembled with pent-up rage, his eyes drilling into the female magister. Hawke's eyes then moved to where their enemies were standing, narrowing as he spotted several sigils of red light on the ground in front of them.

"Fenris," he whispered. " _Wait_ for an opening."

A throaty, mocking laugh echoed around the chamber. "You're a wordy one, aren't you?" Hadriana said to Justice, and looked to the end of the chamber. " _Hello_ , Fenris!" she chirped, waving a hand as though greeting an old friend.

Fenris's upper lip curled in a silent snarl, and Hawke laid a firm hand across his chest, pushing him back a little. "As much as we'd love to exchange pleasantries with a bug-eyed slag all day, we'd _much_ rather see Fenris crush your throat," Hawke called out. Justice's head turned quickly in his direction, but he ignored the spirit's chastising glare.

Hadriana cocked her head and glanced at her fellow mages, who all laughed. "So, _you're_ his latest beau, are you?" she mocked with a twisted smile. "Poor Danarius will be devastated. His bed is so cold and empty without you, Little Wolf."

Several quiet gasps were heard from Aveline's group, and Sebastian and Donnic exchanged a hard look as cold realisation dawned on them. No longer able to contain his wrath, Fenris launched himself forward with a guttural cry, only to be grabbed by both Hawke and Justice.

"Cease your ingression, Elf!" Justice commanded as Hadriana's laughter reverberated around the chamber.

"Release me!" roared Fenris, his fury imbuing him with extraordinary strength.

"She's placed wards on the ground!" Hawke protested plaintively as he struggled to hold Fenris. "There's no telling what they'll do! We need time to dispel them!"

"Wards?" asked Bethany, frowning at the ground. "I can't see any wards."

" _I_ can," Merrill uttered with a knowing glance at Hawke. Bethany grabbed Merrill's arm to stop her from saying more, but Fletcher was too preoccupied with Fenris to hear Merrill's faux pas.

"Please, Fenris!" Hawke implored, grabbing him by the shoulders as Justice released the elf from his grip. "You _will_ have your chance, I swear it," he whispered to the elf, who ceased struggling and stood, panting, in front of Hawke. Justice walked over to where the wards had been placed, and carefully examined them.

"Don't rise to her," Hawke urged, his eyes on Justice. He lowered his voice so the spirit could not hear. "That's what she wants. Please, Fenris, we need to outsmart her. Then she's all yours, I swear it."

Fenris gave no answer but stared at Hawke's chest, his own chest rising and falling rapidly. Hawke ran a hand up and down Fenris's arm, comforting himself as much as the elf. From the corner of his eye he could see that Merrill was watching him.

"How _touching_ ," Hadriana mocked, pretending to wipe a tear from her eye. "Well, now that the standard insults are out of the way, let us parley."

"We will not parley with a demon's puppet," Justice answered resolutely. "Your words have as little substance as your attempts to outwit us."

"You are rather arrogant for one who is trapped in here," Hadriana replied, pointing behind herself. What had previously appeared to be part of the wall flickered and shimmered in front of their eyes, revealing a doorway. "I believe _I_ have the upper hand."

While this conversation had been going on, Varric, Sebastian and Hunter had all exchanged discreet nods, and held their weapons ready. Communicating with their eyes and barely discernible hand gestures, the three archers, with lightning speed, let fly their arrows as one, crying out in alarm and frustration as the projectiles burst into flames and disintegrated before they reached Hadriana and her accomplices.

Hadriana rolled her eyes and tapped her foot. " _Please_ don't do that again," she said in a bored tone, her eyes darting to Fenris. The elf gasped in pain and dropped to his knees, howling and clutching his head, his markings flickering violently. "Danarius would be rather cross if I brought his pet home damaged."

"Stop it!" Hawke cried out in panic, kneeling down next to Fenris.

"Don't _touch_ me!" wailed Fenris, swatting Hawke's hands away, his markings reacting even more strongly than usual to Hawke's mana field. Hawke immediately withdrew his hands but remained at the elf's side as he was slowly released from Hadriana's crippling spell.

"You'll die for that, bitch!" Hawke bellowed at the magister. He glanced at Justice, and was surprised that this time the spirit didn't react to his threat. Instead, Justice seemed preoccupied with the magical sigils.

"Now that we understand each other," Hadriana said smugly, "here is what you are going to do. You will release Fenris to me, and I will allow you all to live. Is that not a fair deal?"

"We will not listen to your lies, harridan!" Sebastian exclaimed angrily.

"If you think we'll release him to you, you're badly mistaken," added Donnic. "And, if you think we believe you'll just allow us to go merrily on our way, then you're as stupid as you are pig-ugly."

"Hey, Justice," Varric muttered to the spirit. "How's progress on those ward thingamajigs? Justice? _Hey!"_

To Varric's consternation, Justice gave no reply, and appeared to have entered a similar trance-like state as the one he'd seen in Bethany earlier. Deciding not to call attention to it, he glanced at Hawke, who slowly rose to his feet along with Fenris while Sebastian and Donnic traded insults with Hadriana.

As Fenris rose to his full height, his markings pulsed and he sensed that one of the mages had again entered the Fade. He quickly looked at Hawke, whose eyes were rolling in his head, and grabbed the mage's arms to keep him steady.

" _Anders?"_

_Hawke's eyes blinked open, and he found himself standing in a colourless place with no walls or ceiling that stretched infinitely in all directions. His friend stood before him._

" _I don't have much time," Anders said quickly. "Justice knows how to dispel the wards, he just needs a few seconds to do it. You need to create a distraction, something that will divert Hadriana's attention. All of her energies are being put into those defences of hers. Distract her, and they'll waver, leaving her vulnerable for a short time. Watch her, though, Hawke. She's not stupid."_

" _A distraction? Like what?" Hawke demanded._

The image of Anders melted away and the chamber slowly bled back into his reality. From a long way off, he could hear Fenris calling his name. Suddenly, the elf's voice was loud, strident, and blood rushed through Hawke's ears.

"Hawke? _Hawke_? Speak to me!" Fenris's hands were digging into Hawke's shoulders as he came to.

Hawke gasped as the elf's anxious face came into focus. "Fenris! It's… okay. I'm fine."

Fenris exhaled and relaxed his grip slightly. Hawke turned to face Justice, who had also come to. Hawke nodded at the spirit, who nodded back, and Hawke's eyes darted around the chamber, looking for anything he could use as a distraction.

Finding nothing of use, he left Fenris's side for a moment and moved directly behind Varric. "We need a diversion," he whispered to the dwarf while Justice vainly entreated the blood mages to surrender. Varric nodded almost imperceptibly and sidled next to Sebastian. After a very brief discussion, Sebastian moved over to Hunter while Hawke returned to Fenris's side.

"Fenris, those three are going to distract Hadriana, which will give Justice time to remove the wards. You might have a few seconds, at best, to get to her. Justice has instructions not to touch Hadriana so we'll throw everything we can at her, which will hopefully stop her casting on you. There's going to be a _lot_ of casting going on. Will you be all right?"

Fenris nodded, his eyes fixed ahead, feeling detached from his surroundings. Hawke sounded so confident, so assured of their victory, but Fenris could feel the spectre of death at his back. It didn't matter. So long as he took _her_ with him. That was all he cared about.

"I'm with you, Fenris."

He nodded again, unable to look Hawke in the eye. If he did, he would be reminded of what else he cared about and he couldn't afford to do that. Not now. He was so close he could almost smell the coppery tang of her blood.

"Well, it seems we are at an impasse," Hadriana announced, bringing Hawke back to grim reality. To his side, he noticed brief nods pass between the three rogues and he steeled himself. "Perhaps I need to be a little more persuasive?" Hadriana questioned, producing a small blade and looking at Hawke's group.

"Hey, nice ass for an evil blood-witch, or whatever the hell you're supposed to be."

"What?" Hadriana spun round, finding a grinning facsimile of Varric standing behind her. "How did you…?" She fired a disabling spell at the image of the dwarf and exclaimed in frustration when it disappeared before her eyes.

"Magister Hadriana!" one of her lackeys cried in panic. She wheeled round to find that Sebastian and Hunter had crossed her wards and were standing before her, taking direct aim at her bodyguards who froze, signalling their surrender.

"You bloody fools!" she screeched. "It's a trick!" She stepped forward and struck the double of Sebastian, which faded into nothing at her touch. Fenris felt his markings resonate as the blood-powered sigils waned and guttered courtesy of Justice. With a glance ahead, he noticed that the real Varric, Hunter and Sebastian were nowhere to be seen.

"I offered you all a fair deal, and you repay me with chicanery!" spluttered a clearly-unnerved Hadriana, and she plunged her knife into her arm, grimacing and panting as she twisted the blade. "Lillith, heed my call!"

Recognising the name, Fenris readied his sword, his eyes flashing with anger. "Yes, Hadriana, call upon your demon when your wits have deserted you! Have you no courage?"

"Kill them!" ordered Hadriana, who backed away towards the door to her rear. Her underlings immediately inflicted wounds upon themselves, preparing to cast. With the wards now dispelled by Justice, Donnic wasted no time and tackled one of the armoured bodyguards to the ground, while Aveline and Clara engaged the other, Hawke imbuing all three of them with protective magic.

"Don't fight anyone!" Hawke ordered Fenris. "Watch for an opening!" The elf, while eager to help his companions, saw the wisdom of Hawke's words and waited, although he remained vigilant in the event that anyone needed his help.

Donnic and Aveline, with Bethany and Merrill's help, vanquished the bodyguards while, to Hadriana's left, two of her flunkeys were paralysed by Justice before they'd had a chance to cast. Of the other two, one attempted to undo Justice's magic while the other, under Hadriana's whispered directions, sent a blast of red energy into Hawke's centre, slamming him against the rear wall, and he slid down to the ground, gasping.

"Hawke!" Fenris yelled, racing to his side.

"No!" croaked Hawke, his breathing irregular and harsh. "You have to… watch!" His eyes flickered closed and Fenris's face became contorted with murderous rage. His head snapped around to see two of Hadriana's lackeys fall, their throats slit from behind by Sebastian and Hunter, who'd emerged from stealth. A further one was knocked off her feet by a blow from Clara's shield, and finished off with a bolt between the eyes from a stealthed Varric.

"Lillith!" screamed Hadriana, a shrill note of panic in her voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry, darling. I was busy," a languorous, disembodied voice spoke.

All eyes turned to the scantily-clad figure that appeared from nowhere in one corner of the chamber. "Want me to take care of these… annoyances?" Lillith purred.

"Yes, but don't harm Fenris!" Hadriana ordered.

"And what's in it for me?" asked the demon, running a talon down the side of one of her breasts.

Hadriana pushed her remaining accomplice forward. "Take her!"

Lillith cocked her head as she appraised the startled blood mage. "I suppose she'll do," she murmured and, with a flick of her hand, the betrayed lackey crumpled to the ground.

Justice, who so far had observed the fight for any signs of unjust acts, placed himself between the demon and his companions. "You will not harm them," he said.

Hadriana, emboldened by the presence of her demon, once again cut into her arm, preparing a spell, while Justice was distracted.

"Get her!" cried Bethany. "But don't kill her! Save her for Fenris!"

A clamour broke out in the chamber as several things happened at once. Justice engaged the demon while Bethany, Merrill, Hunter and Sebastian threw everything they had at Hadriana, who had erected a protective forcefield around herself. Fenris, who still knelt at Hawke's side, didn't take his eyes off the magister for a second, even as Donnic arrived next to him.

"How is he, Fenris?" asked the concerned guard, for once not using elf's nickname.

"I do not know what was done to him," Fenris answered, his voice thick with anger and fear. "He lives, but who knows what foul magic has been used upon him?" He grimaced in pain as Lillith was slammed against a wall by a powerful spell of Justice's.

"He's a strong 'un, Fenris," replied Donnic. "This will all be over, soon. Hadriana can't win."

"Fen," Hawke whispered, struggling to open his eyes. "I-I'm fine. Donnic's right. You have to finish this." Hawke reached for Fenris's hand and squeezed it. Fenris squeezed it back and pushed himself to his feet, his resolve hardening.

Her forcefield waning, Hadriana, in desperation, inflicted another grievous wound to herself, although she could feel her physical strength ebbing away from blood loss. Relentlessly, her aggressors pressed home their assault and, once again, Hadriana sensed her forcefield losing its power.

"No!" she cried.

"The forcefield's down!" Merrill called triumphantly.

Hadriana's trembling hand brought her dagger up again, but, before she could cut herself, a bolt from Bianca slammed into her arm, and the knife fell from her hands as she sank to her knees, hastily grabbing it. Immediately, Aveline ran forward and placed her sword at the magister's throat.

"Lillith! Help me!" gasped Hadriana.

"Your demon is in no position to help you now," Justice boomed, stepping away from the broken body of Lillith.

With a piteous wail, Hadriana collapsed onto all fours. "Fenris! I never meant it to happen like this, I swear!" she pleaded in a pathetic attempt to save her own hide. "Danarius forced me! I-I didn't want to c--"

Her words were rudely cut off as a gauntleted hand closed around her throat and she was lifted clean off the ground. "Ack! F-Fenr-aaack!"

"Does it _hurt_?" Fenris snarled, bringing his other hand around the magister's throat.

"Have a care, Elf," warned Justice. "You will not slay her. She is unarmed."

"She tried to kill us all!" Aveline argued hotly.

"No, she ordered her subordinates to kill us. She made no such move," Justice countered.

"It's the same bloody thing and you know it!" exclaimed Donnic who, having helped Hawke to his feet, slowly walked forward with his arm around the mage's waist. Hawke clutched at his belly, gritting his teeth, but used all of his strength to stand, wanting to see Fenris have his revenge.

As Fenris's grip on Hadriana tightened, she began to choke.

"I asked you a question!" Fenris yelled. "I _said_ , does it hurt?"

Hadriana could only gurgle in reply.

"What is going through your mind, now, I wonder?" Fenris, his tone deadly, asked Hadriana, who was turning blue from the relentless pressure. "Do you regret the times you would wake me with magic, leaving me in agony for hours? Or perhaps you rue each and every insult, each and every time you spat in my face, beat me, beat the children, spoiled our food, then went simpering to your master for a pat on the head like a dog? Do you regret that now?"

Hadriana, who had by now passed out, could not answer.

Fenris's markings vibrated as gentle energy flowed from Hawke's direction into the magister. Revived by his spell, her eyes shot open and she choked again, her fists weakly pounding the elf as Fenris's thumb pushed against her windpipe.

Out of Fenris's sight, Hawke's legs buckled, his strength failing him, and Donnic helped him to sit on the ground, squatting next to him.

"We could keep you alive like this indefinitely," Fenris snarled with a malicious smile. "I could keep _you_ as _my_ slave, a plaything to be tormented when _my_ sense of failure demands it, just as I once was to you!" His skin became illuminated with a blue tint and his markings blazed fiercely.

Sebastian took a step forward. "Fenris, please," he urged gently. "You're a good man and I know you will derive no pleasure from this course of action. Reconsider, I beg you. You're better than this."

"Release her," Justice commanded. "She has been sufficiently punished."

Fenris's posture slumped and he lowered Hadriana slightly. For a moment, his companions thought he would relent, but Hawke and Donnic exchanged a quick glance, knowing better.

Fenris brought his mouth close to Hadriana's ear. "Await your master in the Void, bitch."

With a sickening snap, Hadriana's head twisted at an odd angle, and she was cast to the ground like so much detritus.

"That female was unarmed and defenceless!" bellowed Justice, charging forward. "You murdered her in cold blood! You will pay the price!"

"No!" several people cried out and Aveline, Merrill, Bethany and Sebastian all piled into Justice, straining to hold him back.

"Unhand me!" the spirit commanded. "I _will_ have justice!"

Fenris slowly bent down and reached for one of Hadriana's hands, uncurling her fingers. Her palm, which was freshly cut, held a small dagger. Fenris looked up at Justice.

"She was _never_ defenceless, spirit."

The companions who held Justice back looked at him hopefully, relaxing their grip slightly as doubt crossed his face. After a fraught moment, the spirit nodded silently, and the companions cautiously released him.

Fenris stood up and looked down upon the magister's body, saying no more. An uncomfortable silence filled the chamber, and no one was certain of what to do or say.

"Help me up," Hawke said to Donnic, who slung his arm around Hawke and slowly pulled him to his feet. With a nod to Donnic, who then released him, Hawke walked with difficulty to where Fenris was standing and stopped a short distance away.

"Fen, let's go back," he whispered, his hand lightly touching the elf's, his insides stinging when it was pushed away.

Fenris was alive. Hawke was alive. The people that had selflessly risked themselves to help Fenris were unharmed. Hadriana was dead, finally.

Where, then, was the relief, the sense of triumph? Why hadn't Hadriana's death made everything better? Why did Fenris still feel empty, disconnected, disquieted? Was Hawke's sympathy and care genuine, or was he secretly revolted by Fenris's actions?

"Leave me be," Fenris said quietly. "I do not… I need to be alone."

Aveline beckoned Clara, Hunter and Donnic towards the front exit, quietly instructing the two men to start piling up the bodies for burning, and for Clara to inform the Templars that there were a few slumbering blood mages scattered along the mountain trail for them to collect. Nodding their assent, Clara departed while Donnic, Hunter and Aveline began their grim task.

Anders, whose senses had been returned to him, walked up to Hawke and clutched his arm. "He _said_ he wants to be alone, Hawke. Let's go. Some of us need healing after _fighting_ and risking our lives for him, after all."

"A-are you sure, Fenris?" Hawke asked shakily.

With a silent nod, Fenris turned and walked towards the rear entrance.

"Where are you going to go?" asked Hawke, but Fenris continued without answering.

"Well _that's_ gratitude for you!" Anders huffed.

"Don't, Anders, please," Hawke implored quietly, his legs giving way for a second time.

"Shit, sorry," Anders replied, helping Hawke to stand. "Come on. You need to get some rest."

He guided the dazed Hawke towards the front exit, followed by Bethany, Varric and Merrill. Before they left, Sebastian approached Hawke, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll make sure he's safe, Hawke," he promised.

"Thank you," Hawke replied sincerely before being guided out by Anders.

Sebastian watched them leave, and became aware that Donnic had moved to his side.

"You saw it, too, didn't you?" asked the guard gruffly.

"Saw what?" Sebastian asked, confused.

"When we were outside. You saw the look that Anders gave Fenris while he was healing Hawke. You heard him just now. You're thinking exactly the same as I am."

Sebastian's brow furrowed, and he turned to face Donnic. "Which is?"

"That mage has got it in for Fenris, and he's manipulating Hawke. Don't deny it, Sebastian."

Sebastian sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Perhaps we're misjudging him. Maybe he's just being protective towards Hawke."

"Your Chantry schooling may make you see the good in everyone, Sebastian, but I was educated at the school of life, and I know when someone's up to no good," Donnic answered firmly.

"I can't really say," answered Sebastian. "I don't know Anders well enough."

"Well, neither do I," said Donnic, "but I have a month's stint to do in Darktown, and I think I'm going to make an effort to get to know him a little better, see what he's about."

"If you feel that's best," answered Sebastian with a glance to the rear exit. "I should check on Fenris."

"I would go with you, but I wouldn't want him to feel crowded," Donnic said quietly, shaking his head. "I have a feeling he'll be all right with you." He held out his hand to Sebastian. "We'll still be here when you get back."

Sebastian nodded, shook Donnic's hand, and left the guards to their work as he slipped out of the rear exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping Justice _just_ at all times is surprisingly difficult, but Mary always comes through for me. Full credit to her for the end scene with Hadriana and the knife in her hand that meant she wasn't defenceless after all.
> 
> Some of you may have noticed that there was no mention of Fenris's sister, Varania, in this chapter. That's because Varania is not going to be in this story at all; I have other plans. :-)


	39. Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When I felt her life leave her, when I looked down upon her body, I felt nothing. Which is worse, Sebastian? One who takes pleasure in killing and feels satisfaction from it? Or one who kills remorselessly, feeling nothing during the act or afterwards?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my sincere thanks to Mary for her wonderful beta skills, and also to Carrie for her help with keeping Sebastian in character.

Anders and Hawke had not gone far through the caves when Hawke suddenly halted, his body stiffening, and he grabbed the hand that Anders had draped around his shoulder.

"What is it?" whispered Anders, aware that Bethany was not far behind them.

"Feel… think… gon' be…" Before another word came out, Hawke bent forward, clutching his stomach hard, and spilled its contents onto the ground.

"All right, Hawke, easy," soothed Anders, rubbing Hawke's shoulder as the others quickly caught up to them.

"Brother, are you all right?" Bethany asked in concern, arriving next to him. Hawke, still bent double, glanced up at Anders, a plaintive look in his eyes, and screwed his face up, gritting his teeth to hold in an agonised wail.

"He'll be fine in a minute," Anders told them all calmly, a shiver travelling down his body as his eyes moved to the chunky puddle on the ground next to them. "Right, I need you all to _back off_ and give him some air," he said to the others, his tone sharper than he'd intended. Hoping his panic wasn't apparent, he began to assist Hawke to sit on the ground, keeping the rose-coloured vomit out of sight of the others. "Everyone back off, _please_ ," he repeated.

Although concerned and wanting to see what was going on, Bethany, Varric and Merrill duly complied. Anders's eyes locked with Varric's, quickly flitting to Bethany and then back to the dwarf.

Understanding, Varric took Bethany's arm and steered her away from the two mages. "Let's leave Blondie to his work, okay, Sunshine?"

"No." She shrugged off his proffered hand. "I'm staying."

"What's the matter with him, Anders?" Merrill asked anxiously.

Moving the trembling, puce-coloured Hawke into a lying position, Anders again looked up at the other three. He didn't yet know what was wrong with Hawke, except that it was serious, and didn't want Bethany to see her brother suffer, or worse. "I need _quiet_ ," he said in a firmer tone. "All of you, out, _now_. I'm not asking."

"Let's do as the man says," Varric said in an equally firm voice as Anders quickly rolled up his sleeves and loosened the ties of Hawke's robe. Nodding blankly, Bethany allowed herself to be led away, and Merrill, with a fearful glance at Hawke, followed them.

"M-Maker!" Hawke gasped as soon as they'd departed. "What's w-wrong? I-I can't c-c… concen… can't… agh! It hurts!"

"I think you're bleeding internally," Anders told him, pushing up Hawke's undershirt to reveal his bare chest and abdomen. "Bastard blood mages! No simple freezing or burning for them! Oh no, they have to shred your insides!"

"Hey… watch who you're c-calling a b-b…" Hawke joked weakly, before he gasped and gnashed his teeth. "Maker's fucking--!"

"Try to stay still!" Anders laid one hand on Hawke's abdomen, and the other lower down towards his groin, and closed his eyes.

"W-where's… Fe…?"

"He's around here somewhere," Anders answered shortly, fearing that voicing his true feelings about Fenris's absence might disrupt his concentration.

Anders applied gentle pressure to Hawke's abdomen, and Hawke grabbed Anders's arm hard enough to make the other man flinch, yelling as he felt something akin to molten lead being poured into his stomach.

"Sorry," Anders mumbled.

Panting, Hawke loosened his grip as the sensation eased before his arm fell limply to his side. "Did he come back?" he gasped. "Is he… is he all right?"

"He was fine when I last saw him," answered Anders truthfully, removing his hands from Hawke's belly. "It's your stomach, Hawke. I need to act fast. I'm going to put you to sleep."

"Please!" implored Hawke, grabbing Anders's arm again. "Make sure he's all right. You and he c-could be friends if you tried. And Beth… _Beth!_ Please, Anders. Look after them if… oh, Maker!" he howled, his neck cording as shards of fire stabbed into his stomach. "And M-Mother… _please!_ "

Hawke's eyes closed and his breathing settled into a regular, if shallow, pattern as Anders completed his sleep spell. Anders shook his head and looked down at his friend.

"You deserve better than him." With a frustrated sigh, he once again placed his hands on Hawke's abdomen and concentrated.

~o~O~o~

It took Sebastian a while to find Fenris, as clearly the elf had not wanted to be found. Using a combination of his wits and his limited tracking skills, however, he soon spied the unmistakable shock of white hair from behind a shrub. As he neared, he saw that the elf was sitting on the ground, his legs dangling over the edge of a rocky overhang.

Not wanting to startle him, Sebastian halted a short distance away and leaned against a large rock. Soon, though, Fenris became aware of the faint sounds of someone else's breathing, and slowly turned his head in Sebastian's direction.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sebastian remarked, looking out across the ocean.

With a quiet sigh, Fenris began to push himself to his feet.

"No, please," Sebastian said quickly, gesturing for Fenris to sit back down. With another sigh, the elf did so and, for a few minutes, neither man spoke until Fenris broke the silence.

"Why are you here? I said I wished to be alone." There was no hostility in Fenris's voice, only curiosity.

"Aye, you did," agreed Sebastian, "and, if that's what you really want, I'd be happy to leave. I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Another silence followed, and eventually Sebastian turned toward the mountain path.

Hearing the departing thud of boots against rock, Fenris turned his head slightly. "Sebastian."

The archer paused and faced the elf. "Yes, Fenris?"

"As you are already here," Fenris said in a whisper that was almost lost in the winds that whipped around the mountain top, "you might as well stay."

"You're sure?"

Fenris nodded but remained silent. Sebastian took a few steps nearer, stopping a discreet distance away, allowing the elf his space.

"Talk to me, Fenris," urged the archer softly. "Tell me what troubles you so."

"What _troubles_ me?" A quiet snort was heard from Fenris, and he turned his gaze back to the sea. "Why are you even here? You advised me not to kill her, and yet I did."

"I advised that for _your_ sake, Fenris. Not hers."

" _My_ sake?" Fenris turned around and looked directly at Sebastian, his voice quiet and uncertain. "It was for _my_ sake that I killed her."

"Yet you don't seem content."

Fenris turned away again and did not speak for several moments, finally heaving a sigh. "I thought…" He paused, and Sebastian stepped closer.

"May I sit with you?" asked the archer.

After another pause, Fenris nodded slightly.

Once he'd placed his bow and quiver on the ground, Sebastian sat next to him, bringing his own legs over the edge of the overhang. He looked vaguely in Fenris's direction, and waited for him to continue.

"When Hawke told me that Hadriana was here, I was furious with him for keeping it from me." He looked directly at Sebastian for a moment before his eyes moved to his lap. "All I could see was that the chance to finally put an end to her may have slipped through my fingers. And then, when Hawke resolved to stand with me…" He once again looked at Sebastian. "And you, and the others… I felt… I was afraid. _Terrified_ that one of you would be killed, and that she would succeed in capturing me. So, when I held her by the throat and knew that her seconds were numbered, and that my friends were now safe, I believed that ending her life would be a release, a catharsis." He shook his head. "I should have felt… relieved."

"But you didn't."

"No… I did not." Fenris drew a slow breath and looked back out to sea. "When I felt her life leave her, when I looked down upon her body, I felt _nothing_. Which is worse, Sebastian? One who takes pleasure in killing and feels satisfaction from it? Or one who kills remorselessly, feeling nothing during the act or afterwards?"

"Do you truly feel nothing, Fenris?" asked Sebastian gently. "I find that difficult to believe."

"It's still there," Fenris said, and Sebastian frowned, unsure of his meaning. "It's like a dark growth inside me. As time has gone on, it has increased in size and consumes more of me with each day that passes. I thought killing her would…" He brought both of his knees up and tucked them under his chin. "Recently, for the first time since my escape, I believed that I could start a new life, that I could… be happy," he said with a shrug. "With Hawke. He believes in me more than anyone ever has. He cares for me and I… I care for him. Deeply," he finished on a whisper.

"This incident should pose no obstacle to that new life of yours."

"Shouldn't it?" Fenris challenged, his voice acquiring a hard edge. "If anything, this _incident_ has only served as a reminder of what I am."

"And what is that?" asked Sebastian.

"A man that can kill with neither pity nor regret, without feelings of any kind. I don't even feel satisfied that she's dead. Danarius taught me well. I am ruthless, jaded and without remorse. Hawke has seen the truth of it, now. I would not blame him for turning his back on me."

"What utter nonsense," Sebastian said with conviction. "I've never heard such bunkum in my life. Hawke, if you recall, was the one who vowed to find Danarius, and it was because of that search that Hadriana was found. Do you think Hawke expected you to shake hands with her and call it even? No! He _expected_ you to kill her. As did I. Not only did she keep others in bondage and treat them cruelly, she consorted with a demon and became crazed with the power that demon offered. She _earned_ her death."

"I would not argue with that," Fenris replied, his tone hushed. "I just thought that her death would bring a sense of accomplishment, of… I had hoped that, with her dead, I would be able to… move on? If only in part. But I feel no different. I am beginning to wonder what it will take to expunge this--this blackness I have inside of me. How can I ever live a normal life--how can I give Hawke what he wants--when I am consumed by it?" His shoulders slumped and he released a long breath. "I feel it, Sebastian. It eats away at me, day and night. It drove me to put an end to Hadriana, but now she is gone…"

Fenris pushed himself to his feet and turned his back on Sebastian. "Hawke has given me so much, and I have repaid him by venting my anger and frustration upon him. He did not deserve that. I know that he would have me in his life and I, too, want nothing more. But how can I _be_ with someone, how can I make them content, when _I_ am not content? I will only end up hurting him or driving him away."

"Fenris," Sebastian began, and also stood up, moving to the elf's side.

"There is something else," Fenris said unsteadily. "When Hawke was treating my foot, he did not use any magic, knowing that it causes me pain. Sometimes…" He faced Sebastian with sadness in his eyes. "Sometimes, I almost forget what he is. When we confronted Hadriana, however, he used his powers many times. I felt pain, which made me… angry. It was not his fault, but it reminded me of what he is. I once again saw him as a _mage_ , one who is as susceptible to demonic influence and corruption as Hadriana was."

"You cannot seriously compare Hawke with Hadriana," Sebastian argued.

"I would not," answered Fenris. " _She_ dedicated her life to the suffering and torment of others, while he dedicates his to the _alleviation_ of suffering. And yet, they are of a kind. I-I cannot think straight." Fenris's shoulders sagged and he cast his eyes to the ground. "I am ashamed. It is wrong of me to even speak of them in the same breath, and yet I cannot help it."

Sebastian moved next to the elf, and they both looked out over the sea. "Seeing Hadriana again must have brought back some terrible memories for you, and caused some very dark emotions to surface. If I might venture, I think this incident has affected you far more deeply than you realise. Your confusion and ambivalence are a normal reaction to what must have been a very traumatic and disturbing experience for you. You have been reminded of your old life, of how you used to feel about yourself, of your former role. That is not the life you have now--it is long dead, but its ghost lingers."

Sebastian gently placed a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "Listen, my friend. Give yourself some time. It's only natural for you to feel uncertain after what has happened. But don't dwell on it for too long. Do not let the past interfere with your future, with your and _Hawke's_ future."

Fenris continued to gaze out to sea while Sebastian picked up his bow and quiver and slung them across his back. "Let us return to the others, now, Fenris. They'll be concerned about you."

"Yes. I suppose I must face them eventually," Fenris murmured through a sigh, turning and heading up the slope with Sebastian.

"They'll be glad to see you," said the archer. "I would imagine that Hawke in particular will welcome your company, being unwell as he is," he added, hoping to draw Fenris's attention back to the present.

"Unwell?" Fenris stopped dead and stared, aghast, at Sebastian.

"Well, yes, Fenris. He was injured by the blood mage's spell."

"But he recovered from that," Fenris said sharply. "He-he was standing, he came over to me, he cast magic upon Hadriana to revive her so that I could--" His eyes darted from side to side, his breathing quickening, and his heart pounding as anxiety gripped him.

Sebastian shook his head sadly. "He stood to see you defeat her, but then his strength failed him. When I last saw him, he appeared… quite ill. Anders was supporting him as they left. I'm sorry."

Fenris stared at Sebastian, his eyes wide, panic etched on his face. "I did not know… I was so… all I cared about was Hadriana!" He quickly turned and hurried up the path, saying no more, with Sebastian following close behind.

~o~O~o~

Having stabilised Hawke, Anders made him as comfortable as possible on the cave floor, removed all traces of vomit, and called the others back in. Hunter and Donnic, who had finished gathering the bodies, were sent out to find tree branches and foliage, as Anders wanted to light several fires to warm the cave, deeming Hawke too ill to be moved that night.

With a deep sigh that did nothing to quell his knotted stomach, Anders approached Bethany as she, Varric and Merrill entered the cave.

"How is he, Anders?" she asked eagerly. "What was wrong? What happened to him?"

Anders cleared his throat and assumed his well-practised healer's mask. "The spell, it damaged him... inside. His stomach was perforated. I've healed that," he added quickly as Bethany gasped. "He's… he's not out of the woods yet, though, Beth. Fluids have leaked into his body, which could cause problems. I'm going to start treating him immediately, but we won't really know for sure until maybe tomorrow. I'm doing everything I can for him, I swear."

"F-fluids?" Bethany stammered, glancing down at her sleeping brother. "What do you mean?"

"The spell caused him to bleed internally, and also some of the contents of his stomach will have escaped," Anders said softly. "There's a chance that…" He sighed and reached for one of Bethany's hands. "I won't lie to you, Beth--he's in danger. Those fluids could turn toxic and he could go into septic shock."

"Septic shock?" exclaimed Bethany, her eyes brimming with tears. Varric moved closer to her and stroked her back.

"I'm going to do everything I can not to let that happen," Anders reassured her, determination in his voice. "I won't leave his side." He released her hand and glanced at Varric, who gave a solemn nod. "I need to make some medicine now. Please excuse me."

"Thank you, Anders," Bethany whispered. "I know you'll do what you can."

"Come on, Sunshine," Varric said gently, leading her away to sit down.

"Can-can I do anything to help, Anders?" Merrill asked meekly as Anders sat upon the ground, cross-legged, and started to pound some herbs with his pestle and mortar.

"Actually, you can," he replied. "I need some liverwort. Do you know what that is?" Merrill nodded quickly. "You'll find it growing under rocks or at the base of trees. Just a few scrapings will do. I also need a few handfuls of red moss, it's abundant along the edges of the cliffs. You should have no trouble finding that." He passed her a small bag.

"Right, I'm on it," she said, taking the bag carefully, and turned to leave.

"Merrill?"

"Yes?"

"Don't get falling off the cliffs," he said with a thin smile.

"Oh-ho, I won't. Don't you worry about _that_." Glad to be helping, she trotted purposefully out of the cave.

Anders sighed, glancing down at Hawke. Then, a movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and his face dropped when he looked up to see Sebastian and Fenris enter, and turned his attention back to his task.

"What has _happened_?" Fenris demanded, rushing to Hawke's side and kneeling next to him.

"Oh, you _are_ bothered, then?" Anders sniped, not looking up.

"Tell me!" Fenris snarled with a livid glare at the healer.

"Well, if you _really_ want to know, while you were… wherever you were, he collapsed. Actually, he also collapsed while you were breaking that woman's neck, but I'm guessing you were too busy to notice."

"What's the _matter_ with him, Anders?" Sebastian asked firmly, placing a hand on the trembling Fenris's shoulder.

"Perforated stomach, possible peritonitis. We'll have to see," Anders told them airily, adding a little water to his concoction.

" _Peritonitis_?" Fenris exclaimed, looking panicked. "Is that not… fatal?"

"Sometimes," sniffed Anders, looking up at the elf. "But don't worry. _I'm_ taking care of him. _I_ won't leave him, no matter what."

At that moment, Hunter and Donnic entered, carrying several bundles of wood. They were followed by Aveline, who crouched next to Hawke while the other two guards set about lighting fires.

"How's he doing, Anders?" she asked.

"Still the same. I'll have to wake him in a minute to give him some medicine. There's no way he can travel tonight. I'll stay with him."

"As will I," Fenris stated.

"There's really no need, Fenris," Anders told him. "As I said, _I'm_ looking after him. _I'm_ not going to stomp off in a fit of self-pity."

"Do _not_ speak of things you know nothing of, mage," Fenris replied in a low growl, his lip curling.

"Things I know nothing of?" asked Anders. "Well, I'll tell you what I _do_ know! While you went off in a snit, Hawke here almost died! It's lucky one of his true friends were around at the time, wasn't it?"

"This is no time for pettiness!" Sebastian interposed in an angry whisper. "Show some respect for his sister, both of you!"

Anders shrugged and continued to pound his mixture while Fenris, glaring murderously at him, sat down and shuffled closer to Hawke.

Anders completed his recipe and called to Bethany. Fenris stood up as she approached her brother's resting place, Sebastian making way for them both.

"Beth, I'm going to wake him," Anders said. "You can talk to him, but keep it brief. He'll be a bit groggy so may not make much sense. Also, try not to make him laugh if possible--his stomach's still delicate."

"Fat chance of that," Bethany said glumly.

"Bet he'd love to see one of your pretty smiles," Varric said with a smile of his own.

"I'll try," she promised, and took one of her brother's hands.

"Here goes," said Anders, placing a hand on Hawke's forehead and closing his eyes. Fenris felt a sharp jolt run along his markings, but paid it no heed as Hawke slowly opened his eyes, blinking several times.

"Hawke," Anders said softly. "Bethany's here."

Hawke looked at his sister as she squeezed his hand, doing her best to smile. "Oh, hello, Beth," he mumbled.

"Hello, Fletcher. How are you feeling?"

He frowned and closed his eyes. "Not too bad," he slurred. "How's my little sis?"

"Oh, good, Brother," she replied with false chirpiness.

"Did Sebastian find Fen?" he asked her, opening his eyes.

Fenris took a step forward and coughed quietly. "Yes, he found me."

Hawke squinted, trying without luck to bring the elf into focus, and instead concentrated on the white part of the blur that stood before him. "Fen." He smiled weakly and let out a long sigh. "Are you all right?"

"I… am well," Fenris mumbled, overwhelmed by guilt and worry, before Varric prodded his arm and pushed the edges of his own mouth up with his fingers. Fenris cleared his throat again and forced a rigid smile. "I am here, and here I will remain."

"Oh, thank the Maker you're okay. I-I was worried about you."

"Do not speak further," Fenris advised in a gentle tone. "You must take some medicine."

Hawke laughed at that, and then grimaced, clutching Anders's wrist. "B-bet you're loving this, aren't you, Fen? Revenge for m-my medicine."

"All right, that's enough now," Anders said, cradling the back of Hawke's head and showing him the contents of the mortar. "You need to take this."

Hawke pulled a face upon seeing the gloopy brown liquid. "What do you call _that_?"

"Sorbitio Alvus Evacuare Celeris,"* Anders answered, noticing Fenris wince.

"That doesn't sound very nice," Hawke said heavily.

"It's not meant to be nice, it's meant to cure you," replied Anders, looking up at the rest of the group. "Um… I'll have to ask you all to leave. I'll call you back when we're done."

"I-I'd like to stay, if it's all right?" asked Bethany.

Fenris gently touched her arm and shook his head. "You would not wish to stay, nor would your brother have you stay."

She gave him a confused look, but nodded and leaned down, placing a soft kiss on Hawke's forehead. "We'll just be in the chamber next door."

"Behave yourself," he teased.

Fenris crouched down and Hawke looked directly into his eyes as he came into focus. Fenris smiled softly and ran the back of his hand down Hawke's cheek. "We will speak later."

"Good." Hawke returned his smile and closed his eyes. With a sigh, Fenris stood up and reluctantly followed the others out of the cave.

"Anders," asked Hawke. "Why have you sent them away?"

Anders groaned. "Look, we've got to flush the toxins out of you. They… they'll come out pretty fast once you drink this."

Hawke's eyes snapped open. "Wait... have you made a shitting draught and given it a fancy name?"

Anders chuckled. "A shitting draught? Is that what you call it?"

"C-can you think of a better name? It causes catastrophic diarrhea."

"I suppose not. I think my version has more of an air of mystery about it, though." He scratched the back of his neck and blew out a sigh. "There's something else in the draught, Hawke. I need your stomach empty as well as your bowels. Sorry."

Hawke's shoulders slumped. "Oh, Anders. I-I'll help you clean up afterwards." He winced and clutched his belly. 

"You'll do no such thing, Hawke. It's got to be done. Now, come on, drink up. I need to get some water heated up."

~o~O~o~

By the time Anders called the others back into the main cavern, almost an hour had passed by. Hawke, who was propped up against a small ledge, freshly-washed and wearing Anders's spare robe, was deathly pale but greeted his friends with as warm a smile as he could manage. Anders had not left his side, and mopped his sweating brow with a small cloth.

The others maintained a discreet distance as Bethany and Varric joined the two mages. Hawke, whose eyesight had improved, glanced at Fenris, who was standing apart from everyone else, looking awkward. Catching his eye, Hawke winked at him and was rewarded with a faint smile and a nod from the elf.

"Feeling any better, Brother?" asked Bethany.

"Much," Hawke replied. A lie, but an honourable one, he told himself. "This man is a bloody saint," he said to Varric, pointing at Anders. "You have no idea what he's just had to do. In fact, you don't _want_ to know. I'm still going to tell you, though, in graphic detail."

Bethany giggled, and Varric held a hand up, his nose wrinkling. "From the noises we heard, we don't _need_ graphic detail, Hawke."

"But I want to tell you, just in case you missed anything."

"A good author knows when to leave something to the reader's imagination," said Varric firmly, walking away, "and my imagination's telling me plenty. I'll leave you to it."

Hawke patted the ground to his side and Bethany sat down. "Beth, will you tell Anders to get some rest, please? He won't listen to me."

"Get some rest, Anders," she said, waggling a finger. "You need to look after yourself as well as Fletcher. We'll call you if he needs you." She took the cloth from Anders's hands and pointed away from them.

Anders sighed. "Oh, all right. I suppose I could do with letting my mana regenerate. I'll just have a two-hour kip." He pushed himself up and looked down at Bethany. "Just two hours, mind. Wake me up if I go over. Don't give him anything to eat or drink."

Bethany nodded her agreement, and Anders stretched his arms, yawned and began to walk to one of the small fires that had been lit.

"Anders," Hawke called out, and Anders turned back. "Thank you for what you've done. I really mean that."

"You've told me that a dozen times already. Just get better, that's all I want."

"Yes, get better," Bethany repeated as they watched him walk away.

"I intend to!" he replied with far more vigour than he felt. "Beth," he whispered, once again glancing at Fenris, who was talking with Sebastian and Donnic as they prepared to depart. "How's Fenris been? Any idea what he and Sebastian talked about?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what they were talking about, but he seems different since they came back. Almost… nervous," she said with a bemused shrug. "Ashamed? I don't know. He was asking me a lot of questions while we were out there--what your constitution is like, if you've ever been seriously ill or injured before, how long it took you to recover, that kind of thing. When we heard you vomiting he looked like he wanted to kill Anders. I'd say he's worried sick."

Hawke again looked at Fenris, just catching the elf staring at him before averting his eyes and turning away. "He doesn't need to be worried to want to kill Anders. This will prove to be an interesting night, with both of them competing to look after me," he added with a sigh.

"Let _them_ worry about that, Fletcher, not you," she advised. "Besides, I think Sebastian's telling-off did the trick. They seem to be avoiding each other for now."

"Let's see how long that lasts."

"Well, Varric and I are staying. Varric said he'll defuse any tension, and if they take no notice of him, he'll pin them both to a wall with a bolt."

Hawke began to laugh and then grabbed his belly, failing to hide his pain from his sister.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Brother! I didn't mean to make you laugh!"

"Don't worry," Hawke said, forcing a smile between pants. "It-it's fading, now." He took one of his sister's hands and squeezed it. "Thanks for making me laugh. It was worth it. So, how does Varric intend to relieve hostilities?"

Bethany rolled her eyes and groaned softly. "I think he's planning to read some of his friend fiction to us later."

Hawke's face dropped like a stone. "Oh, Maker."

"He's just started a story about a love triangle between you, Fenris and Anders."

"He's done _what_?"

"But I've convinced him that it may not be well-received, so he's going to read another one."

Hawke closed his eyes and slumped.

"Merrill's going to stay as well," Bethany went on. "She insisted. She's been beside herself with worry over you."

"Merrill has?"

She nodded and looked over her shoulder, where the Dalish elf was talking to Varric. "I think she wants to talk to you. Shall I send her over?"

"Yes please, sis. Who else is staying?"

"That's it. Aveline and Hunter have already left. Hunter agreed to do Fenris's shift tonight, so he needs to get a bit of sleep. Aveline said she'll make sure the templars don't come _too_ far up the mountain."

Bethany stood up and smiled down at her brother. "I'll try to further dissuade Varric from his plans."

"Tell him that friend fiction induces spontaneous projectile vomiting in someone with my condition, whatever that is. Anders won't tell me, he just said I've got a dicky stomach."

Bethany nodded, her smile fading by a fraction. "I'll send Merrill to you," she said quickly. Hawke blew her a kiss, which she caught, before seeking out Merrill.

The Dalish elf hesitantly approached Hawke, her eyes as big as saucers. "Hawke, how's your tummy?" she asked, her voice low and quiet as she twisted her fingers together.

"I feel much better now, Merrill. _You_ don't look too good, though. Is everything all right?"

She quickly glanced around the cavern and sat on her haunches beside him, wrapping her arms around her knees, her voice barely a whisper. "I-I hope I didn't drop you in it."

"What do you mean?" he asked with a frown.

"When Bethany said she couldn't see the wards, and then I went and put my foot in my gob and said I _could_. Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, Hawke. I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that."

"Oh, _that_." Hawke sighed and gently touched Merrill's arm. "It's not your fault. I should have been honest with you from the start. You guessed, didn't you, soon after we met. I lied to you then, Merrill, and I'm sorry for that."

"Oh, it's all right," she replied, and the two of them shared a brief but thoughtful silence. "I've never seen you…"

"I haven't used it for eleven years."

"Have you told Fenris?" she asked, and Hawke's eyes closed, his head falling back on his shoulders. "Oh… I'll take that as a no, then."

"I'm--I'm going to," he whispered. "It's just finding the right time. Although I doubt any time will be right for him to hear that."

"Well, you let me know when you _do_ tell him, Hawke. I'll come with you. Don't worry, I can stand up for myself."

Hawke squeezed Merrill's arm and smiled genuinely, touched by her desire to help. "That's really kind of you, but something tells me that Fenris wouldn't want anyone else to be there."

"Hm, maybe you're right," she said pensively. "Well, you know where I live. If you want to talk to someone, come and see me and we'll have a drink together. If you like tea, that is. Well, that's assuming I actually have some. Let's say water for now, and that way your expectations won't be too high."

"I'll bring the tea. Cake, too." He beckoned her closer and placed a kiss on her cheek. "You're a good soul, Merrill."

She rubbed her cheek and grinned bashfully. "Careful. You don't want to make him jealous." She stood up and glanced at Fenris, who once again pretended he hadn't been watching. "I think he wants to come over. I-I-I-I'll go."

"Thank you, Merrill. And stop worrying," he told her as she walked away.

A few minutes later, Donnic and Sebastian approached him with Fenris, who lurked behind them. The two men exchanged pleasantries with Hawke and enquired about his health, before bidding him goodnight. Sebastian promised to pray for his recovery.

As they left, Fenris stood, ill-at-ease, suddenly feeling naked and exposed without his friends' company. "You are… feeling better?" he asked tentatively.

Hawke nodded. "Come and sit down."

With a soft sigh, Fenris sat upon the ground a few feet away from Hawke.

"Do I smell or something?" Hawke teased.

Looking shocked, Fenris mumbled, "No," and scooted a little nearer, but still maintained his distance.

"How are you, Fenris? Did you work things out with Sebastian?"

Fenris hung his head and drew a slow breath. "Yes. I…" He shuffled closer still to Hawke and started to speak, but was unable to find the right words.

"You don't have to tell me," Hawke said softly. "It was a private conversation between the two of you."

"No, I… want to tell you," Fenris began before sighing.

"Just not tonight. I understand."

Fenris nodded and finally looked at Hawke, uncertainty in his eyes. "I had not realised the extent of your injury. Had I known..."

"No, Fenris. Don't do that to yourself." Hawke reached for his hand and gently stroked the elf's fingers with his thumb. "Hadriana's dead, and we're all safe. That's all that matters."

Remembering Anders's ominous words concerning Hawke's condition, Fenris squeezed his hand tightly and looked at him with determination in his eyes.

"Fletcher, I want you to know that I will never leave your side again, not as long as I draw breath. I give you my word."

Thinking of his impending confession, Hawke closed his eyes, butterflies flitting about in his stomach: razor-winged, cruel and angry butterflies, mocking and hurting him with their frantic, aberrant dance. Hawke hid his pained grimace and continued to stroke Fenris's hand, and they sat in silence for what seemed like an age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This roughly translates as: 'Draught for rapid evacuation of the bowel/stomach'. My knowledge of Latin is limited to what I can find on Google, and I've probably conjugated it completely incorrectly, but I liked the way the words sounded in that order. :-)


	40. The Elephant In The Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Guardsman Fenris, having new-found respect for the cats, nodded once to the white-haired tomcat, who nodded back in acknowledgement. Then, they turned and went their separate ways."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Mary for her superb beta, which has once again added polish and emotional depth to this story. And she did all of this with what I suspect was a hangover. :P

Bethany woke Anders after an hour as promised and he approached Hawke and Fenris, who he noticed were holding hands. Apparently they'd made up, or at least reached an understanding. He took a deep breath, anger coiling tightly in his stomach at Hawke's naivety and Fenris's ability to manipulate him.

"Anders! Have a good sleep?" a more lucid Hawke asked him.

"Not too bad," Anders replied dispassionately, taking several bunches of herbs and a few small phials out of his pack. "Fenris," he said without looking at the elf. "Would you excuse us? I need to prepare some medicine."

"You do not need me to leave in order to prepare medicine," Fenris replied tightly.

"I'm going to need Fletcher's help," Anders said, and the fact he used Hawke's first name was not lost on the elf. "Wouldn't want you to feel left out or anything."

Fenris moved closer to Hawke in a clearly possessive display. "I will take my chances."

Hawke sighed and closed his eyes. "Will you two give it a rest just for one night? For my sake?"

Both men fell silent and had the grace to look mildly ashamed.

"They're still bickering," Bethany said to Varric as they listened to the exchange from a short distance away. "I don't want Fletcher worrying about them. It'll do nothing to help his recovery."

"I know just what they need," proclaimed Varric, patting his story book.

"Not _that_ story," Bethany warned.

Varric gave a melodramatic sigh. "Oh, all right. You never let me have any fun."

"You'll get more fun than you bargained for if they hear _that_ one. Particularly the bit where Guardsman Fenris puts manacles on Anders, who resists arrest?"

He chuckled. "You could be right, Sunshine. Maybe they're not quite ready for that one yet. I do have that other one where the elf goes to the clinic."

"You mean the one with the cats?"

"The very same."

"I think that might work," she said, her expression brightening. "Fletcher will like it, anyway, and hopefully they won't end up killing each other afterwards. It might cheer Fenris up a bit, too."

"Hey, Daisy!" Varric called over to Merrill, who was making some tea. "Care to hear a story?"

She glanced at them, looking worried. "Ooh, I don't know. Is it a scary one?"

"Only if fluffy kittens scare you."

Merrill's face lit up and she joined Varric and Bethany. "I'm not scared of cats. I like them. They're cute."

"Then we're all winners," declared Varric, who led the two ladies over to the others.

"Gather round, children," he told the group and he, Bethany and Merrill sat upon the ground in front of the three men. "Uncle Varric's going to tell you a story."

"A story?" whispered Fenris, an eyebrow rising sharply as he glanced furtively at Merrill and Bethany. "I have heard about your _… stories_. Is this going to be lewd?"

"Of course not," Varric reassured him smoothly, understanding his concerns. "You really think I'd read a _lewd_ story in front of Sunshine with her big brother here?"

Bethany pursed her lips. "Funny, that. I just had to twist your arm to convince you _not_ \--"

" _Anyway_ ," Varric interrupted with a stern glance at Bethany, before turning back to Fenris. "There's a lot more than just smut in my repertoire, I'll have you know."

Fenris nodded. "In that case, I meant no offence."

"Well, good." Varric cleared his throat and opened his book, taking a moment to find the right page. "Ah, here we are. Are you all listening? Blondie?"

Anders looked up from his mortar and pestle for a moment before returning to his task. "I'm listening."

"Once upon a time, there was a good and kindly mage named Blondie," Varric began, noting with satisfaction that Anders looked up again. "He gave all of his spare time to treat the sick, the injured and the infirm, and asked for not a copper in return. But, not only did he care for the residents of Darktown, he also took in numerous stray cats that had no homes, and were lonely and sad."

"Aw, poor kitties," said Merrill as Anders's hand stilled on the pestle.

"But they _weren't_ poor, Daisy! They were the happiest kitties in all of Thedas, for Blondie cared for them as he would his own children," Varric went on, hearing a quiet snigger from Anders. "Those cats loved that mage, and he loved them ten times back in return. At night, when Blondie closed the clinic, his feline friends would snuggle up to him, and they'd keep each other warm."

A quiet groan was heard from Hawke and he glanced at Fenris, whose nose had wrinkled in disgust.

"But Daisy," Varric said to the rapt mage, "their happiness was not to last. One day, the clinic was visited by one of the city guards, who was conducting a health inspection on behalf of the viscount."

"And would that guard happen to be named Fenris?" the warrior elf asked in a bored monotone.

"Have you been reading my book, elf?" asked Varric, feigning outrage.

"You should understand, dwarf, that I do not like cats at _all_ ," Fenris informed him.

"Well, they probably wouldn't like _you_ , either," sniped Anders.

Varric glanced at Bethany and the dwarf laughed. "That makes the story even more authentic, then! Anyway, upon seeing the cats in the clinic, the guardsman--who was named Fenris, don't you know--declared them a health hazard, and ordered Blondie to get rid of them, or else the clinic would be closed forever."

"Oh, boo, Fenris!" Merrill exclaimed, poking her tongue out at him.

"What? This is a _story_!" Fenris spluttered with an incredulous look at the mage. "Do you even know what that means? It means it is fabricated!" With a glance to his left, he noticed that Hawke was laughing softly, apparently not in pain. Fenris took a deep breath, deciding that he would make the sacrifice of listening to this drivel for Hawke's sake.

Ignoring them, Varric continued. "Blondie tried to appeal to Guardsman Fenris's better nature, and introduced him to the cats. There was a tubby one with messy brown fur named Hawke…"

"Cheeky git," Hawke muttered, hearing quiet snickering from _both_ sides of him. Glancing quickly to his right, he barely caught the remnants of a smile on Fenris's lips. "Are you mixing that or what?" he asked Anders, who was no longer paying any attention to his medicine.

"Yes," Anders replied absently, and he began to pound the contents of the mortar, although his eyes remained on Varric.

Hawke gave Varric a charming smile. "And was there also a short-arsed, big-nosed cat that was bald and furry at the same time?"

"Can't say there was, Hawke," Varric sniffed, once again clearing his throat. "And there was a very pretty one that looked after all the other cats, and everyone who ever met her adored her. Her name was Sunshine." Bethany shook her head and giggled.

"Then, there was a gingery-blond tomcat that was a little scrawny, but was very kind--"

"How can cats be _kind?"_ demanded Fenris.

"Well, this cat was. His name was Blondie."

"Was there one called Merrill?" asked the Dalish mage hopefully.

"Well, sure there was, Daisy! She was also a very pretty cat, and she loved to play with the others. She also collected shiny things."

Merrill laughed in delight, too happy to notice Fenris scowl and roll his eyes.

"The cats gathered around Guardsman Fenris, rubbing their heads against his legs, wanting to make friends with him, but the wicked man was having none of it. Only _one_ of the cats didn't approach him--a slender white tomcat with green eyes that sat off on his own, watching silently. Then, as their eyes met, the tomcat turned and sauntered off, not even deeming the guard worthy of his time."

"A slender, white-haired tomcat with green eyes?" scoffed Fenris, shaking his head. "And I wonder what _his_ name was?"

"Ooh! I know! I know!" squealed Merrill excitedly.

"Shh, Daisy!" intoned Varric. "Don't spoil it for everyone."

"No, Merrill, _please_ don't spoil it for us," Hawke chortled. "I really have no _idea_ who he's talking about, I'm sure."

"Ha! I'm cleverer than you!" Merrill teased. "I'm not saying a word!"

"Never mind all that!" interrupted Anders, almost spilling his mixture. "What happened to the cats?"

"Give me that!" Hawke ordered, snatching the mortar and pestle from him, and he began grinding his own medicine with what little strength he had.

Varric shook his head sadly for effect, his voice wavering as he spoke. "Guardsman Fenris served Blondie with some papers, ordering him to have the cats gone by the following day, or they'd be…" He lowered his voice to a whisper, " _... destroyed_. Blondie looked down upon his purring friends--his best friends in the world--and fell to his knees, sobbing."

"Oh, come on!" Anders protested with a laugh.

Fenris folded his arms. "So, naturally, _Fenris_ is the villain?"

"No! He's no villain, elf," replied Varric. "He's just doing his job. Anyway, Blondie vowed that no guard with a stick up his ass was going to get his hands on his little pals. The next morning, he took his cats down into the bowels of the Undercity, through secret tunnels used to help apostates escape."

Anders sat bolt upright. "Hey! How do you know about that?"

"Blondie… this is _me_ you're talking to, remember? Anyway, he wrapped his little friends up in blankets, gave them a treat and told them to stay put. When he arrived back at the clinic, Guardsman Fenris had returned with a bunch of other guards. _Tear this place apart!_ he ordered them gruffly," he related, giving his best impersonation of Fenris.

"Oh, Fenris, how _could_ you!" an agitated Merrill demanded.

"Yes, Fenris, how _could_ you?" Hawke joined in with a smirk. Speechless, Fenris clapped a hand over his eyes and shook his head.

"And what happened then?" prompted Anders, eagerly sitting forward.

"Well, Blondie, the guards split up and Guardsman Fenris went down into the bowels of Darktown, eventually finding a concealed entrance to a tunnel. Intrigued, the elf lit a torch, entered and cautiously made his way along, a satisfied grin spreading across his chops when he heard plaintive mewling sounds from up ahead."

"Oh, no!" gasped Merrill, covering her mouth with her hands.

"He pressed on, eventually finding a shivering bundle of fur and blankets. _Ah, I have you now!_ he announced triumphantly, unsheathing his sword." Varric paused dramatically and took a long drink from his waterskin.

"Varric!" Merrill and Anders exclaimed in unison.

Wiping his mouth, Varric cleared his throat and continued. "Well, something funny happened, then. As he bent over them, intending to viciously slay them, he noticed that the white tomcat he'd seen the night before was sitting to his side. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them. As he glanced down at the poor creatures with their huge, pleading eyes and cute little noses, his heart melted. With a sigh, he turned and walked away. Before he left, though, something told him to turn back. He did so, and once again his eyes met the white-haired cat, who gave him an approving look."

"An… a-approving…?" Hawke clutched at his belly, snorting with laughter. "Anders! Make it stop! It hurts!"

"So, cats can be approving as well as _kind_?" Fenris queried acerbically.

"Shh! I haven't finished yet!" Varric scolded them. "Guardsman Fenris, having new-found respect for the cats, nodded once to the white-haired tomcat, who nodded back in acknowledgement. Then, they turned and went their separate ways."

"And-Anders!" wailed Hawke. "Maker's balls! My stomach! The c-cat…nodded in ack... oh, mercy! It hurts!"

"Stop making him laugh, Varric!" chuckled Anders.

Fenris shook his head, the sight of Hawke laughing uncontrollably causing the edges of his mouth to upturn slightly. "It would appear I have sorely underestimated the feline species. Not only are they capable of kindness _and_ approval, they can also _nod in acknowledgement_."

"S-stop it!" Hawke spluttered, leaning against Fenris to prevent himself from sliding onto his back. "Mercy, Fen, please!"

"Do you want to hear the end of the story or not?" demanded Varric, feigning impatience.

"Yes! Shut up, you lot!" Merrill commanded.

" _Thank_ you, Daisy. Well, Guardsman Fenris went back to his men and called off the search, stating that Blondie must have gotten rid of the cats already. Blondie realised he wasn't telling the truth, though, because before Guardsman Fenris left, Blondie mouthed 'thank you' to him.

"After that, Guardsman Fenris became a regular visitor to the clinic, always claiming to have some kind of minor illness or whatever. Now and again, he brought little toys and treats for the cats, professing to have 'found' them. One day, he asked Blondie where the white-haired tomcat with green eyes was. Blondie's face fell, and he said that the only cat there'd ever been matching that description was the first cat he'd seen at the clinic…"

He paused and sighed theatrically. "…That had sadly passed away."

"When?" gasped Merrill, her eyes brimming with tears.

Varric fixed her with an intense look. "A _year_ before."

"Oh!" exclaimed Merrill, dabbing at her eyes. "So, he-he was watching over them?"

"M-Maker!" howled Hawke, grabbing Anders's robe. "P-put me to s-sleep! Please! I can't take the pain!"

"I can't!" Anders apologised, his own body racked with laughter. "I can't concentrate!"

"That was _beautiful_ , Varric," Merrill stated, her voice trembling. "Thank you."

"It was b-bloody awful!" Hawke choked out.

" _Truly_ ," agreed Fenris, desperately trying not to laugh himself.

Bethany and Varric exchanged smiles, and Varric turned to a different page. "Another?"

~o~O~o~

After Varric had told a couple more stories--but not _that_ story--Anders finally called a halt when Hawke warned that he would have an 'accident' if he laughed one more time. The group, visibly more relaxed, set about making a late supper, and even Fenris temporarily left Hawke's side to assist, leaving Anders to finish off a huge batch of medicine, which simmered in a cauldron over the fire.

As Merrill and Bethany tidied up, Varric and Fenris joined Hawke and Anders, each carrying two bowls of skilly* and dumplings, as well as a large hunk of bread apiece.

Fenris placed his two bowls next to Hawke and began to tear the bread, but Anders held a hand up to stop him. "Sorry. Hawke can't have anything to eat for now."

"Oh," murmured Fenris with an apologetic look at Hawke, and passed Hawke's share to the other two, who proceeded to split it three ways.

"Bastards," Hawke grumbled along with his stomach. "So when _can_ I eat?"

"We'll have to see how you go during the night," Anders answered, passing Hawke a tin mug. "Here, drink this."

Hawke frowned at the contents of the mug and beckoned Fenris closer. "Remember this?" he asked the elf, showing him the green-brown slop within.

"My medicine," Fenris recalled, grimacing as he sniffed at it.

"This is a concentrated version of that, and it has liquorice in it, which I detest," he said morosely. "Plus, I have to take it every two sodding hours."

"You have my sympathy," Fenris commiserated with an impish glint in his eye. "You had better drink your sludge before it gets cold," he whispered, repeating Hawke's teasing directions when treating Fenris's foot.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" bleated Hawke as the two ladies arrived and sat down with their meals.

"Do what he says, Hawke," Anders directed. "You've another dose to take straight after."

" _Another_?" Hawke exclaimed, pouting as he brought the mug to his lips. "I hate you all." He took a deep breath and, preferring not to prolong the experience, downed the medicine in one. With a convulsive shudder, he slammed the mug down next to Anders, his eyes streaming as it was promptly re-filled.

The second mug seemed to have a soporific effect on Hawke, and he started to doze as the others finished their supper. "That'll be the hops," Anders quietly explained, standing up. "I was worried I'd put too much in, but that seems about right. Well, I'm going to have another kip. I need to be up again in a couple of hours."

"I could administer the medicine," offered Fenris with a shrug. "I wake frequently during the night. If you would tell me the required dosage?"

Anders glanced down at the elf and sighed, reluctant to relinquish his position as Most Important And Indispensable Friend To Hawke.

"Maegz zense," Hawke maundered drowsily. "You zhould ge'zmuch ress z'pozz'ble, Andzz. You're the moze 'mportant one here."

Suitably flattered, Anders felt warmth spread through his chest, and he nodded slowly. "All right," he agreed after a pause, knowing that, of all people, Fenris would not forget to administer Hawke's medicine. He went into his pack and took out a candle, which he notched several times with a small knife, and passed it to Fenris. "Each mark represents roughly an hour. In two hours' time, he'll need _another_ two doses. It'll be more palatable for him if it's warmed up."

Fenris nodded and walked to the fire pit, where he lit the candle.

"After another two hours, give him a single dose," Anders went on. "You can start giving him sips of water, then, as much as he can manage. Wake me up in time for the dose after that. I'll need to check his temperature."

"Very well," replied Fenris.

"This medicine will have a similar effect on him as the one you took," Anders told the elf. "He's going to feel like crap during the night, but he _will_ improve, hopefully by tomorrow. He may also perspire a lot, but that's normal. If he gets chills, make him some tea with this." He passed Fenris a small pouch containing crushed, dried flowers. "That's elderflower and chamomile. Don't give him anything to eat. If you're in doubt at all, wake me up. Don't let him tell you he's a healer and he knows best. If _you're_ in any doubt, call me."

"Understood."

"See you all in the morning, then. 'Night," Anders said to the group and went behind a rock to relieve himself before turning in.

"Goodnight," called Bethany along with the others, and she crouched down next to her brother, placing a kiss on his cheek. "Sleep well, Fletcher." She then stood, walked up to Fenris, and also kissed him softly on the cheek. "Goodnight, Fenris. I know you'll take good care of him."

"Yes… goodnight, Bethany," he mumbled awkwardly with a polite smile.

"Hey! Where's _my_ kiss?" Varric complained.

" _You've_ had plenty," Bethany answered, walking away. "Merrill, would you care to share our fire?"

"Oh, yes," replied Merrill, realising that was a cue to leave the two men alone. She looked at Fenris, having no intention of _kissing_ him, but wondered how to say goodnight in a polite way. Fenris nodded curtly at her and she nodded back, glad for _that_ problem to be solved. She then joined Bethany and Varric, where she persuaded the dwarf to tell her yet another story (but not _that_ one).

Fenris sat down next to Hawke, who appeared to have nodded off. With a glance around to make sure no one was watching, he also kissed Hawke on the cheek. "Goodnight, Fletcher," he said softly, and laid his head against Hawke's shoulder.

"'Zat my lovely elven pillow?" Hawke mumbled, snuggling closer.

"Must you?" Fenris groused, not altogether convincingly.

"Yesss… musssst…" drawled Hawke, Fenris's quiet snort the last thing he heard.

~o~O~o~

Fenris awoke some time later, feeling a faint vibrating sensation along his body. He glanced at Hawke, who'd wrapped his arms around himself and shivered violently, his teeth chattering.

"F-Fen," he stuttered.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Fenris reprimanded softly. He placed his hands on Hawke's arms and rubbed them up and down in an attempt to keep him warm. "Wait here," he instructed and, releasing Fletcher's arms, pushed himself up.

"W-where else am I g-g-going to g-go?" stammered Hawke with his best attempt at a laugh.

"Forgive me. I did not intend to be irreverent," said a concerned Fenris, walking to the fire, upon which he threw a few of the tree branches that had been collected earlier. He then produced the small pouch that Anders had given him and frowned at it.

"W-what's wrong, F-Fen?"

"Anders said I should make some tea with this if you have chills, and yet he also said that I am not to give you water until a few hours from now."

"No, it's f-fine."

"I can prepare this now?" Fenris asked, and Hawke nodded. Fenris looked at the candle, which he'd placed on top of a small ledge; it indicated that close to two hours had passed by. "I should warm up your medicine first. Or should you have the tea, first?"

"The tea," answered Hawke, who was still trembling but had warmed up a little as the fire grew. "That medicine'll knock me out again."

Fenris, under Hawke's directions, placed the correct amount of dried petals into Hawke's mug and put some water on to boil. "It will not take long," he assured the shivering Hawke, walking back to him.

"We'll m-make a healer of you, yet," Hawke joked as Fenris knelt between Hawke's legs and once again began rubbing his arms.

"Why must you take so much of the medicine?" asked Fenris. "Why is it concentrated? Why has it caused you to tremble in such a way?"

"Well, f-firstly, you're an elf," Hawke explained, his stammer easing as Fenris continued to warm him. "You weigh a lot less than me so a weaker concentration was sufficient. The course I g-gave you was for a generalised infection, which is taken over a longer period of time. With me… well, Anders hasn't said but I think I can guess what he's treating me for. He's just being cautious, that's all."

He smiled gratefully at Fenris, feeling warmer and much more comfortable. "He's put a few extra things in the medicine to induce a fever, the idea being that any infection is sweated out. That's becoming an outmoded way of thinking, but Anders is going by the book. He does things properly. If it doesn't work, then he'll resort to more unusual measures."

Fenris nodded seriously, his brows knitting together. "Are you… in danger, still? Tell me the truth."

Hawke sighed. "I think Anders is treating me as if I have peritonitis, as a preventative measure. It can take between one and two days before any symptoms become apparent, so… there's no way of knowing, yet. Listen, whatever you may think of Anders, there's no better healer in the Free Marches. I'm in the best hands. And I have my trainee healer with me, as well," he added with a grin.

"Trainee healer?"

"Yes, you, of course."

Fenris didn't laugh, and sighed as his large eyes met Hawke's.

"Fen, can we talk? I mean, would you like to? It might make you feel better."

"No," Fenris replied firmly. "You must concentrate on your recovery. You do not need to be encumbered by anything else."

"But it'd make _me_ feel better if we talked as well. I'm worried about you."

"I… should prepare your tea first," Fenris said quietly, again standing up. He walked over to the fire, shame burning his face and belly. As much as it vexed Fenris to admit, the abomination _had_ been correct: Fenris had abandoned Hawke, taking off with a thought for no one but himself. Shaking his head as he poured the hot water into the mug, he gave himself a mental slap across the face. Hawke was ill, perhaps seriously ill, and he did _not_ need Fenris feeling sorry for himself. He needed Fenris to be _strong_.

"You okay there, Fen?" Hawke quietly called out.

Fenris, having made the tea, nodded and walked back to Hawke, sitting beside him and passing him the mug.

"Ooh." Hawke shuddered, a chill running through him as he held the hot mug, taking a few sips.

"You are perspiring," Fenris observed and he leapt up, grabbed the cloth Anders had used to mop Hawke's brow with, and moistened it with cool water. He then wrung it out, folded it and placed it on Hawke's forehead, before once again settling down next to him.

"You'll have to fill in at the clinic sometimes," Hawke said, gazing at the elf with a warm smile. "You have a wonderful bedside manner."

A modest smile crept along Fenris's lips. "I would have no patience for those with minor afflictions," he confessed. "I would tell them to stop feeling sorry for themselves." He paused and a thoughtful look came over him. Hawke watched him carefully, but said nothing. "Perhaps I should take my own advice."

Hawke remained silent and moved one of his legs aside, allowing Fenris to sit closer to him. "I have not been myself lately," Fenris began, staring at the ground.

"Which is understandable."

Fenris shrugged. "Is it? Fletcher… I do not often show my feelings. With you, though, I cannot help myself, whether those feelings are good or bad. What I neglect to do, however, is explain myself, to tell you _why_ I yell at you, or _why_ I shut you out."

"Fenris, I understood how you felt," Hawke said softly.

"That does not make it right." Fenris turned further towards Hawke. "Perhaps it is an excuse, but when I was a slave, I was conditioned to remain quiet and keep my feelings hidden. I was not _supposed_ to have feelings."

"But you do," Hawke said. "And sooner or later those feelings have to come out."

"But sometimes… I cannot control them," Fenris replied in a hushed tone, sadness and longing in his eyes as they met Hawke's.

Hawke sighed and gently stroked Fenris's shoulder. "You're still learning how to do that. _I've_ had twenty-six years to learn how to hide or displace certain feelings, or pass them off with a joke. _You_ remember barely six months of your life as a slave, and for the three years you've been on the run, you were mostly alone until… how long have we known each other? Almost three months? And all of a sudden you're lumped with a group that mostly consists of mages," he said with a smile. "I'd say you're doing pretty well, considering."

"I have learned one thing, if nothing else," Fenris replied humbly, touched by Hawke's understanding. "There _are_ good mages. You and your sister, for example. I never imagined those words would ever leave my mouth, yet you have proven me wrong more times than I can enumerate, and I am glad of that."

"And what about Anders? Do you think you'll ever accept him?"

Fenris thought about that for several moments. "We both care for you," he eventually said. "Whatever else I think of him, I would trust him to protect you. Should that ever change, I will rethink my position. For now, though, I will tolerate him for your sake."

Hawke sighed. "I suppose that's the best I can hope for."

"He _was_ correct, however, when he accused me of abandoning you to wallow in self-pity," Fenris said in a bitter tone.

"Fen…"

"No." Fenris touched Hawke's arm to silence him, needing to explain, to honour their relationship with his honesty. "That was completely unacceptable. In doing that, I insulted not only you, but those who accompanied us, everyone who gave up their time and placed themselves at risk for _me._ I intend to call on each of them in due time to thank them but, for now, I give _you_ my thanks, with every fibre of my being. You have no idea what this means to me, and the thought that you are… ill because of…"

"I'm ill because we were in a fight and I got hurt. It happens," Hawke replied with a firm edge to his voice.

"You are _ill_ because--" Fenris sighed and snorted softly. "Perhaps." He took Hawke's mug, which was now empty, and stood up, moving over to the fire on which he placed the cauldron of medicine. He then returned to Hawke and sat next to him. "I need to stop seeing myself as a slave, Fletcher," he said quietly. "Sebastian advised me as much, for my own sake, but I need to do that for _your_ sake, also." He took one of Hawke's hands. "I have a new life, now, and I am fortunate enough that you are part of it. I will do nothing more to jeopardise it."

He moved his other hand up to rest on Hawke's cheek, and Hawke moved his own hand to stroke Fenris's hair. "Until today, Fletcher, part of me refused to believe that you…" He sighed. "Part of me believed I was unworthy of your care. I no longer feel that way. Today, you saw the worst of me, and still you accept me. If you are willing, I would very much like for us to…" He hung his head and shrugged. "I… cannot find the words."

"I think I know what you mean," Hawke replied, his stomach fluttering, and a frown creased his forehead. "Although you haven't seen the worst of me, yet."

"I am beginning to wonder if there _is_ a 'worst of you'," Fenris said, moving closer to Hawke, brushing his lips against the mage's.

Hawke gulped and drew back slightly. "There is. We all have a dark side."

Fenris also pulled away and glanced at the cauldron, from which light steam was rising. "Should you wish to confide in me, I will not judge you," he promised, little realising the effect his words had on Hawke.

"I-I know," Hawke whispered, feeling slightly nauseous. "There _is_ something, but..." He shook his head. "Oh, Maker, I'm not sure how to say this."

"Not now," Fenris interjected. "When you have recovered, we will talk, as soon as it is convenient for you to do so. It will do you no good to keep it buried inside."

Hawke nodded slowly, a burning in his gut, and he pulled Fenris close. "I want you to know that you… you mean a lot to me. Whatever happens, I…"

Hawke was silenced as Fenris's lips met his, and Hawke cradled the elf's face, losing himself in Fenris's tender kiss. Fenris gently broke the kiss and once again took Hawke's hand. "Whatever it is, it will _not_ keep me from you," the elf vowed. "Not now." With a broad smile, he stood up and went to the fire, where he filled Hawke's mug with medicine.

Something horrible swelled inside Hawke and he released a shaky breath, quickly dashing away the tear that slid down his cheek, ready to plaster a grin across his face when Fenris returned to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Skilly: A type of thin porridge made with oatmeal and flavoured with meat, vegetables or whatever is to hand. Very cheap and simple to make, it was a staple among peasants during the Middle Ages.
> 
> 'That' story--the one Bethany didn't want Varric to read out--is called _The Long and the Short of it_ and is published here, part of the PAAA series.


	41. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me," Fenris uttered, his voice a distant rumble of thunder: barely audible, but with a latent menace. "Tell me this is one of your… jokes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thank-you to Mary for tackling such a long chapter and for your suggestions which, as always, were spot-on.

" _You're making rather a habit of misplacing people, aren't you, my pet? Or is it 'losing' them? I never know how you mortals say it."_

_Hawke folded his arms and rolled his eyes, his casual stance belying the irritation and anger that bubbled up inside him. "What do you want?" he asked, affecting a bored tone._

" _First that poor lad you… defiled, followed by your father, then that oafish brother of yours. What was his name? Cadaver? Oh, wait… that's what he ended_ up _as. My apologies." The demon threw her head back and cackled._

" _Is this going to take long?" Hawke snapped, and the look in her eyes told him that she was satisfied she'd riled him._

" _I just thought we could catch up," she said, feigning hurt as she cupped one of her breasts in what she supposed was a seductive way. "It's been far too long."_

" _It hasn't been long_ enough _. Just say what you've got to say, then fuck off," Hawke growled. "And don't bother with that tit-stroking nonsense. It doesn't work on me."_

" _Oh, that's right!" Synia's eyes lit up and she sauntered closer to Hawke, whose nostrils flared in disgust. "You've a penchant for those of the more… masculine persuasion, haven't you? And they don't come much more masculine than… Fenris, isn't it?"_

_The grotesque image of Synia shifted and rippled. Hawke blinked, and before him stood an almost-perfect representation of Fenris, minus his markings, that wore nothing but a lascivious smile._

" _You want me, don't you?" the demon purred, using the elf's deep, gravelly voice._

" _You honestly think I'd be turned on by that?" mocked Hawke with a bitter laugh. "You really have no idea, do you?"_

" _I had an idea once," said the demon. "After all, young Dalton wasn't your first, was he? Oh, no... I was."_

" _While you were pretending to be him!" Hawke blustered, his cheeks red with anger and indignation. Maker, how he wished he could cremate this incongruous facsimile of Fenris, and Synia along with it._

" _And what difference does that make?" asked the Fenris doppelganger. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?"_

" _Stop using his voice!"_

" _Why don't you enjoy me, while you get the chance?" The false elf moved closer to Hawke, who could not move his feet, which were held in place by the demon's magic. "I know you want to fuck him. You may as well do it now, because he won't come anywhere near you once you tell him about our deal. You'll lose_ him _just as you lost the others."_

"Fletcher?" _called an incorporeal voice, and Hawke's heart leaped in his chest._

" _Ah, there he is! He asks for you. He cares for you, doesn't he?" the demon mocked._

" _You have no idea what it means to care for someone," Hawke said angrily. "You're wasting your time. You're not catching me out like that again. I'm not a stupid kid anymore. Go and torment someone else."_

"Hawke! Wake up!" _a different voice called._

" _Is that the possessed mage?" asked Synia excitedly, still using the voice and image of Fenris. "He has designs on you, you know."_

" _No he does_ not _," Hawke argued, trying to steady his voice, knowing that she thrived on his discomfort._

" _Oh, but he does, my pet. He wants more from you than mere friendship. The question is, what_ does _he want? He's so hard to figure out, isn't he? Is he merely after that… body of yours," she asked in a seductive whisper, "or is it something else?" The demon placed a hand on Hawke's chest and ran it downward. "What_ does _he have planned for you?"_

 _Hawke grabbed the demon's wrist in a crushing grip. "Don't_ touch _me," he growled, the warning in his voice obvious, but Synia, knowing he could not use his powers in her domain, was unfazed._

" _Fine," she uttered, freeing herself from his grip. "Just looking after my investment. I wouldn't want the mage getting you killed or anything… before your time."_

" _I'm not interested in anything you have to say," Hawke insisted, although his eyes betrayed that Synia's warning about Anders had hit a nerve._

" _Oh, really?" Synia laughed, turned away from Hawke and backed into him, grinding the buttocks of the naked elf against Hawke's groin. "You're interested in this, though, aren't you?"_

" _Stop it," Hawke warned, his voice trembling, furious that Synia had used Fenris's image in this way, and he pushed the demon away, which did nothing to discourage it._

" _Come on," Synia urged, turning to face Hawke. "You want the elf. Just fuck me now, and no one will ever know but us. He likes it up the fundament, doesn't he? Didn't his master used to--"_

" _Shut up!" bellowed Hawke, lashing out with his fist and belting the imposter elf across the face. The false Fenris crumpled to the ground and looked up at Hawke, his lip wobbling and tears spilling from his eyes._

" _H-how could you, Fletcher?" wailed the demon. "I thought you loved me!"_

" _Stop this!" Hawke yelled, his own voice cracking as the demon in Fenris's stolen form laughed mockingly at him._

"Fletcher! Wake up!"

"Hawke? Hawke! Come on, wake up! You're having a bad dream!"

The voices, so soothing only a moment ago, now battered his ears, jolting him awake. He gasped, panic-stricken, at Anders and Fenris, who were leaning over him, both looking worried.

"You are awake," said Fenris, exhaling in relief. "It is over. You had a nightmare."

"W-what did you hear?" blathered Hawke, swatting away Anders's hand as he attempted to mop Hawke's profusely-sweating brow.

"Hear?" asked Fenris with a confused look at Anders. "I… heard nothing of consequence as you were not making a great deal of sense. Something about a woman? Synia? But I did not fully comprehend it."

"You didn't-you didn't hear, then?" Hawke asked the elf fearfully.

"Hear what? I don't understand."

Hawke pushed up onto his elbows, his breathing rapid and shallow. He startled as Anders's hand rested on his brow, and his wild eyes darted around the cave.

"What's wrong with him?" Fenris asked Anders.

"It might be his fever," Anders replied. "I need to bring it down, it's making him confused."

"Beth," Hawke blurted out, and he started to tremble. "I-I need to speak to Beth. Where is she?"

"She has gone for a morning stroll with Varric," answered Fenris, going to touch Hawke's arm, but Hawke flinched and scooted away.

"Hawke," Anders said firmly, "you have a high fever. Whatever it is you dreamed about, it's not real. You're _safe_."

"Somebody get Beth!" Hawke shouted, shrinking away from the two men, unable to look either of them in the eye.

"Shall I go?" offered Merrill, who was standing a few feet away.

"No," answered Fenris quietly, getting to his feet. "I will go." He looked down upon Hawke for a moment, hurt and deeply concerned at seeing him so distressed, and then glanced at Anders.

"He'll be all right," Anders assured him, hastily throwing some catnip and yarrow leaves into his mortar. "I just need to get his fever down a bit. You'd better fetch his sister."

" _You_ were the one who induced his fever in the first place," Fenris accused in consternation, "and now you are trying to reduce it? You are supposed to be healing him, not harming him! Do you actually know what you're doing?"

"Fine!" snapped Anders, throwing the pestle into the mortar. " _You_ make the bloody medicine if you know better than me!"

"Stop arguing!" Hawke yelled, clutching the sides of his head. "I need Beth! Please!" His face crumpled and, to Anders and Fenris's dismay, he began to whimper.

"Will _someone_ please go and get his sister?" Anders demanded, again taking up his mortar and pestle and furiously pounding the herbs within.

Shame and guilt surging through him, Fenris nodded and, with one more glance at Hawke, he turned and quickly exited the cave.

"Who was she, Hawke?" Anders asked him pointedly once Fenris had left. "Was she…?" He glanced up at Merrill, who sighed and sat down next to Hawke.

"I know, Anders," she said simply.

"You know what?"

"She knows I'm a blood mage," Hawke replied irritably.

"My spirit's name is Audacity," she told them matter-of-factly. "What was the name of yours again?" she asked Hawke.

"Synia," he snapped.

"Can we not discuss this here?" Anders interjected angrily, pouring the crushed herbs onto a square of muslin, which he folded and tied. "I need some hot water, Merrill."

" _You_ started it," she retorted, "and there's plenty over there," she said, pointing towards the fire. Anders gave her a sour look, stood up and stomped over to the fire. Merrill shuffled a little closer to Hawke and gently touched his arm, keeping it there when he recoiled. "Does she torment you, Hawke?" she asked softly.

Hawke brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I get on quite well with my spirit," she said with a shrug. "It might be that… Synia? Is a bit hurt that you're not using the powers she taught you."

" _Hurt_?" Hawke asked in disbelief. "Are you really that stupid? Your 'spirit' gets on well with you because every time you use your powers, its hold over you increases! They're not _capable_ of having hurt feelings, Merrill! They're demons!"

"You're wrong, Hawke," she asserted. "They're just misunderstood. My spirit is kind and only wants to help me and my clan."

"And what exactly has this kind spirit done for you and your clan?" demanded an incensed Hawke, his fever and the visit from Synia having robbed him of patience or humour. "From what I can see, most of your clan is terrified of you and they more or less kicked you out. How has _that_ helped them?"

"They don't understand," she replied sadly. "One day they'll see what I'm trying to do. Audacity has only ever wanted to help me."

"And what does he want in return?"

"Nothing. He's never asked anything of me."

"I can't believe you're so naïve," Anders interrupted, returning to them with a mug of prepared medicine. "There's _always_ a price. Your demon has just not issued its terms, yet. That will come."

"No, you're both wrong," she defended, shaking her head.

"He's tricked you, Merrill! Can't you see?" Hawke retorted. "He must want something from you. I was tricked as well, but at least I can see that."

" _You_ were tricked?" Anders asked, surprised and intrigued. He then looked at the cave entrance and held his hand up, listening. "They're back! I can hear them coming. Now stop talking about bloody demons and drink this," he said, pushing the mug into Hawke's hands. Merrill sighed and got to her feet.

As soon as Fenris re-entered, Anders noted with interest that Hawke immediately hung his head, fear etched onto his face. The warrior led Bethany to her brother's side with Varric following, although the dwarf hung back a little. Fenris crouched down next to Hawke but refrained from touching him. "Your sister is here, now," he said in a soothing tone.

Hawke gulped and nodded, still unable to look Fenris in the eye. "Thanks, Fen. I-I need to speak to her alone."

"Yes, of course." There was hurt in Fenris's voice, as well as concern, but he felt he had no place demanding he be included in a private conversation, as much as he wanted to know what was going on. "I will take my leave." He stood up and nodded at Bethany, heaviness in his posture as he walked away, joined by Varric. Anders took up some of his equipment and moved further away, where he started on a new batch of medicine. Merrill left the cave to go for a walk.

"Fletcher?" Bethany knelt down next to her brother, who finally looked up to make sure everyone else was out of earshot, and she saw terror in his eyes as they caught hers.

"I-I need to go home," he whispered. "Now. I can't stay here any longer."

"Oh, dear brother, whatever's the matter?" She stroked his hair and moved a little closer. "Fenris said you had a bad dream. Did you…?" Her face dropped, then, and her expression hardened. " _She_ visited you, didn't she?"

"She-she masqueraded as Fenris," he stammered. "I hit him, Beth!"

"It wasn't him," she said firmly.

Hawke nodded quickly, his breathing erratic. "I have to tell him. Today. He _has_ to know about me. I won't let her use him like that again. I _won't_."

Bethany clutched one of his trembling hands and glanced at Anders, who was watching them but could not hear what had been said. He pointed to the mug next to Hawke and gestured for him to drink it. "Here, take this," said Bethany, handing the medicine to her brother. "This will bring your fever down and will make you feel better."

Fletcher nodded and grasped the mug, taking a few sips. "He-he has to know, Beth, he has to be free to get away from me. I feel like he's been sullied. He deserves better than that. He deserves better than that… than-than me." His eyes brimmed with tears and Bethany wrapped an arm around his shoulder, gently nudging the mug to encourage him to drink from it. Her eyes wandered to Fenris, who was watching them, his face pinched with anxiety. Bethany gave the elf a thin smile and turned back to her brother.

"I'm not sure Anders will let you travel like this," she murmured. "Perhaps we could all go outside for a while, leave the two of you alone?"

"No!" Hawke blurted, panic in his voice. "I have to tell him in private. I owe him that much, at least. I'm travelling whether Anders approves or not. And don't let him knock me out with his medicine!"

"I won't," she said in a soothing tone. "Do you think you can manage the journey?"

"I'll manage it even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees," he vowed. "I'm not going to lie to Fenris for one more day. Not one more day! Everyone but him knows! I won't let that continue!"

She nodded and stroked her brother's arm, shushing him. "I'll go and talk to Anders," she said softly. After first ensuring that he'd drunk the medicine, she took the empty mug and approached Anders.

Fenris remained where he was. Although he didn't know how, he wondered if he had somehow been the cause of Fletcher's distress, remembering the way Hawke had recoiled from him. He longed to go to Hawke's side, yet didn't want to upset him further by imposing himself. Instead, he watched helplessly as Hawke again wrapped his arms around his knees, his eyes in his lap.

Bethany took Anders aside and lowered her voice. "Fletcher wants to go home."

"Out of the question. He still has a high fever and hasn't had anything to eat. He's too weak."

"He's quite adamant," she replied. "Look, he needs to speak with Fenris. He's going to tell him… you know."

"That he's… ?"

"Yes. He's insisting he does it today and he's very distraught about it. Is there anything you can do to strengthen him? I have a feeling he's going to leave whether we want him to or not."

Anders remained silent as he looked at Fenris, who had not taken his eyes off Hawke since being sent from his side. Satisfaction and righteousness swelled within Anders's chest. He knew Fenris would be devastated upon learning the truth, and would almost certainly forsake Hawke, but his feeling of triumph was also laced with something ugly, almost unclean, which he chose to ignore.

He laid a comforting hand on Bethany's arm. "I'll think of something, Beth. If telling Fenris today is so important to him, I'll do everything I can to ensure he gets his wish."

"Oh, thank you, Anders," Bethany replied with a relieved sigh, glancing at her brother. "I'd better go and check on him."

As she returned to Hawke, Anders noticed Fenris walking towards him and had to firmly rein in a smug grin as the elf approached and softly cleared his throat.

"Anders," Fenris said stiffly.

"Fenris."

"I… owe you an apology," the elf began, looking Anders in the eye. "I did not mean to accuse you of negligence in your care of Hawke. I… panicked. You are not to blame for his condition. I know you are doing your best."

Taken aback, Anders gawked for a moment and then took a deep breath, composing himself. "Um… it's all right, I think we're all a bit frazzled. Don't… don't worry about it."

Fenris dipped his head a little. "Thank you. And also for everything you have done for him." Fenris cleared his throat again and nodded once before heading back to Varric, where he continued his distant vigil over Hawke.

Anders stared after him and his stomach flipped, the ugly, unclean sensation intensifying. He pushed it down, and set to work on a new batch of medicine that would hopefully imbue Hawke with enough strength to make the journey home.

~o~O~o~

Once Hawke had taken a few doses of Anders's medicine, he declared that he felt a little stronger. With assistance from Anders and Bethany, he took a short walk around the cave, although it was obvious that he was still quite unwell. Anders knew Hawke wasn't fit enough to journey down the mountain, but helped him prepare for that very thing. As their journey started, a temporary truce was reached between him and Fenris, each of whom wrapped an arm around Hawke to support him.

It was decided that several stops would be needed on the way down and Bethany, Varric and Merrill scouted ahead to ensure that the path was safe and clear. By the time they reached the foot of Sundermount, Hawke was struggling to remain upright, but despite pleas from Fenris and Bethany to rest at the Dalish camp for the rest of the day, Hawke insisted on pressing on. Anders gave him another dose of his fortifying medicine, but it had little effect.

"You're exhausted, Hawke," Anders told him. "You need to sleep for a while. If you'll just let me--"

"You are not putting me to sleep!" Hawke exclaimed with a wild look in his eyes, terrified that he would be visited again. "I can make it home. Now stop fussing over me and let's get going!"

"Fletcher," Fenris said, gravely concerned that not only was Hawke endangering himself, but also that he hadn't once looked Fenris in the eye since he'd woken from his dream, "Anders is correct. You _must_ rest."

"No, Fenris," replied Hawke in a softer tone. "I have to get home. Please, don't argue. Just-just help me." He finally looked in Fenris's direction, although not directly at him, and the sadness in his eyes stole Fenris's breath away. "I-I'm sorry, Fen, truly, I am."

"What are you sorry for?" Fenris asked gently. "You have done nothing wrong."

Hawke once again averted his eyes. "I… I need to speak to Beth. Please."

Fenris and Anders helped Hawke to sit on a tree stump and moved a short distance away while Bethany went to talk to him.

"Beth, I want you and Varric to go on ahead, warn Mother that we're on our way," he told her.

"Brother," she protested, "you need to rest first. Just have an hour or two."

He ignored her concerns and continued. "You know that little chest that I brought from Lothering? The locked one?" His eyes moved to his left as he delved into his memory, and he shook his head. "I can't remember where the key is. Varric can pick the lock. Tell him he has my permission. There are a couple of books in there I want you to take out."

"Books? Fletcher, what are you on about?"

"Just listen to me," he continued. "Remember the books I had when I was a kid? The one about the lazy dog and the one with the farmyard animals?"

A bemused Bethany sighed and nodded. "Yes, I know which ones you mean."

"Take them out and have them ready for when we get back. I want to give them to Fenris... before I tell him. I want him to continue with his reading. He's doing so well. He-he's really learning fast. I don't want _this_ to spoil that."

"Fletcher, you don't know what's going to happen. I'm sure you and Fenris will come through this, and that you'll be able to continue with his reading lessons."

Hawke shook his head sadly. "No, I-I don't think…" He took a deep breath and straightened up. "Please, Sister, just do as I ask."

"Oh, Fletcher." She sighed. "All right, if that's what you want."

"Thanks, Sis. I knew you wouldn't let me down." Hawke slumped in relief, and Bethany returned to the others, who were talking quietly among themselves.

"Bethany," Anders whispered, "I'm going to put him to sleep. I've spoken to Fenris and he agrees it's for his own good. We can still make it back before evening. I just want him to get a couple of hours."

Bethany glanced at her brother and, knowing how much a visit from Synia disturbed him, she shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea, Anders. I agree that he needs to rest, but I ask that you don't put him to sleep. He doesn't want to have another _bad dream_ ," she said pointedly.

"I can induce a dreamless sleep," Anders explained. "I know he'll be pissed off at me, but he's close to collapse. There's only so much I can do."

"Hey, someone's coming," Varric muttered, and they all turned to face an elderly male Dalish, who greeted them with a small bow.

"Andaran atish'an, travellers."

Merrill stepped forward and returned his bow. "Andaran atish'an, Hahren." She turned to the others and gestured to the new arrival. "This is Hahren Paival, the elder of my clan."

The others respectfully bowed to Paival. "I see that one of your company is gravely ill," he said with a glance at Hawke, who was slouched on the tree stump, having nodded off of his own accord. "We have been watching your descent. Keeper Marethari recognises your companion as a friend of the Dalish, and has arranged for a quiet place for him to rest. You are all welcome to stay, but I must ask that _you_ take your leave, da'len," he said to Merrill, although his tone was free of reproach. "I fear your presence is causing unrest among the people."

The group had been so preoccupied with Hawke that they'd failed to notice that the Dalish had formed several small groups around the camp, and some individuals were holding their weapons close.

"Abelas, Hahren," Merrill said sadly, hanging her head. "I will leave now, if it helps Hawke."

"We'll go with you, Daisy," Varric said with a nod at Bethany. "I doubt we're needed here."

"Yes, I need to return home, anyway," Bethany added, and she looked at Fenris, who was too fixated on Hawke to notice. "I'll return a little later."

"So, you will remain with him?" Paival asked Anders and Fenris.

"Yes, ser," Anders answered as Fenris walked up to Hawke and started to gently rouse him.

"Please bring him this way," Paival said with a nod toward a group of small tents. "I will bring one of our healers. Know you what ails him?"

"I'm a healer, ser, and I've been treating him."

"Then why, may I ask, did you bring him down the mountain?" asked the elder, cocking an eyebrow. "The journey has clearly taken a hard toll on him."

"He insisted," Anders replied with a shrug. "He's a healer as well, and thinks he knows best."

"Ah, a story I have heard oft-repeated," said Paival with a grim smile. "Often, healers make the worst patients of all."

Bethany walked up to Fenris and Hawke, who was now awake. "Brother, you're to stay here for a while," she stated.

"No, Beth--" He tried to stand up but his legs gave way, and Fenris lowered him back onto the tree stump.

"You cannot go on," Fenris scolded him. "Even your stubbornness will not carry you."

"I'm _going_ to come back later," Bethany went on, steel behind her soft words, "and I'll bring those things you wanted."

"But, Beth," Hawke protested weakly.

"Do _not_ argue," Fenris counselled in a conspiratorial whisper. "Your health will surely suffer further should you engage in a battle of wills with a tenacious woman."

Normally, Hawke would have laughed at that, but instead his heart sank as Fenris and Bethany helped him to his feet. Anders jogged up to them, taking Bethany's place at her brother's side.

"I'll see you soon, Brother." Bethany kissed Hawke's cheek and gave a vague smile to Fenris and Anders.

"Dareth shiral," the elder said to Bethany's group. He then nodded to Anders and Fenris, and they supported Hawke--who realised the futility of further argument--as they followed Paival into the camp.

~o~O~o~

Hawke's eyes flickered open and he found himself lying on a soft cot inside a small tent, the front of which was open. Just outside, he could see Anders talking with one of the Dalish, who Hawke assumed was a herbalist or healer, as the two men were talking animatedly while exchanging several small pouches and bunches of herbs. The violet tinge to the sky indicated that the sun was about to set, meaning that several hours had passed by.

"You are awake."

Hawke turned to his side to find Fenris, who was seated upon a small stool beside the cot, looking down at him. Immediately, a wave of dread crashed against Hawke's insides as the reality of his situation returned to him, and he slumped onto his back, staring at the ceiling of the tent.

"You are a stubborn fool, you know," Fenris remarked quietly, kindness and humour in his voice. "Had you not insisted we travel down the mountain when we did, you might have been fit to attempt the entire journey home by now."

A bitter rasp escaped from Hawke's throat, and he glanced sidelong at Fenris, who was watching him expectantly. "Your colour has returned," said the elf with a tentative smile, and he reached for Hawke's cheek, withdrawing his hand as Hawke visibly stiffened. For a second, Fenris had a taste of how Fletcher must have felt when at first Fenris had shied away from his touch.

The elf's smile faded, his expression giving way to the anxiety that Hawke had observed earlier in him, and Hawke closed his eyes, feeling wretchedly guilty.

"Fletcher," Fenris ventured warily, "I realise it is selfish of me to ask this of you when you are ailing." He cleared his throat and sat up straight. "I wondered… have I displeased you in some way?"

His eyes still closed, Hawke shook his head emphatically, loath to speak as he was certain his voice would break, but he did so anyway. "No, Fenris, I-" His words ended abruptly as he gasped and clutched at his chest, squeezing his eyes closed.

"Anders!" Fenris barked, and the mage came running inside. "He cannot breathe!" he exclaimed in alarm, grabbing Hawke's hand, feeling utterly useless.

"He's hyperventilating," Anders murmured, helping Hawke to sit up. "I don't get it--his fever's come down, and he wouldn't have dreamed while he was asleep. Hawke!" he said firmly. "You need to take deep breaths!"

"My-my chest!" Hawke choked out, clutching at the front of his robe, grimacing. Anders quickly placed his hands over Hawke's heart and Fenris felt the edges of his markings burning.

"His heart's fine," Anders announced. "I think he's having a panic attack. Hawke! Take deep breaths! Do as I say!"

Fenris watched, feeling all of his control and will fall out from beneath him, as Hawke took several short, gasping breaths, his skin ashen and aglow with sweat.

"You're not going to die, you're safe!" Anders said with authority. "Take a deep breath! You can do it!"

Hawke gulped and nodded, drawing a stuttering breath which was released in a harsh burst. "Again!" ordered Anders, his hand on Hawke's shoulder, and Hawke took a deeper breath this time, releasing it more slowly. "That's it… keep going," Anders encouraged. After a few more attempts, Hawke's breathing slowed, and he placed his head in his hands, which were trembling. Fenris finally released the breath he'd been holding the entire time. Not until Anders was certain that Hawke had recovered did he speak again.

"Here," Anders said, taking a small piece of what looked like tree bark out of a pouch that hung from his waist. "Chew on this. You'll be fine. I'm going to get you some food. Your stomach should be able to take a light meal now."

Hawke slowly moved his hands from his face and took the piece of bark, placing it in his mouth, his mien and posture submissive and defeated.

"Fenris, may I speak to you?" Anders asked the elf in a tone that was more an order than a request, and he walked out of the tent.

Fenris remained where he was for a moment and looked down at Hawke who, yet again, failed to make eye contact with him. Fear gripped his heart and he blinked several times, realising that his own breathing had quickened. "I will return shortly," he said in barely a whisper, not sure if Hawke even cared, and slowly walked out of the tent towards Anders, who was standing with his hands on his hips.

"What did you say to him?" Anders hissed quietly, but the accusation in his words was loud and clear.

"Nothing of import to _you_ ," Fenris snarled, immediately put on the defensive.

"You must have said something to set him off! People don't have panic attacks for no reason!"

"Not that it is any business of yours, but I asked him--" Fenris's face dropped as he considered his question to Hawke. "I merely…" He sighed and looked at the ground. "I asked him if I had done something to displease him. That is all. He-he will not look at me, and I do not know why. If I caused this… I do not know how."

Anders backed down from his belligerent stance and the two men stood in awkward silence for a few minutes. "I don't… I don't think you've done anything wrong," Anders said quietly, surprised by the sudden rush of sympathy he felt for the elf.

"I don't understand," Fenris murmured. Although Anders was the last person he would choose to confide in, there was no one else around that Fenris knew, and his confusion and fear had gained the upper hand. "I feel as though… oh, it doesn't matter. I am being selfish. Perhaps you should return to him. He seems to be more comfortable in your company. I will remain here."

Fenris turned his back on Anders and folded his arms, watching the sun set over Sundermount, his shoulders drooping under the weight he felt upon them. Anders stared at the elf for a short while before saying quietly, "His sister will be back soon, she said she'd be here shortly after sundown. Maybe… maybe things will become clearer then." Receiving no answer from Fenris, he sought out one of the Dalish with the intention of procuring a bowl of soup for Hawke.

Bethany and Varric arrived just as the sun dipped behind the mountains and, after first announcing themselves to Keeper Marethari and Hahren Paival, they were shown to Hawke's tent, finding Fenris standing alone outside.

"He is inside," Fenris told Bethany without preamble, knowing that she would be anxious for news of her brother's condition. "He has eaten and is recovering well."

Bethany nodded and glanced at Varric who, taking the hint, went inside the tent, leaving Bethany and Fenris alone.

"How are _you_ doing, Fenris?" she asked.

" _Me_? I-I am well, thank you," he replied, surprised and confused that Bethany seemed concerned for him, when her brother could barely talk to him, much less look at him.

Bethany tilted her head slightly and gave Fenris a sympathetic look.

"Do you--" Fenris's heart and breathing once again quickened, and he took a step closer to Bethany, lowering his voice. "You know, don't you? You know something. Will you tell me what is going on? Please?"

Bethany sighed and placed her hands on Fenris's arms. "You know that we think a lot of you, don't you, Fenris? My family, I mean. Fletcher… he hasn't been this happy for a long time. All right, I know he doesn't seem happy at the moment, but since he met you, I have my old Fletcher back, the one I had before Carver died. That's thanks to you, Fenris. You make him happy, and I want you to know how much I appreciate that."

Fenris's brows knitted together as her words touched him, but left him even more confused.

She sighed again and released Fenris's arms. "He's going to talk to you about something. Will you do a favour for me?"

Fenris, still baffled, nodded silently.

"Just listen to him," she said softly. "Hear him out. What he has to tell you won't be easy for you to hear, nor will it be easy for him to say. He loves you, Fenris, and wouldn't hurt you for the world."

"He…?" Fenris's mouth gaped open and he stared at Bethany, lost for words.

She nodded. "Please remember that. And also remember that he's a good man. We all make mistakes." Fearing that she'd said too much, Bethany backed away a step. "I'm just going to pop inside and then we'll give you some privacy. I won't be long."

Leaving a bewildered Fenris behind, she entered the tent, emerging a short time later with Anders and Varric, who she'd instructed to look as nonchalant as possible.

"We're going for a walk around the camp," she announced.

"Are we?" Anders asked, feigning ignorance.

"Yes," she said firmly, and gave a brief nod to Fenris as they walked away.

His eyes followed them until they were a distance away, and then his gaze slowly wandered to the tent. He was about to get the answers he so desperately sought, and yet his feet remained fixed in place. Something awaited him within that tent that he wasn't sure he wanted to face, that he wasn't sure he _could_ face. He suspected what it was: this was what he'd feared all along, but he'd allowed himself to be carried along on fanciful notions of love, companionship and trust. He should have been better prepared for when Fletcher told him. That he wasn't good enough for him. That he didn't want to get serious. That it had all been a mistake.

But then Bethany's words returned to him and his eyes once again sought her out but she, Varric and Anders were out of sight. He sighed. Why would Fletcher be ending it if he _loved_ Fenris as his sister claimed?

Closing his eyes for a moment, he swallowed hard and opened them again, staring at the tent. He took one step forward, then another, looking down at his feet, which were clad in the slippers Fletcher's mother had made for him.

_You do know that we think a lot of you, don't you, Fenris?_

~o~O~o~

Fletcher sat on the edge of his cot, turning the books over in his hands, wishing he'd taken better care of them. They were dog-eared and faded, and one book was missing its cover. Hardly a fitting gift for the man he loved. "I do love him," he said softly under his breath. "I wish for his sake I didn't."

He tutted and placed the books to his side, running his fingers through his hair. Why had Beth agreed to bring them here? Why hadn't she refused his request? Why had he thought this was a good idea in the first place? What was he supposed to say to Fenris?

_Hey, Fenris, I'm a blood mage, but here, have some tatty old books. They should make you feel so much better!_

"Idiot," he growled under his breath. "You stupid fucking idiot."

The front covering of the tent was quietly pulled back, and Hawke's breath caught as Fenris entered, his eyes cast downwards. He carefully closed the cover and straightened it out, hesitating before turning toward Hawke and forcing himself to look up.

Hawke met his eyes for the first time that day.

"Fenris," he said quietly, discreetly pushing the books out of sight.

"Fletcher." Fenris nodded once and folded his hands across his belly, still standing at the entrance. "You are looking well. Do you feel better?"

Hawke nodded, gesturing to the stool next to the cot. "Please, come in," he invited.

Fenris looked at the stool and decided it was too close to Fletcher. He could at least maintain a sliver of control by choosing to keep some distance between them. "I… will stand. You wanted to speak to me?"

It then finally dawned on Hawke that Fenris knew something was wrong. Of _course_ he knew: Hawke had flinched at his touch and had refused to look him in the eye all day, after Fenris had opened his heart to him only the night before. The poor man must be beside himself. Hawke felt a fluttering in his chest and took a few deep breaths, releasing them slowly, as Anders had advised if he felt panicked again.

Fenris cocked his head slightly and took a step forward. "Are you well? Should I fetch Anders?"

"No. I-I don't want Anders." _I want you. I love you and I'm about to ruin everything. Why didn't I tell you from the start?_ "Fenris, I have to tell you something that I should have told you when we first met. For what it's worth, that is the worst mistake I've ever made, even greater than the one I'm about to tell you about, and I regret it more with each moment that passes."

Fenris remembered Bethany mentioning a mistake, and also that Fenris should hear Fletcher out. A glimmer of hope warmed his belly. Perhaps Fletcher was not about to end things between them after all?

"Is this what you were talking about last night?" Fenris asked, taking another step closer. "When you alluded to having a 'dark side'? I told you then that it would not matter. Whatever it is, it will not change anything. You have seen the worst of me and I will accept the worst of you. Is that not what… couples do?"

Hawke faced away from Fenris, fighting back tears that Fenris considered them a _couple_ , and angrily told himself to get a grip. _He_ had no right to be upset.

"Fletcher?" Fenris's voice was full of concern and Hawke held a hand up, once again following the breathing exercises.

After a minute, he turned to face the elf but couldn't bring himself to look at him. "Please, I want you to sit down."

With a slow nod, Fenris took a seat on the small stool, facing the entrance, while Hawke remained on his cot, seated at a right angle to him. "Tell me," Fenris urged softly, his head turned toward Hawke.

For a moment, Hawke considered trying to soften the blow by telling Fenris exactly how much he meant to him, that he was in love with him, but what good would that do? And did he have the right to burden Fenris with yet more emotional baggage? Fenris needed to be free to choose without _that_ millstone around his neck.

Hawke sat further back on the cot, putting as much distance between them as he could. Not because he feared that Fenris would lash out, but because he felt that _Fenris_ would need that space.

"Oh, Maker." Hawke brought his hands up to his face, covering his nose and mouth before letting them slide down into his lap. "When-when I was younger, I… no, no. I promised myself I wouldn't string this out. I… Fenris, I-I know blood magic. I made a deal with a demon several years ago."

Song and soft laughter drifted into the tent from outside. The Dalish were taking supper and giving thanks to the Creators for their bounty. Inside the tent, however, the silence was stark, penetrating, absolute; the air within was still, eerily so, and Hawke recalled being caught in the eye of a hurricane on the farm when he was a boy. Everything seemed to have stopped.

Fenris, too, had stilled. He was as a statue, the rise and fall of his chest barely discernible. Hawke nervously glanced up at him but the elf's expression was partly hidden by his hair, which fell across his eyes. Only the hard set of his mouth and jaw were visible.

"I-I know this must be a terrible shock to you," Hawke said, his voice wavering. "I want you to know that I didn't keep it from you for malicious reasons. I didn't know that things would… you and I, I mean. I never imagined that we'd become so close. And by the time I realised that I had feelings--real feelings--for you, I felt I'd left it too late. Every day since then I've agonised over telling you. I've wanted to. I…" He stopped himself. Fenris didn't need to know how it had affected Hawke. It was nobody's fault but Hawke's that he'd left it so long.

"Tell me," Fenris uttered, his voice a distant rumble of thunder: barely audible, but with a latent menace. "Tell me this is one of your… jokes."

"I'm sorry," Hawke breathed, his voice and hands quaking.

The silence resumed and stretched out between them. Although only a few feet separated them, that short distance now seemed an impassable gulf. Hawke longed to bridge that gulf, to reach out and make contact with a touch or a word, but somehow he knew he should not violate Fenris's space without an invitation to do so.

Fenris, whose posture betrayed no signs of anger or melancholy, sat up slightly and licked his lips, his face still partially obscured. "Why are you telling me this now?" There was injury in his voice, and Hawke knew he must tread carefully: the most dangerous animal was a wounded one.

"Because I can't go on lying to you."

"Yes. That is precisely what you have been doing."

Hawke nodded, knowing that all of the effort it had taken for Fenris to trust someone--particularly a mage--had just been destroyed, as surely as any feelings Fenris had for Hawke. "I know," He whispered. "If it means anything at all, I'm… sorry. You have no idea how much."

Fenris pushed himself up with such speed that it startled Hawke, and started to pace, but did not look in Hawke's direction. "You _cannot_ be a blood mage. I have never seen you use it. Even in the direst of situations you have not called upon it. If this is your idea of a _joke_ , Hawke, I do not find it amusing in the slightest!"

Hawke flinched at the use of his family name as opposed to _Fletcher_ , and drew a steadying breath, though it did little to calm his shredded nerves. "I learned it when I was a young lad," he related. "I used it once and have never used it again. I never _intend_ to use it again. It was a terrible mistake and I want nothing to do with it."

"And does your _demon_ \--" Fenris's voice faltered and he straightened himself up, his back to Hawke. "And does your demon have nothing to say about that? It quite happily accepts that you are not sustaining it? You are telling me that, are you?"

"I would have no part of her if I had a choice," Hawke replied. "But no, she's not at all happy, and she sometimes visits me in the Fade, where she takes great pleasure in insulting my loved ones or dredging up painful memories. She visited me last night, and that's why I was so upset earlier today. You did nothing wrong, Fenris, and I'm deeply sorry if I gave you that impression. I knew I had to tell you and I just couldn't look you in the eye."

"It _visits_ you?" Fenris asked in disgust, shaking his head. "So, while I was worrying about you having a nightmare, you were, in fact, consorting with it?"

"I had no choice!" Hawke protested. "I have no control over when she visits me. She usually turns up at times of emotional stress, just to stick the knife in. I'm not friends with her, trust me."

"So, I am meant to pity you? This is why you are telling me?" demanded Fenris, still facing the entrance, his arms crooked at his sides, his hands clenched.

"No," Hawke whispered. "I don't deserve your sympathy. I-I know how badly I've hurt you."

"You have no idea!" Fenris wheeled around, his eyes ablaze with fury and anguish. "No idea at all, Hawke! I thought…" Hawke stood up, aghast, as tears coated Fenris's eyes and the elf once again turned away from him, releasing a shaky sigh. "I thought you were different."

"I _am_ different," entreated Hawke, his own eyes blurred with tears. "Will you let me tell you what happened? Why I did it?"

"Why you _did_ it? What other reason could there be? You were offered power and you took it. Do not claim any noble reason for treating with a demon. You would insult both of us by doing so."

"I _didn't_ do it for power!" Hawke exclaimed, anger creeping into his voice. "I did it to help someone! We're not all like Danarius, Fenris! I'm sorry, but we're not!"

"You didn't do it for power," Fenris repeated wearily. "You would not believe how many times I have heard that."

"Please, Fenris, just let me explain--"

"No. I have no wish to hear your excuses," Fenris spat, and his stomach lurched, hot, nauseating bile rising in his gullet. "I need some air."

"Of-of course," Hawke said, clearing his throat. "If you… if you want to leave, I'll understand."

Fenris slowly turned around, his icy glare causing Hawke to start. " _Leave?_ Do you think so little of me that you believe I would abandon you while you are _ill?"_

"No, I-I didn't mean that."

"My _word_ is not given lightly, Hawke," Fenris rasped, his eyes flashing. "Perhaps you should consider what that means." Fenris's jaw, as well as his hands, had started to tremble and, without another word, he turned and threw back the flap of the tent, stalking away into the darkness.

Avoiding the eyes of the Dalish, most of whom were seated around a huge fire that had been built in the centre of the camp, Fenris slunk behind Master Ilen's store, which had been closed for the day. Leaning against the wooden counter, he slid to the ground, his mind careering, unable to hold a thought for long before it slipped away, another taking its place in the blink of an eye.

There had been signs, hints, that Fletcher was a blood mage, but Fenris had chosen to dismiss them as the workings of his imagination, the products of _his_ mistrust. The strongest hint yet had come during the confrontation with Hadriana, when the Dalish blood mage and Fletcher had descried sigils of magic that Bethany could not, but Fenris had been too consumed with putting an end to Hadriana to pay much heed.

He should have paid heed. He _should_ have known. He'd let his misguided feelings for Hawke blind him to what he really was. Fenris told himself he'd been a gullible fool. Hawke was no different from any other mage Fenris had ever encountered: weak, selfish and with an innate craving for power that Hawke could no more resist than Fenris could have prevented himself from falling in love with the man who'd just broken his heart. Humiliation, rage and grief swept through him, manifesting as a raw, biting pain in his chest, and his face contorted, his body rocking gently as he wrapped his arms around himself.

He _should_ hate Hawke. He _should_ put as much distance between them as possible, he knew that. But he'd given his word to stand at his side. And the reason he'd done that?

He couldn't imagine life without him.

A fresh film of tears coated his eyes as he gazed up at the starless sky, and felt its vast emptiness consume him.

"What do I do now?" he implored the night.


	42. Checking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I'm correct, your good manners prevent you from rising until I do. So we're both going to sit here, and you _are_ going to listen to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank-you to Mary for her beta and encouragement, despite the best attempts of the MARLI gremlins to get in our way! :P
> 
> Shameless plug alert: For anyone interested in reading the Hawke/Fenris/Anders love triangle story, it's published here, part of the PAAA series. Entitled 'The Long and the Short of it', it was penned by none other than Varric. ;)

Following their walk around the camp, Bethany and Varric sat beside the fire, where they chatted pleasantly with some of the Dalish. Although a few members of the clan were wary of their guests, the majority were polite at the very least, and a handful--notably the younger elves--were fascinated to see a human _and_ a dwarf together, and bombarded the couple with questions.

Bethany had chosen their spot for a reason: she had a clear view of Fletcher's tent from where she and Varric were seated. She'd seen Fenris hurriedly leave only a few minutes earlier, but had allowed a faint hope to enter her heart when he'd remained in the camp. Although she felt desperately sad for both men, and longed to offer them her counsel, she thought it best to leave them alone for a while. This sentiment was echoed by Varric, who had said very little on the matter so far, but Bethany knew he was keeping an eye on things.

Anders had fallen quiet earlier and was now sitting on his own, a distance away from the main group. Bethany also kept a close eye on him, although when she noticed him talking to himself, she stopped glancing in his direction, not wanting to draw attention to him.

The Dalish shared their supper with the couple and, wanting to reciprocate, Bethany and Varric had shared their dried rations among the group. Soon, another song was called for. While Bethany and Varric didn't know the words, they smiled and clapped, although Bethany's smile was a little forced.

With supper over, Bethany assisted in cleaning up, while Varric attempted to widen his network by informing several Dalish of sure-fire investment opportunities that only he was privy to. After a good-natured but firm warning from Hahren Paival, he shrugged his shoulders and decided to take another walk around the camp, but was surprised when the elder called him back, taking him aside.

"Your friend," Paival said quietly with a nod toward Anders, who seemed to be having a heated conversation with himself. "He appears… troubled. Is he well?"

Varric groaned and glanced at Hawke's tent, shaking his head. "Youngsters these days… they seem to have the weight of the world on their shoulders. Don't mind Blondie, he wouldn't hurt a fly. Best to leave him be."

With an understanding nod, Paival bade Varric goodnight, and the dwarf once again sat next to the fire while he waited for Bethany to return, ensuring he had a good view of Anders, Master Ilan's store and Hawke's tent.

~o~O~o~

" _You have not only let yourself down, Anders, but you have disappointed me, also. I had thought you better than this."_

"Look! He _wanted_ to come down the mountain. I didn't force him!"

" _I sensed your glee when it became apparent that Hawke would confess his status as a maleficar to the elf. From that point onward, your spirits brightened and you made no effort to dissuade Hawke, even though, as a healer, you knew a journey down the mountain would be perilous for him. You placed him in danger."_

"Even his own sister said that he would have taken off on his own! How much danger do you think he would have been in then?"

" _Even now, you persist in lying to yourself. Do not presume that you can lie to_ me _. I see into your heart, Anders. You placed the well-being of one who will someday be very important to us beneath that of your desire to gloat at the elf's distress. Do not forget that Hawke is equally distressed."_

"You can't blame me for that! They would have been distressed wherever it had happened! Hawke should have told him from the start, anyway. And it's hardly my fault that Fenris can't see past the end of his own nose, is it? Who was there for Hawke when he fell ill? When Fenris went off in a huff?"

" _Even then, your motives were not as pure as you would delude yourself into believing. You took great pleasure in reminding the elf of that fact, and offered him no sympathy whatsoever."_

"Sympathy? You think I should have been sympathetic to Fenris after he dumped Hawke--who was critically injured, I'll remind you--to go off for a sulk? We were here, risking our necks for Fenris's sake, and that's how he shows his gratitude?"

" _Irrelevant. The elf was not aware of the extent of Hawke's injuries. You are aware of this fact. I do not see why you continue to deceive yourself. You endangered Hawke by allowing your personal feelings to interfere. And yet, you_ knew _you had done wrong. I felt it when the elf spoke to you not long ago. You continue to err, yet you learn nothing from your mistakes. You_ must _be stronger, Anders. You are no longer the man I once knew and I fear for you."_

"You-you _fear_ for me?"

" _This is the third similar conversation we have had and still you have no desire to rise above yourself, to be a better man. Soon, we will put what we have discussed into action. At that time, you must be stronger than all else who surround you, or you will surely fall, and everything we have worked for will fail."_

Anders drew his knees up and rested his elbows against them, his chin on his hands. "All right. I can see what you're trying to say. What do you want me to do, then?"

" _You must make amends to Hawke and the elf."_

"And… how do you suggest I do that?"

" _You will assist them in their time of need. Make them see that they function better as a unit than separately."_

"Wait, you want me to help them get back together?"

" _Your personal feelings do not enter into this. Hawke will not function well without the elf at his side. You must be seen to be gracious. To revel in their misfortune is beneath you. You must be a friend to both of them. Be the better man."_

"I-I don't know if I can do that."

" _You_ must _. I will say no more on this matter._ Do not _continue to let yourself down, Anders."_

"Let myself down, or disappoint you?" Anders asked, but no further answers were forthcoming from Justice. Feeling uneasy at the spirit's unusually-stern tone, he drew his knees closer to his chest and watched as the Dalish began to drift toward their tents for the night. Next, he looked at Hawke's tent. The light within had cast a silhouette of his friend against one side of the tent, and Hawke hadn't moved at all since Fenris's hasty departure. He remained in the same position: sitting on the edge of the cot, his hands in his lap and his head bowed.

With a sigh, Anders pushed himself up and walked up to Hawke's tent. "I'll be a friend to both of them if I must, but I'm a friend to Hawke _first_."

Hawke glanced up, a brief hope in his eyes as Anders entered the tent, before the hope quickly waned and Hawke once again lowered his head, releasing a long sigh. "If you've come to tell me I'm better off without him, don't bother," he said, sounding angrier than he'd intended.

Anders moved the stool beside the cot a little further away from Hawke and sat down. "I wasn't. I just want you to know I'm here."

Hawke nodded, feeling a little guilty, but not so guilty he felt the need to apologise. Although he rarely put stock in anything Synia said to him, something in her warning about Anders had unnerved him, and he wondered if there was an ulterior motive for Anders's concern. "Is Fenris all right? Has anyone spoken to him?" he asked without looking up.

"He sodded off… I mean, he went behind the craftsman's store. I think we've all just left him to it."

"He didn't leave, then," Hawke whispered, a faraway look in his eyes.

"No."

"Surprised?" Hawke sniped, and Anders took a slow, deep breath, reining in his irritation. The last thing he'd expected Fenris to do was stay put.

"Well, if I'm honest, yes," he answered with a shrug. "After what happened with Hadriana--"

"You're not still harping on about that, are you?" Hawke's tone was frosty, accusatory, and Anders--remembering how prickly Hawke could be when upset--swallowed down his own hurt.

"Sorry, Hawke, I'm not helping. Us blokes are not very good at stuff like this, are we?"

Hawke ran his hand through his hair and groaned. "No… _I'm_ sorry, Anders. Look, I'm probably not the best company at the moment."

"That's all right. Like I said, I'm here for you, bad company or not. Talk to me. Get it off your chest."

There was a soothing, gentle quality to Anders's voice. Hawke knew it well: it was a healer's voice, the same one he used with frightened or high-strung patients. Despite Hawke's misgivings about Anders, he began to relax a little, and coupled with his need to confide in someone, he fairly blurted his words out. "Oh, Anders. I want to go to him, try and talk to him, but every time I go to get up, my legs won't work."

"Well, maybe that's telling you it may not be a good idea. Not yet, anyway. I think you'd both benefit from a bit of space at the moment," Anders counselled.

"I don't _want_ space. I want to be with him. I want… Maker, Anders, I love him. I can't-I can't believe I've made such a mess of everything. I've hurt him, destroyed his trust. I'd rather he left me than to have done this to him."

For a while, Anders said nothing. Hawke had been correct: Anders _did_ believe that Hawke was better off without Fenris, and his declaration of love for the elf had stung him, but he recalled Justice's words and repeated them over and over in his head.

_You must be seen to be gracious. Be the better man._

"If you love him, Hawke, then you can't give up on him," Anders said, barely able to believe what he was saying.

Hawke raised his head a little. "You think?"

Anders nodded, feeling a crushing weariness settle over him. "You need to make him see that the two of you are better as a unit than separate," he advised, repeating Justice's words. "You need to make him understand that not all blood mages are inherently evil. I'm guessing deep down he realises that, now he's got to know you. He's just hurt at the moment. He'll come round, I think, but you need to help him."

Feeling awful for doubting Anders, Hawke sighed and reached for one of his hands, giving it a squeeze. "I-I didn't expect you to say something like that. You're a true friend."

The ugly feeling Anders had experienced earlier swelled inside him again, and he squeezed Hawke's hand back before gently releasing it. "You-you're welcome."

"Maybe tomorrow, when we're home," Hawke said quietly, a deep frown knotting his brow. "I don't think he'll want to talk to me just yet."

Anders nodded again, and they sat together, saying no more.

~o~O~o~

"Fenris?"

The elf looked up sharply and scrambled to his feet, uncertainty in his eyes as he took a step back.

"I hope I didn't startle you," said Bethany softly. "I just wanted to see if you were all right."

Fenris said nothing, not taking his eyes off Bethany once. She cautiously stepped closer and lifted the hem of her robe as she began to sit on the ground.

"Wait," Fenris instructed, and he looked around, his eyes settling on the large square of fabric that covered Master Ilen's counter. He removed it and warily passed it to Bethany. "The ground is damp."

"Thank you, Fenris," she said warmly and, placing the fabric onto the wet grass, she sat down upon it. "You're a gentleman. Varric didn't think to do that."

Fenris gave a curt nod and remained standing.

"Won't you sit with me?" she asked. "You're more than welcome to sit on this," she said, pointing at the cloth.

"I am fine where I am, but thank you," he replied, and slowly sat down on the ground, several feet away from her.

Bethany noticed the look in Fenris's eyes and was reminded of the way he'd looked at her when they'd first met. "In case you're wondering, Fenris, I'm not a blood mage. It's up to you whether you believe that or not."

"Your brother did not profess to being a blood mage, either," he replied tightly.

"You're right, he didn't. I know he kept the truth from you, but if you'd asked him directly, he wouldn't have lied to you."

"And you expect me to believe that?" he scoffed.

"Yes."

Fenris shook his head incredulously. "Your brother--"

"His name is Fletcher."

"Your _brother_ kept the truth from me. You have just said as much. That is the same as lying. He _knew_ my feelings about blood magic--blood _mages_ –-and he-he… he pursued me still. He led me to believe that--"

"That he loves you? Well, he does. So can you understand why it was so difficult for him to tell you?"

"Many things are difficult, Bethany. That does not mean we should avoid them. Being _honourable_ is not easy but that does not mean--"

"You will _not_ imply that Fletcher is a dishonourable man again, Fenris. I know you're hurt, but so is he. You have no idea how hard it was for him to tell you. You have no idea of the sacrifices he's made because of one stupid mistake. You have _no idea_ what he did for my family when Father died. He was sixteen and he was suddenly the head of the family. He had to look after Mother, who fell apart, as well as Carver and I, and we weren't much better. He was strong for us. He's a _good_ man and I owe him everything, and I will _not_ sit here and listen to you besmirch his character!"

Bethany stopped and turned away slightly, shocked at how emotional she'd become. Fenris's eyes fell to the ground and he found himself at a loss, never before having seen Bethany so riled.

"He's a good man," she reiterated in a softer tone, turning to face Fenris again. "All I want is for him to be happy. Maker knows he's been through the mill and he deserves it. He's the happiest I've ever seen him since he met you, Fenris. And I _know_ he makes you happy as well. I just don't want either of you to throw that away because of something that happened over eleven years ago, something that Fletcher has regretted every day of his life since. Shouldn't he be given a second chance? Don't we all deserve that?"

"I… meant no offence," mumbled Fenris, his eyes still fixed on the ground.

Bethany sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I've just been worried about him, as have you. Did Fletcher tell you? How he acquired…?"

"No." Fenris shook his head, his expression hardening. "It does not matter."

"It _does_ matter," insisted Bethany, "and _I'm_ going to tell you."

"I do not wish--"

"You're going to hear it whether you want to or not," Bethany said firmly. "If I'm correct, your good manners prevent you from rising until I do. So we're both going to sit here, and you _are_ going to listen to me."

"You are as stubborn as your brother," said Fenris shortly.

"I'm _more_ stubborn," she proclaimed, and shifted into a more comfortable position. "In Lothering, our farm neighboured the Bradshaws' farm. Their parents were good friends with mine, and me, Fletcher and Carver played with their kids. We all grew up together."

She glanced at Fenris to make sure he was listening.

"It was a poorly-kept secret in the village that three apostates resided at our house," she went on, "but the Templars didn't have a clue. The other villagers knew us and didn't care, and the Bradshaws' farm was right on the edge of the village. Occasionally the templars would ride through, and one of the Bradshaw kids would be sent running over to warn us. It was usually Dalton. He was the fastest runner, and he was friends with my brothers, but was especially close to Fletcher."

Fenris's expression remained unchanged, but he did appear to be listening.

"Dalton used to get picked on by some of the older kids in the village," she continued. "He was a very shy boy and only really ever opened up to Fletcher. Fletcher even had suspicions at one point that Dalton was a mage, but Dalton always denied it. He _was_ troubled by something, though, I can see that clearly now I'm older. At the time, though, it just seemed… normal.

"Fletcher and Carver used to chase the bullies off most of the time, but now and again Dalton would show up with fresh bruises and cuts. We all knew who the culprit was. Langston Harding," she recalled sourly. "He came from a rough family on the other side of the village. He really seemed to have it in for poor Dalton, but I think he did it to wind up Fletcher and Carver. I suspected he was jealous of their popularity."

She shifted and sighed, again checking that Fenris was paying attention. "It was around that time when Fletcher confided in me. I… had an idea, anyway, that he preferred men over women, but he confirmed it when he told me that he had feelings for Dalton. He was very confused about it and felt it was wrong. Mother was always going on about how we'd all get married and give her loads of grandchildren. Fletcher felt that that was what he was supposed to do, and that he'd let Mother and Father down by having those kind of feelings."

Bethany noticed a frown form on Fenris's brow.

"Fletcher started avoiding Dalton, believing that if he didn't see him, then he'd forget about him, but of course, he couldn't. One night, we heard yelling coming from Fletcher and Carver's bedroom. We all rushed in and found Fletcher huddled in a corner, and Carver was bent over him, fretting. Apparently, he'd had a terrible nightmare, but it wasn't until a long time after that I knew what it had been about."

Fenris straightened up and his eyes narrowed a little. "His demon had visited him?"

" _A_ demon, yes," she corrected. "She wasn't _his_ yet, if you see what I mean. Well, what happened was…" She shook her head and closed her eyes for a second before opening them again. "She'd visited Fletcher in the Fade, having taken on Dalton's form. She… seduced him, Fenris. Fletcher thought it was a dream so he did nothing to stop it. It wasn't until afterwards that the demon showed itself. Fletcher was terrified. He'd been visited before--we both had--but Father had instructed us what to do. However, Fletcher had no idea at the time that demons could assume other people's forms.

"Apparently, she offered to teach him mind control, which would mean that he could 'persuade' Dalton, or any other, to have sex with him--to do anything he wanted, in fact. Fletcher _refused_ , Fenris. He absolutely refused. Fletcher would _never_ use mind control on anyone."

"So… he accepted an alternative offer?"

Bethany's head fell back and she massaged the nape of her neck. "He didn't hear from the demon again until a few days later. There was a commotion outside, and we saw two men carrying a lad over to the Bradshaws'. Fletcher and I went out to see who it was."

"It was the boy?" asked Fenris.

Bethany nodded. "It was Dalton. It turned out that Langston had been insulting Fletcher and Dalton had stood up to him. The bastard beat him to a pulp. We ran inside to fetch Father, who told the men to bring Dalton inside. Father and Fletcher worked on him while I was sent to the Bradshaw farm to fetch his parents. Dalton was in a bad way, and Father wasn't optimistic."

"And… did he die?"

"No, thank the Maker. Fletcher and Father saved him. Fletcher swore he'd get even, but back then, he was a fifteen-year old mage and Langston was twenty, and built like a brick shithouse. He was always threatening to run to the templars, and he held that over Fletcher, so Fletcher knew he couldn't just turn up at his house and pick a fight."

"So he sought out the demon."

"No, she sought _him_ out. She told him that she could fix it so Langston would never harm Dalton or anyone ever again. Fletcher was so angry, and felt so helpless, and I'm certain she picked right up on that. This time, he accepted. He told her that he didn't want anyone killed, though, and that it would only be a one-time thing. She told him that her services didn't come without a price, though. Maker, Fletcher, how I wish you hadn't…"

Fenris sat bolt upright. "What was the price?"

"Fletcher."

"What do you mean?"

"She-she said she would come for him at a later time... on his fiftieth birthday, to be precise."

"She will _come_ for him? Do you mean she will take possession of him?"

Bethany nodded sadly.

Fenris quickly pushed himself to his feet, turned his back on Bethany and dragged his fingers through his hair. She could see the tension building in his shoulders and braced herself for a fierce reaction.

"Of all the irresponsible, reckless--!" Fenris slowly turned around and Bethany was dismayed by the look in his eyes, equal parts terror and fury. "Does he have no conception of what will…?" He blinked, realising he was raising his voice, and took a few breaths, bunching his trembling hands into fists. "Does he not realise what he will become? He will-will… an… abomination." Fenris once again turned his back on Bethany and shook his head repeatedly.

Slowly, she got to her feet but did not approach him. "Fenris… Fletcher plans on taking his own life well before his fiftieth birthday."

She heard the rapid expulsion of air from his lungs and he leaned heavily against the counter, feeling like he'd been kicked in the chest. "He-he…?"

"He's always known that's what he'll have to do," she replied, her voice wavering. "He has no intention of sticking to their deal, of letting her possess him. I suppose, in that respect, he _is_ being dishonourable, but it's for an honourable reason."

Fenris stood in stunned silence, barely able to take it all in. Bethany watched him carefully and waited until his breathing had slowed before she spoke again.

"Do you see now that not all deals of this kind are made with the acquisition of power in mind?" she asked him, taking a few hesitant steps closer. "Fletcher made the deal because he wanted to protect someone who was dear to him. Yes, he was misguided. Yes, he was stupid. But he was fifteen, Fenris-- _fifteen_ \--and had fallen in love for the first time in his life. Don't underestimate how powerful that can be. He would have done _anything_ to keep Dalton safe, even pay the ultimate price."

"Fifty?" Fenris whispered, and turned around to face Bethany. "Is there nothing that can be done?"

She shook her head. "The demon wasn't stupid. Fletcher's powers are suspended while he's in her domain. He can't touch her. And Maker knows I've tried to enter. She's made his life hell, and I'd love nothing more than to shut her up for good, but I can't get anywhere near her. Obviously, we can't go to the Circle or the Chantry--the templars would make him Tranquil. He's stuck with her."

Feeling weary, Bethany sat back down and, after several minutes of silent pacing, Fenris joined her, this time sitting on the square of fabric, but still maintaining a distance of a few feet.

"This demon… took advantage of him," Fenris said after a while. " _Violated_ him."

"Yes, I suppose you could call it rape," she answered plainly and then, seeing him flinch at her words, she recalled Hadriana's implication that Fenris and Danarius had been sexually involved. Realisation slammed into her, and she longed to offer comfort to Fenris, but doing so would call attention to the fact that she knew, and so she remained quiet.

"What did the demon do to Langston?" he asked, and saw Bethany shake her head from the corner of his eye. "I need to know everything, Bethany."

"All right, then." Bending her knees, she shifted slightly onto her side so she faced Fenris, and moved a little closer to him, noting with relief that he didn't move away from her. "Fletcher has only ever talked about this once, and he was distraught at the time, so some of the details are sketchy. He's refused to talk about it since."

"I understand."

"The demon--Synia--told Fletcher how to summon her. He had to make a sacrifice of his own blood--"

"I am aware of how blood magic works," Fenris interrupted, and immediately held a hand up in apology. "I… please continue."

"Well, to cut a long story short, Fletcher went looking for Langston one night and, when he found him, he summoned Synia. Fletcher thought… he thought she'd just scare him, or, oh, I don't know. But she did something to him. Something… to his mind. That's the part Fletcher won't talk about. Langston was never the same afterwards. He became a recluse and lost loads of weight. A few months after, he disappeared and his family moved out of Lothering shortly after. Rumour was, he was put in the madhouse.

"I don't know what Synia did to Langston, but Fletcher went missing for a few hours afterwards. Dalton eventually found him, crying his eyes out in the Bradshaws' barn. Fletcher told him what he'd done, expecting Dalton to run off, or for someone to fetch the templars. That's what he felt he deserved. But Dalton didn't run off. He stayed with Fletcher, and he cried, too. They… Fletcher kissed him, and, well, you can guess the rest. Fletcher confessed all of this to me and Father when he came home. Everything just came pouring out. I think Fletcher expected… _wanted_ to be punished."

"And how did your father react?"

"He was very calm," replied Bethany. "I could tell he was disappointed that Fletcher had been taken in by a demon, but Fletcher's distress was at the forefront of his mind, and he was gentle with him. Firstly, he told Fletcher that Mother was never to know. I don't mean about Fletcher's… proclivities, but about the deal and what had happened to Langston. Fletcher readily agreed with that. The last thing he wanted was for Mother to worry. Then, Father asked me to leave, and he and Fletcher had a private talk. I don't know what it was about, but they were in there for hours. Fletcher has never talked about that, either."

Bethany frowned, then, and glanced gravely at Fenris. "The worst is yet to come," she said very softly, and took a deep breath. "The following morning…" She placed a hand over her eyes and shook her head, and Fenris watched her with concern, waiting patiently for her to continue. "Well, details are unnecessary. Poor Dalton… he… he was found hanged."

The chirp of nocturnal insects could be heard rising above the sudden silence that fell over them. Fenris cleared his throat and cautiously asked, "Why? Why did he do such a thing?"

"We never found out," she answered, a tremor in her voice. "Fletcher-Fletcher always thought it was his fault. That Dalton was ashamed of what they'd done, or that he'd _been_ with a blood mage. Fletcher has _always_ blamed himself."

"He was not to blame."

"I know that, but Fletcher was the last person to see him alive. Dalton's mother and father had gone to the town dance, and their kids were old enough to be left to see to their own suppers and to take themselves to bed. Poor, poor Mrs. Bradshaw. She was the one who found him. Her own son."

"How did… Fletcher react?" Fenris asked, and then felt foolish for asking such a stupid question. "I mean… how was he?"

"You called him Fletcher," Bethany said with a thin smile. Fenris averted his eyes and didn't answer. "He, well, he was a wreck for the first week or so. He wouldn't stop crying. It was very hard. Mother was beside herself with worry. It took him a while, but eventually he managed to pull himself together. I think he did it for Mother's sake more than anyone's. And then, only a few months later, a week after Fletcher's sixteenth birthday… F-Father died. That was a very bad time."

Fenris's eyes were wide as he watched Bethany rest her chin on her hands. He saw her lip wobble, but she composed herself, and Fenris admired her dignity.

"May I fetch you some water?" he offered.

"Thank you."

Fenris got up and walked into the centre of the camp, where he drew some rainwater from one of the barrels, and brought it to Bethany, who was standing up when he returned. She took the water with a grateful nod and, when she'd drunk it, placed the small cup down.

"How do you feel, Fenris?" she asked.

"I…" He shook his head, at a loss.

"Confused?"

He nodded slowly. "I am… glad you told me. It could not have been easy for you."

"I'm going to see Fletcher now. Would you like to come with me?"

He drew back a little and shook his head, looking mildly horrified. "I would not know what to say. I-I need some time."

"You don't have to say anything, Fenris. It would mean a lot to him to know that you don't hate him… if that's the case."

"I-I can't. I need to think. I'm sorry."

"It's been a lot for you to take in, I understand," she said kindly. "Is there anything you want me to tell him?"

He drew a deep breath and glanced first at Hawke's tent, then at his own, which was pitched a short distance away.

Taking a second breath, he nodded. "Tell him… tell him… I don't hate him."

"I will," she said with a hopeful smile.

"Goodnight, Bethany."

"Goodnight, Fenris."

She watched him walk back to his tent and, once he'd gone inside, she entered Hawke's tent, feeling cautiously optimistic.


	43. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donnic paused momentarily, unsure of what to say. "Does… does Fenris have… nightmares, Hawke?"
> 
> Hawke's face dropped like a stone. "Tell me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to an unexpected couple of days off work, I've managed to knock a chapter together :-) I was thinking of saving it until the new year, but after so many kind comments were left for the last chapter, I thought I'd give you an update ;-) I really am very grateful to you all, and I'm tickled that so many people are following Fletcher & Fen's story. Hope you like the chapter, and a very Happy New Year to you all!
> 
> A huge thank-you to super beta Mary. I recommend we both follow Fletcher's diet for a while ;-)

"You know, Hawke, I think you may have got away with it!"

The dim glow that surrounded Hawke waned as Anders completed his examination. He removed his hand from Hawke's belly and clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"You should be fit to travel home this morning. I think I've nipped the infection in the bud before it really got started."

Hawke let out a relieved sigh. He'd spent a pain-free, if restless night after Bethany had told him she'd talked with Fenris and had made him aware of a few things. Although the elf had not felt able to speak to Hawke at the time, Bethany had been cautiously optimistic that Fenris would eventually accept Hawke's status as a blood mage, although both of the siblings knew it wouldn't be quite as simple, or easy, as that.

Left alone with his thoughts during the night, Hawke had slept fitfully, and had risen several times, going to the entrance of his tent and looking across at Fenris's, wondering if the elf was also awake and what must have been going through his mind. On a few occasions, Hawke had felt a compulsion to actually visit Fenris's tent, not knowing what he would do once there, but his inner voice had counselled against it. For once, Hawke had listened to it, though it had taken a monumental effort.

Now, as the first tentative rays of the sun splayed over the crest of Sundermount, Hawke heard the others dismantling their tents, having been informed by Anders that they'd be able to travel today. The front of his own tent was open, giving him a direct view of Fenris's; Hawke had not yet seen the elf emerge and no sounds came from within.

"I'm going to get my stuff packed," Anders told him, standing up. "I'll come back in a bit and give you a hand."

Hawke held his hand out to Anders, who shook it. "Anders, I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me. You saved my life."

"It's my job," Anders replied with a chuckle.

"Which you do better than anyone. Really, thank you."

A look of genuine diffidence came across Anders's face, and he shrugged. "Well, you're welcome. I'll be back in a little while."

As Anders exited, Hawke once again glanced at Fenris's tent and wondered what he was doing. The elf wouldn't have as much to pack as the others. Hawke knew that Fenris only took the bare essentials with him on any journey: dried rations, bedroll, water skin, a change of underclothes, a comb, a bar of soap, and a pouch of soot and salt with a rag for cleaning his teeth. He had probably already packed. Hawke knew, if they were to travel back to Kirkwall that morning, that he and Fenris would have to see each other eventually, and decided that he may as well be the one to initiate contact. Each time he started to rise with the intention of going over to Fenris's tent, however, his treacherous legs turned to jelly.

With a frustrated grunt, he started to gather a few of his belongings together, putting his hands on the books Bethany had brought from home. He still intended to give them to Fenris, and hoped that the elf would be receptive to receiving them. Hawke knew he'd made a mess of things, but he prayed that he and Fenris would somehow be able to salvage at least a friendship out of the wreckage, and that Fenris would keep up his reading, perhaps even with Hawke as his teacher. For now, that was all Hawke dared hope for.

He still felt weak, although he'd played it down in front of Anders as he was eager to go home. After packing his belongings, he slumped onto his cot and took a pull from his waterskin. A shadow fell across the front of his tent and he looked up, expecting to see Anders.

Fenris silently stepped into the tent, staying as close to the entrance as he could without actually being outside. Hawke slowly rose, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest, but he dared not smile, nor did he step any closer to the elf.

"Fen? A-are you all right? I didn't see you leave your tent… not that I was… well, actually I was. Um, was wondering if you were okay, I mean."

Fenris straightened up and his eyes moved to Hawke's cot; not for any particular reason, other than the reason of not looking directly at Hawke, and he nodded.

"I went for a walk. I understand that we are to be underway shortly?" asked Fenris. His tone was clipped and a little weary. "Am I to assume that your condition has improved during the night?"

"Uh, yes, Anders said I'm out of danger now. Thank you for asking."

Fenris nodded again and clasped his hands tightly in front of him: the only giveaway that he was nervous.

Hawke cleared his throat and felt a fine sheen of sweat form on his brow. "How was your night, Fen? I-I mean… Fenris. Did you… sleep all right?"

Hawke already knew the answer to that: the grey shadows beneath Fenris's eyes and the dullness of his skin revealed that Fenris had also endured a rough night, but Hawke failed to come up with anything more to say than that.

"Not really," answered the elf, still looking at the cot. "I suspect neither of us did."

Hawke nodded, and a few moments of awkward silence followed.

"Do you-do you think we could… talk?" ventured Hawke anxiously after a while. "If-if you want to, that is. When it's convenient for you." Hawke cringed at his haltingly formal tone but felt that being familiar would somehow be inappropriate, even though his body screamed to embrace Fenris, or just to touch him; even to stand closer to the elf, but he found he couldn't move an inch.

Fenris's gaze fell to the floor and he cleared his throat, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right. "Not here."

"Fine. T-that's fine," stammered Hawke, anxiety, wretched hope and longing causing his stomach to flip. "Maybe when we get back? Whenever _you're_ ready. It-it's up to you."

Fenris took his bottom lip into his mouth and nodded again. "I… well, it is good to hear that your condition has improved."

He ducked under the canopy and walked back to his own tent, feeling Hawke's eyes on his back, and entered, pulling back the flap. He went to his cot, moved aside his neatly-arranged belongings and sat down heavily, placing his head in his hands, taking several deep, tremulous breaths.

Hawke was out of danger.

~o~O~o~

Once ready, the group gave their heartfelt thanks to Keeper Marethari and Hahren Paival for the hospitality and generosity of the clan. Anders enquired about Feynriel, the troubled young mage he'd introduced to the Dalish, and was taken to him, enjoying a brief chat with the boy. Hawke declined to speak to Feynriel, and made an excuse, but the truth was that he didn't want to be associated with anyone even remotely connected with demons while Fenris was around.

Fenris stood apart from the group, dipping a vague nod when thanks were being given to the clan, but otherwise stayed quiet and kept to himself. Hawke was quiet as well, but he did manage to force a smile when they departed, as he was genuinely grateful to the Dalish for their kindness.

Once out of the camp, the group was led by Fenris, who stayed well ahead but occasionally glanced back, while Varric regaled the rest of them with more of his friend fiction, but wisely chose a story that included neither Fenris nor Hawke. After a while, Hawke started to tire, but declined Anders's offer to support him; Hawke didn't want Anders next to him if Fenris wasn't also there. The canny Bethany sidled next to him and slipped her arm through his, letting her brother lean on her a little.

After finally reaching Kirkwall, the group split. Bethany and Hawke were taken home first, and Anders promised to call on them after seeing if there were any urgent cases at the clinic. Varric told Hawke that he planned to liaise with Bartrand, and would also visit Hawke later with an update on the expedition's progress. Fenris mumbled something about calling at the barracks to report that he was ready to resume his duties, but made no similar promise to call on Hawke. He did, however, have a quiet word with Bethany while Anders took Hawke inside, before setting off for Hightown with Varric.

Leandra gasped as she opened the door. Although Hawke put on a brave face, his mother knew him like no other and could see that her son was in pain--physical _and_ emotional.

Gamlen was also at home, and he stood with hands on hips as Anders and Leandra led Hawke to an armchair near the fire.

"What trouble have you landed yourself in this time, boy?" Gamlen demanded gruffly.

"Not _now_ , Uncle," Bethany barked, and Gamlen blinked, taken aback by her sharpness.

"He was injured, but is recovering now," Anders reassured Leandra. "He's going to need to rest for at least a few days, though, and lots of your wonderful home-cooked food. Nothing too rich, mind, and not too much at first. Small portions to begin with."

"Sadist," groused Hawke with a tired smile for the women's sake.

"He needs quiet," continued Anders with a sly glance at Gamlen, "and as little stress as possible. Maker knows he's had enough of that for a couple of days."

"Don't worry, Anders, we'll see to that," Bethany answered him. "Mother, Anders has been absolutely wonderful in his care of Fletcher."

"Thank you for taking care of my boy," Leandra said to Anders with a warm smile, clutching his hand. "Won't you stay for some tea?"

"Oh, I'd love to, Ma Hawke, but I really must get back to the clinic. I'll call back a bit later. Maybe then?"

"Count on it, Anders. I'll have some cake for you as well," promised Leandra, and Anders grinned before reaching into his pack. He produced a small drawstring bag, which he passed to Leandra.

"He'll need plenty of fluids. Make him tea with this and get him to drink as much of it as possible." He glanced at Hawke, who was already dozing next to the fire. "You can let him sleep for a while, but wake him in a couple of hours. He hasn't eaten solid food since yesterday and will need something soon. Start him off on something bland--rice, potatoes, bread, scrambled egg, maybe? Nothing sweet or fatty, and no meat or fish for now. I'll talk to you later about his diet in more detail. For now, I really must get back to the clinic."

"Thank you so much, Anders," said Leandra.

"See you later," Bethany said to him, and she called across to Gamlen, "Uncle, make yourself useful and show Anders out, would you?"

"What?" spluttered Gamlen, but with a hard look from Bethany, he decided against arguing and did as he was told. Once Anders had left, Bethany folded her arms and addressed Gamlen and Leandra, but her words were aimed at her uncle.

"This is what's going to happen today," she said quietly but firmly. "Fletcher is going to rest and everyone is going to be nice to him. He's had a horrid couple of days and needs looking after. Varric's going to come by a little later, and so is Anders. Fenris expects to be back on duty tonight and has gone to get some sleep, but he will also be visiting this afternoon. When he does, Uncle, you are going to take Mother and I out for dinner."

"What do you think I am, _made_ of coin?" argued Gamlen.

" _Quiet_ ," hissed Bethany through gritted teeth with a glance at her sleeping brother. "None of your nonsense today, Uncle. For all I care, you can sod off to the Rose once we leave here, but we _will_ leave."

Gamlen blanched at the mention of the Rose, struck dumb by his niece's uncharacteristic belligerence.

"Darling," Leandra cooed, stroking her daughter's arm, "I suspect you are in need of rest as well. Come, sit down and I'll fetch you some food."

"Yes, Mother," said Bethany in apology, and let her mother lead her to the settee before Leandra busied herself in the kitchen.

Gamlen took a couple of steps closer to his niece and nephew, choosing his words carefully. "What happened, exactly?"

"Are you asking out of concern, or are you just being nosy?" asked the frazzled Bethany. "He almost died, if you must know. _Don't_ tell Mother that."

"Look, I can see that…" Gamlen sighed and sat on the far end of the settee. "I can see you've both had it rough. You're the world to Leandra and I wouldn't see either of you harmed. I'm short on coin, and even shorter on charm, but if I can do anything to take the load off, let me know."

A warm glow tickled Bethany's cheeks, and she sent a wry smile Gamlen's way. "Just lay off him, Uncle, that's all I ask. I know that you clash with him sometimes, but you have an awful lot in common, you know. He was also left to manage a house and a family after Father's death, and he was only sixteen. You're not the only one who's had it hard. He's… having a hard time now as well."

Realising he'd let his curmudgeonly mask slip, Gamlen grunted and pushed himself up. "I'll keep my trap shut, then," he declared, and walked through to the kitchen, closing the door.

Bethany shrugged. Gamlen keeping his mouth shut was better than nothing. She stood up and dragged the settee a short distance next to her brother's chair and lifted his legs up, placing them onto one end of the settee.

"You fat sod, Fletcher," she puffed, struggling with his heavy limbs. Hawke's eyes opened a crack and he smiled blearily, moving his legs where his sister wanted them. She then took a small cushion and placed it across Hawke's legs and settled down on the settee, laying her head on the cushion.

By the time Leandra came in with a snack for Bethany, both of them were fast asleep. Leandra watched them for several minutes, a few silent tears slipping free as she gazed down at her remaining children, her everything, snuggled up as they used to when they were tots. _How quickly the years pass_ , she mused wistfully. Hearing Gamlen crashing around in the kitchen, she wiped her cheeks and drew a deep breath before once again entering the kitchen to see what he was up to.

~o~O~o~

When Varric arrived a few hours later, Hawke had bathed, changed and was sitting at the dining table, making people and dog shapes out of a small bowl of mashed potatoes. Although his stomach growled, demanding food, Fletcher was surprised at how little appetite he had; he just couldn't be bothered to eat, feeling quite full enough of anxiety and bone-weariness. As the dwarf was shown to the table, Leandra admonished her son to eat for the umpteenth time, and Hawke forced a small spoonful down his throat.

"Do you want this?" Hawke whispered with a nod to his bowl.

"Uh-uh. I'm not getting on the wrong side of your mother _or_ your sister," Varric joked. "Now, be a good boy and eat up."

Hawke mustered a half-hearted glare at the dwarf before his shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes for a moment. "How's Bartrand?" he asked listlessly.

"As thick as nug shit, but I'll tell him you asked," quipped Varric. "I just had to stop him from having his men begin felling trees for wood."

" _Wood_?" Hawke's eyes flew open and his brow creased. "Whatever for?"

"For the expedition," Varric clarified with a shrug, bracing himself for a strong reaction from Hawke. "Fuel, you see, for the fires."

"What? Is he crackers or something?" spluttered Hawke, and Varric bit back a chuckle, glad to see his friend a little more animated. "Is he trying to kill us all? We'll be _underground_ , Varric. Does he want us to suffocate with the smoke?"

"Any better ideas, Hawke?" asked the dwarf, quirking an eyebrow.

"Well, yes! There are two mages going on the expedition! He does _know_ that, doesn't he? Both Anders and I can summon flame, and I can create grease, which will burn with almost no smoke. We don't need _wood_ , Varric, we need lyrium, and as much of it as we can get our hands on."

"Bartrand seems to think the Deep Roads will be lined with lyrium."

Hawke shook his head. "Not in a form mages can use. The lyrium smugglers can risk brain damage and insanity if they like. I won't touch it in its raw state. Anders and I were planning to get several batches made, before I got us all stuck up the mountain, that is. Oh… we'll also need salt. Lots of it."

" _Salt_? What for, Hawke? Is the food down in the Deep Roads a little on the bland side?"

"No, we need salt to make oxygen." Smiling at Varric's bemused expression, he leaned forward a little. "Which one of your paragons invented breathable air, then?"

"Uh… the name escapes me, Hawke. I guess I didn't pay too much attention in Paragon School."

"It was Paragon Garias," declared Hawke, and Varric's eyebrows shot up. "My father taught us about all the different cultures of Thedas. I paid particular attention to the science-y stuff, so I remembered the name. Garias eradicated black lung way back in 71: Towers with his oxygen generators. Due to that, he enjoyed wealth, privilege and as many women as his tongue could cope with." He beckoned the dwarf a little nearer. "Not to disrespect the man, but a child could have come up with it. It's a very simple chemical reaction. Even a mage could have thought it up," he added with a grin, his spirits lifting in Varric's company.

"You see, Hawke? _This_ is why I came to you for the expedition! I _knew_ there was something about you the first time I set eyes on you!" said Varric brightly and, it had to be said, proudly.

"Are you… coming _onto_ me?" Hawke teased. "Bethany's sitting just over there, you know."

"You're welcome to him, Brother," she joked from the settee.

"Smartass," muttered Varric. "Well, I'll leave all the clever chemical stuff to you and Blondie, while I keep an eye on Bartrand." He produced a piece of paper and unfolded it, passing it over to Hawke. "I made a list of things he wants to take along. I said no to most of 'em, but he said if _you_ agree, then I'm outvoted and I can kiss his ass. The man's optimistic, I'll give him that."

Hawke pored over the list, shaking his head, his nose wrinkling. "He's having a laugh!" "Oh, please," and "No bloody way are we taking _that!"_ were some of his more polite responses.

"Fletcher, _eat_ ," Leandra reminded him sternly as she set a cup of tea down in front of Varric.

" _Yes_ , Mother," groaned Hawke, forcing another spoonful of the now-cold mash into his mouth.

"There's something else," Varric said with a mild grimace as he took the list of rejected items back. Hawke raised his eyebrows and waited. "Well, the Rivaini has been pestering me."

"Who?"

"You know, Blondie's 'friend'? Isabela?"

"Oh, her? What's she been pestering you about?"

"She wants in on the expedition. I know, I know," He held his hands up to stop Hawke's protest. "I warned her that there are dangers down there for women, even though I don't know what those dangers are. She said she laughs in the face of danger."

Hawke folded his arms on the table in front of him and rested his chin on them. "If she keeps on at you, send her to Anders. He'll tell her a few stories that'll make her _vomit_ in the face of danger."

"Seriously, Hawke? You don't think she'll um… get round him?"

Hawke shook his head. "Anders is vehemently opposed to having _any_ woman along on the expedition."

" _Mash_ , Fletcher!" Bethany nagged from the settee with a cheeky grin.

"Not you as well!"

Varric watched as Hawke reluctantly nibbled at a spoonful of cold spuds. Varric was used to seeing his young friend with flushed, healthy skin, cheeks full with gravy dribbling down his chin as he ate. The man who sat before him now, though, was as pale and flaccid as the slop he pushed around his bowl. Varric was a consummate people-watcher and knew from Hawke's breathing pattern of long, deep inhalations, his body language and the inflections in his voice, that, despite his cheery façade, the young man had been on the verge of tears once or twice during their conversation, but had pulled himself back at the last minute.

"I walked into Hightown with the elf," he mentioned casually, guessing that, as Hawke would not lose control in front of his mother, now was as good a time as any to broach the subject.

There it was: the dull sheen of sadness in Hawke's eyes, his anxiety given life, before it was quickly blinked away. "Yes, Beth said he had to report back, declare himself ready for duty and all that. He's, um… going to pop by later on. So he told Beth, anyway."

"That's great, Hawke. I put in a good word for you, y'know, but, damn his pert little elven ass, he keeps his cards bloody close to his chest."

Hawke flashed a toothy smile, and his shoulders shook, but Varric saw the sadness return to Hawke's eyes almost immediately. "Pert little elven ass?" Hawke repeated, his eyes glazing over as he pushed the sadness down and forced his grin even wider. "I suppose it is."

"I have high hopes that you'll get to see that ass one day, Hawke," Varric muttered so that Leandra wouldn't hear, and Hawke sniggered.

"That's something to aim towards, at least." This time, his smile was genuine, but it quickly faltered. "More likely he'll tell me to kiss it."

"Well, when you're better, get yourself up to Hightown. You can kiss the elf's ass the same time Bartrand kisses _mine_ ," quipped Varric, waving the list at Hawke. " _That'll_ give the nobles something to talk about."

Hawke sat up straight and gave a wan smile. "It's a date." _Probably the only bloody date I'm likely to get now._

Varric finished his tea and stood up, hefting Bianca over his shoulder. "Guess I'd better see what else that stone-humping asshat is up to."

"You're going back to Hightown?" asked Hawke, glancing at Varric's legs. "How are those little stumps of yours?"

"Getting stumpier by the day," replied Varric with an easy smile. "You'd think one of those damned paragons would've invented something useful, like shoes with wheels, but _oh_ , no, they were all about running water and breathable air. What use is that to me?"

"Maybe _you_ should invent shoes with wheels?" suggested Hawke. "Paragon Tethras… it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

"You think so?" Varric pulled a face and looked at his legs. "Nah, I think I'll stick with my stumps. I couldn't abide all those adoring lackeys. I enjoy the quiet life."

"I'll walk out with you, Varric," Bethany said, also heading for the door. "I'm going to call on Merrill, keep her company for a while."

"Tell her hello from me," Hawke said, waving to them both. As they left, he slumped in his chair and pushed his bowl aside.

"How long do you think it will be before you set off for the Deep Roads?" Bethany asked Varric as they descended the steps.

"Shouldn't be more than a couple of days, now, but we're not going anywhere until Hawke's a hundred percent. Is he gonna be okay if things don't work out with the elf?"

Bethany shrugged. "He'll be fine for the expedition, if that's what you mean. He's been waiting for it for such a long time, but I'm just worried about _after_ the expedition. If he has nothing to work towards, well… I'm scared he'll start drinking again." She shook her head.

"In that case, we'd better make sure things _do_ work out with the elf," said Varric thoughtfully. "I'll keep on at 'em in the Deep Roads, and you do what you can for the next few days. I don't wanna see him the way he was when I first met you both. He's too good for that."

"Neither do I." Bethany hung her head and Varric squeezed her arm.

"Will you be okay?" he asked her, and she nodded, forcing a smile. "I just need to keep that brother of mine in line. You go see Daisy, take her to the Hanged Man, have lunch on my tab. How about we go to the house, later?" he suggested, referring to Petrice's former safehouse. "I'll have some nice food brought over and we'll put our feet--or stumps, in my case--up. How's that sound?"

"Oh, I'd like that." Bethany smiled and leaned down, kissing the dwarf on the cheek.

"I'll call for you when I'm done in Hightown," he told her with a wink, and walked off, his stomach sinking. Although he would never let on, he was worried about his young friends. Blondie had been talking to himself again, Hawke was almost the lowest he'd ever seen him and Sunshine was doing her best to be strong when she felt anything but. He guessed that Sunshine must also be concerned about him and her brother venturing into the Deep Roads.

He hadn't formed quite as strong a bond with the elf as the others, but he hadn't known him as long, nor was the elf as approachable or as open as the others, but still, Varric liked him, and could see that he was good for Hawke. He decided there and then that if Sunshine had no luck, then he would make it his business to badger Hawke and the elf mercilessly once they were in the Deep Roads until they started talking just to shut him up.

And, with a little luck, maybe they'd figure things out between themselves?

~o~O~o~

As promised, Anders called on Hawke once he'd seen to things at the clinic. To his surprise and delight, Mallory, the refugee who'd helped out when the Fereldan ship had docked in Kirkwall, had been managing things in his stead; thankfully, there had been no emergencies and, having some knowledge of herbalism thanks to her experience as a cook, she'd dispensed a few of Anders's decoctions to those who'd needed them. Much to Anders's amusement, she'd also sent a few time-wasters to the Wise Woman and her leeches.

Anders brought Mallory with him, and they informed Hawke that, as she'd had no luck finding work on the surface so far, she'd volunteered to help Anders out at the clinic for the time being. Anders seemed very enthusiastic about this, and also explained that Mallory had approached a few refugees who had medical knowledge of some kind, and had asked them if they'd also volunteer while Anders was in the Deep Roads.

"I don't know how I ever managed without her!" Anders gushed, his cheeks pink, and Hawke was amazed at the change in the man.

"Well, you certainly get things done," Hawke said to the petite but spirited woman. "Anders has been trying for ages to get more help at the clinic, but he obviously doesn't have your charm."

Mallory shook her head and smiled. "Back home, I had to deal with tradesmen, nobles and slack-jawed kitchen staff. A few refugees are a doddle in comparison."

Their pleasant chat was interrupted by heavy rapping upon the front door. Gamlen groaned, put his book down and walked over to the door.

"Yes, Guardsman?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Pardon the intrusion, messere, but is Hawke at home?"

"There are several Hawkes here," said Gamlen unhelpfully. "Which one do you want?"

"Come in, Donnic," Hawke called out with an irritated look at his uncle, who tutted before returning to his chair and book.

Donnic entered and bowed to Leandra, once again apologising for the intrusion. She bade him to sit at the table and went into the kitchen to make some tea.

"How are you now, Hawke?" asked the guard, and Hawke answered, but could see that Donnic was agitated about something, and he cut to the chase.

"What brings you here, Donnic? Not that I'm not pleased to see you, of course."

Donnic sighed, relieved that Hawke hadn't engaged in small talk, and glanced around the room. "I don't suppose Fenris is here, is he? Or has he been here, at all?"

"Not since this morning, no," replied Hawke with a frown. "I thought he was at the barracks?"

"He was." Donnic again glanced around and cleared his throat. "May we speak in private, Hawke?"

Hawke froze for a second before he stood up and led Donnic to his and Gamlen's room. Closing the door behind them, he turned toward the grim-faced guard. "What's this about?"

Donnic paused momentarily, unsure of what to say. "Does… does Fenris have… nightmares, Hawke?"

Hawke's face dropped like a stone. "Tell me."

"Well, I and the other fellas went to bed after our shift, and Fenris came in a while later, having reported back to Aveline, who'd told him to resume his night shift as usual. We had a chat for a bit and I asked him how you were. He was very quiet… we all went back to bed… sorry," he said with a groan, "I'll get to the point. Sometime later, Fenris… he started yelling in his sleep, almost screaming. Filbert and I tried to wake him, and he-he just _grabbed_ us both by the throats and started to glow!"

"What happened?" Hawke demanded, eyes wide in panic.

"He realised it was us. He let us go, and he stopped glowing. He mumbled an apology, threw some clothes on and scarpered. He was really, really upset about something."

"He left the barracks?"

Donnic nodded and released a heavy sigh. "He scared the shit out of us. I knew deep down he wouldn't hurt us, but Davy and Filbert took some convincing. I talked them round, though, and explained a little bit of Fenris's past, but not too much. They like him. They're out looking for him as well. We need to find him before Aveline discovers we're gone. She'll want an explanation, and she can smell a lie a mile off. If she suspects that Fenris is… _troubled_ in any way, that'll be it, he'll be out. I have to admit, Hawke, even without all that, I'm worried about him."

"The chantry," Hawke said immediately, but Donnic shook his head.

"That was the first place I thought of. Sebastian hasn't seen him since we were up on the mountain. He's going to keep an eye out, though, and will get word to us if he shows up. I even thought of going to the mansion, but that's the last place he'd go, isn't it? Besides, Varric said he had the place rigged."

Hawke rubbed his forehead, his heart thumping. "He wouldn't go to the Hanged Man, or anywhere with lots of people… I think he'd want to be on his own. Where, though?"

"He might still come here," Donnic ventured.

"I doubt it," mumbled Hawke, suddenly feeling weak and hot. "There's the safehouse… no, wait he doesn't have a key. You say you _didn't_ check the mansion?"

"I didn't see the point."

Hawke went to his wardrobe and pulled out a black robe, which he slipped over his shirt and leggings. He then retrieved his boots from a corner and pulled them on. "Let's go," he said as he opened the bedroom door and entered the main room. "Mother, I'm going out."

"You _can't_ ," Anders insisted. "You're not well enough! You're supposed to be resting."

"Fenris has gone missing," Hawke began.

Anders shot to his feet. "No! It's because of _him_ and his vendetta against mages that you were injured in the first place!" he spluttered. "He can't keep _doing_ things like this to you!"

A hush fell over the room, and a few pairs of eyes darted from side to side.

"It's because of _me_ that he's in such a state," Hawke answered, and could feel irritation taking root inside him, but he supressed it, mindful that Anders had recently saved his life.

"I can take care of the clinic, if you like," offered Mallory, and Hawke, by now feeling none too charitable, narrowed his eyes at her, wondering how anyone could be so irrepressibly _helpful_ all the time.

"Fletcher, please do what Anders says," Leandra implored. "You're not well. I'm certain the guards will find him."

"I'm sorry, Mother, I won't be able to rest until I know he's all right." He turned to Anders, his expression stern. "Are you coming?"

_Anders, you must be a friend to both of them. Be the better man._

Anders groaned and went to the front door. "All right!" he snapped. "If only to keep an eye on you!"

"I'll be back soon, Mother," said Hawke as he opened the front door.

"I'll tell the other guards to look out for him," Donnic informed Hawke. "Meet you in Hightown?"

Hawke nodded and walked off with Anders and Mallory. Donnic stared after them for a moment, wishing he could keep his own eye on Anders. With a huff, he turned and headed in the opposite direction.


	44. Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to run away from you and toward you at the same time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mary for her usual excellent beta!

Once Mallory had been dropped off at the clinic, Hawke and Anders began searching the side alleys and hidden nooks of Lowtown. Anders couldn't have cared less whether or not Fenris was found, but he wanted Hawke somewhere warm and resting, so he joined in with as much enthusiasm as he could feign, which wasn't much.

Deep down, Hawke knew they were wasting their time in Lowtown. For some reason, he was certain Fenris would be found at the mansion. The logical part of his brain told him that was the last place the elf would take refuge in, but Hawke had never been a very logical person. In the intuitive part of his brain, upon which he relied heavily, the mansion shone and pulsated like a beacon, calling him ever closer.

After a fruitless search of the markets and alleyways, the mages headed for the steps. Much to Anders's surprise, Hawke took them two at a time and maintained his pace as he ascended. Once they reached the top, Hawke was gasping for breath, but didn't slow down as he charged toward the chantry, where Sebastian and Donnic were talking outside the main doors.

"Any-any luck?" panted Hawke, bending and bracing his hands on his thighs.

"Nothing," Donnic grumbled.

Sebastian shook Hawke's hand and then reached for Anders's, who fancied he saw a moment's hesitation on the chantry brother's part.

"There's still Hightown Estates to search," suggested Sebastian.

"I'll take Danarius's manor," Hawke called over his shoulder, already on his way.

"And if he's not there, you're _going_ home," insisted Anders, who followed him along with Sebastian and Donnic. "You need to rest!"

"Yes, all right," mumbled Hawke absently. He had no intention of going home until Fenris had been found, though, and Anders knew it.

"Right, let's split up," Donnic instructed once they'd reached the Estates. "Seb, you check along the tradesman's entrances. Anders--"

"Actually, it'd be better if I went with Hawke," he interrupted, "as I doubt Fenris will come out if he hears _my_ voice."

Donnic looked at Anders for a moment before nodding briskly. "Fine. I'm going to knock on someone's door and check the rear grounds of the estates. I'm the only one among us legally authorised to do that. We'll meet back here when we've finished."

The four men went their separate ways, with Hawke and Anders entering the grounds of Danarius's mansion together. Upon entering the courtyard, Hawke stopped and looked around; the grounds appeared to be empty. He walked up to a window and peered through while Anders went to the front door and knocked upon it.

"I doubt he'll just come to the door," Hawke said, squinting to see past the half-closed drapes.

"What else do you suggest, then?"

"He _can't_ be in there," Hawke replied heavily. "Come and look."

Anders walked to Hawke's side and peered through the window. Inside, numerous tripwires criss-crossed the main vestibule, and a fine layer of flour coated the floor; it would have been impossible for anyone to have entered without leaving footprints or setting off one of the traps. Hawke looked at the spot where the settee once was, and his shoulders sagged.

"That's it, then," said Anders. " _Now_ will you go home?"

"What do _you_ think?" answered Hawke. "Could you just go home if someone you care about had disappeared?"

"He hasn't disappeared!" Anders exclaimed in exasperation. "He's gone off in another strop! I don't understand what all the fuss is about! Why do you keep indulging him like this?"

"Careful, Anders." Hawke's warning was clear in his low and deadly-calm voice. "There are things you don't know about. You don't know what he's been through."

"We've all been through things, Hawke! The difference is, most of us don't keep throwing tantrums and running off, making all our friends worry!"

" _Keep_? This is the second time! That's hardly constant, is it?"

"Bloody hell," hissed Anders. "Why must you insist on making a fool of yourself over this man?"

"Because I love him, that's why!" Hawke stepped closer to Anders, bristling. "Have you never loved anyone? Do you not understand what it means to lie awake at night worrying about them? For one of their smiles to instantly make everything right? For their disappointment to cause the bottom to fall out of your world?"

"No! I've never loved _anyone_ ," snapped Anders, "and I doubt anyone has ever loved _me_! Is that the answer you wanted? Because it's the truth!"

Hawke's mouth fell open, and the two men stared at each other for a long moment before Anders broke eye contact and turned away.

"This is a waste of bloody time. I'll be outside the chantry when you're ready to go back."

"Anders, wait a minute…"

"What for? You're not going to listen to me, are you? You're just going to keep on looking until you drop. There are people who care about _you_ as well, you know!"

"I know you're only looking out for me, and I'm grateful! But I can't just leave him, can I?"

Anders didn't reply as he walked away, leaving Hawke alone in the courtyard, slowly retracting his outstretched hand. Feeling the last of his strength and spirit ebb away, he trudged over to the wall and sat on the ground beneath a window, where he looked up at the sky.

"Where _are_ you?" he asked dismally. "I'm so sorry I hurt you! I wish I could just go back… Maker, I miss you." He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, his exhaustion overwhelming him.

"Hawke."

The name was a suggestion carried on the gentle rustle of leaves, and Hawke held his breath, his head jolting up, his eyes roaming the thick wall of ivy that blanketed the southern aspect of the mansion.

He blinked several times, his lungs protesting at the air held within, denied its release until Hawke was _sure_.

"Fen?"

Was he imagining things?

Another rustle came from the far-right edge of the ivy, and a vague outline, darker than the shadows which half-concealed it, moved slightly and then stopped.

Hawke released his breath and pushed himself to his feet. "Fenris? Is that you?"

The outline grew darker and resolved into a solid image as the elf slunk out of the shadows. The first thing Hawke saw were Fenris's eyes, red-rimmed and wide.

Fenris remained where he was as Hawke slowly approached, stopping a few feet away. "I knew you'd be here," he whispered. "I knew it. I know _you_."

"You should not be here," Fenris said roughly, hiding his trembling hands behind his back. "You are ill. You must _rest_. Why have you--"

"Everyone's looking for you. They're worried about you."

Fenris scowled, shook his head and disappeared behind the ivy. Hawke followed, finding the elf sitting, head bowed, on a stone bench in a small alcove concealed by the vines. Hawke remained standing, unsure how close to Fenris was _too_ close.

"I almost…"

"You had a bad dream. Donnic understands. We need to get you back to the barracks."

"It... wasn't a dream."

Hawke hesitated, unsure of the elf's meaning. "You were asleep. You had a nightmare," he said gently.

"No. Something…came back to me."

"You mean…?" Hawke slowly moved to the opposite end of the bench and sat down. "A memory?"

Fenris's eyes glazed over as he stared ahead, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"What happened?"

"I believe it was the first time Danarius forced himself upon me."

The elf's matter-of-fact tone sent a chill down Hawke's spine. Fenris had only hinted at his master's depravity before, and had never actually come out and said it.

Hawke coughed to break a silence so weighty it was virtually a third presence among them.

"When I told you about the ritual that provided me with the markings, there were… gaps in the story, in my memory. Do you remember?"

Hawke gave a solemn nod and braced himself.

"I remember part of it, now," the elf related, his voice as flat and lifeless as the air around them had become. "I had just regained consciousness. Danarius was standing over me. All of his-his _assistants_ had been sent away. I was naked, save a small cloth that covered my private parts. He… was looking at me in a very peculiar way."

Fenris closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed hard before turning slightly towards Hawke and opening his eyes again.

"I could not move. I was too weak and in horrendous pain. I begged him to administer a pain-relieving agent, but he ignored me. He began… touching me." He shuddered at the memory, and Hawke inched a little closer, desperate to comfort him, but he refrained.

"He said I was a work of art, a masterpiece, that I was _sublime_ ," the elf spat hatefully before taking a deep breath. "He removed his robe. I remember recoiling from him, and he seemed… hurt, and intimated that I had never rejected him before. His touch became firmer, more… exigent. His breathing quickened. I told him that he was hurting me, but he would not stop. He used magic on me, paralysed me. The _pain_ … I-I could do nothing. He told me I was _his_ , to do with whatever he wished."

"Fenris, _please_ ," Hawke beseeched, turning away slightly and brushing away a tear. "Don't say any more."

Fenris turned his head toward Hawke and clasped his hands together. _"You_ understand. You are the only one who understands because-because you have also been… you were…"

Hawke shook his head emphatically. "What happened to me is not the same. Not the same thing at all. I was willing. I wanted it to happen, until I knew the truth. You were forced. It's _not_ the same."

"When you told me the truth about yourself, I wanted to get as far away from you as possible," Fenris admitted, his words tumbling out in rapid succession, "but I had given my word to stay at your side. At the time, that was all that kept me from leaving, and yet, when I awoke from... I wanted to be with you. You were the only person I wanted to see, hear. The only one who knows… who understands." He placed his head in his hands, shaking it. "I feel… lost. I'm so _confused_. I don't know what to do. I want to run away from you and toward you at the same time."

Fenris's words came as no surprise to Hawke, but the shattering effect they had on him was no less intense for it. "I'm so sorry I made you feel like that."

"You didn't. This is something I have to figure out for myself." He moved his hands from his face and once again looked at Hawke. "It's too late. I… can't walk away from you now. It's too late for that. But I… I don't know if I can trust you. You have kept so much from me. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do."

Hope, mingled with sorrow, rose within Hawke and he longed to edge closer to Fenris, to reach out and touch his hand, his hair, but he knew he couldn't. He had to earn Fenris's trust all over again and wouldn't do that by forcing his proximity upon him.

"Don't be sorry. You've done nothing wrong." Hawke stood up and looked down at Fenris, his posture mirroring the elf's: beaten, exhausted, wounded. "Stay here. I'm going to tell them I've found you."

"I _won't_ go back to the barracks," Fenris insisted, his hand cutting through the air. "Let Aveline dismiss me if she wishes. I care not for the consequences. I will _not_ go back there today."

"You don't have to. Come and stay with me… _us_ , my family. Mother, Beth and my uncle will be there. You won't need to be on your own with me, if that's what you want." The blurted invitation surprised Hawke as much as it did Fenris, who glanced at him and frowned, before looking away without answering.

Hawke sat on the bench again, this time a little closer to Fenris. "You don't trust me, and I don't blame you for that. I'm going to do everything I can to make things right. Even if you never trust me again, I'll not have you thinking that _everyone_ is untrustworthy. I won't be responsible for doing that to you."

Fenris continued to stare ahead at some indeterminate point within the tangle of ivy.

"Come home with me," Hawke urged softly. "I'll tell you everything, I swear. Everything about my father, about the deal I made, and about… Dalton." Hawke's voice faltered, and Fenris once again looked at him.

"You don't have to do that."

"I _want_ to. You're going to know _everything_ about me, if you're willing to listen. I'm going to tell you things my own sister and mother don't know, and I hope that will prove to you how much I trust _you_."

"I know you trust me, Hawke."

"I'll never keep anything from you again. You're going to hear it all, good and bad," Hawke implored, his voice unsteady with anxiety. "I'm not going to give you up. You mean too much to me. If it takes the rest of my life, I'll earn your trust again." The urgency of his appeal resonated with Fenris and their eyes met, fear and hurt reflected in them. " _Please_ let me try. Take a leap of faith."

Fenris sighed softly and glanced down at his slippers, made for him by Leandra. Hawke came from a good, decent family. Hawke was a good, decent man, but one with a demon at his back. Hawke was not Danarius, he knew that with certainty, but could Fenris make such a leap? Could he accept, trust or even _love_ a blood mage?

Was that question moot, though? Did he love Hawke already?

He remembered Bethany's declaration that her brother loved him, followed by Hawke's words to Anders, spoken only minutes earlier.

He remembered Hawke's reaction when Fenris had told him of the Fog Warriors, of when Hawke had watched him kill Hadriana, and of all the times Fenris had verbally lashed out at him. Hawke had seen the worst of him and accepted, trusted and _loved_ him despite that.

"Fenris?" Hawke invited softly, interrupting his thoughts. "Come home with me."

~o~O~o~

"You found him!" Donnic rushed forward as Hawke and Fenris entered the main square at the front of Hightown Estates, and Sebastian followed behind him. The guardsman halted, however, when he saw how dejected the elf appeared.

"Fenners?"

Fenris looked up, unable to meet Donnic's eyes, and studied his friend's throat, remembering his own hand closing around it and squeezing.

"I'm fine!" Donnic insisted, placing his hand over his neck, but not before Fenris had seen the bruises that had already begun to form there. "We're _both_ fine. Come on, mate, let's get you back to the barracks. We can talk there."

Fenris lowered his head and shook it, clasping his hands together tightly. "I can't. I won't-I won't risk hurting anyone else."

"You didn't! It's fine, Fenners. We'll just know not to wake you if it happens again. Nobody knows about it but us, and that's how it'll stay. We're your friends."

"I'm… sorry, Donnic," Fenris whispered, crippled by his mortification.

"Fenris needs to prepare for the expedition, anyway," Hawke interjected. "I should have told Aveline that it's not far off, now. She can blame me if she likes."

Donnic, realising that Hawke was trying to save face for Fenris, nodded. "Well, she knew it was coming up. You were only in training, anyway, Fen, and that can be resumed when you return from the expedition. And it _will_ be resumed."

All eyes turned to Fenris, but he was withdrawn, his own eyes fixed on the ground.

"Are you… is he going with you, Hawke?" asked Donnic.

"I've offered, yes," answered Hawke with a glance at Sebastian. "Although… maybe you'd feel more comfortable at the chantry? It's up to you," he said to the mute elf. "We can talk another time, if you'd like. Whenever you're ready."

"You'd be more than welcome, Fenris," Sebastian answered warmly, "but the chantry is awfully draughty of a night. I'd recommend you spend the night with Hawke's family. His abode is small, but it's warm and welcoming, as are the Hawkes. You would be better off there, I think," he added with a glance at Hawke, who nodded back gratefully.

"Yes," said Fenris blankly, looking up at Donnic with dull eyes. "I have put you all to so much trouble. Forgive me, my friends." He shook his head and once again fell silent.

"Get him home, Hawke," Donnic urged. "I'll sort things out with Aveline."

"I'll accompany you both," offered Sebastian. "I could do with a walk."

"Fenris?" asked Hawke. The elf nodded and Hawke exhaled in relief. "Where's Anders?" he asked, glancing around.

Donnic and Sebastian exchanged a quick look, which didn't go unnoticed by Hawke. "He… went back to the clinic, I think," answered Donnic.

"What, that's all he said?"

Sebastian cleared his throat and once again glanced at Donnic. "He didn't say anything, Hawke."

"What…?" Hawke paused and breathed deeply through his nose, trying without success to push his anger down. "What's he trying to do?" he muttered under his breath. "I haven't got the energy to chase after _him_ as well! What's he playing at?" Was that what he wanted Hawke to do? Did he resent the attention Fenris was getting?

"Fenris, are you ready?" he asked, waving his hand toward the steps leading down to the grounds of the chantry. Fenris nodded and walked ahead, with his three friends following.

"I'll call off the search and get back to the barracks," Donnic announced once they reached the foot of the steps.

"Let me help," Fenris uttered mechanically.

"Yes, we'll all help," Hawke chipped in.

Donnic shook his head. "Just get home, you two. Fen, I'll call on you tomorrow morning after my shift, if that's all right? Don't worry. Leave everything to me." He placed his hands on Fenris's shoulders and looked for a moment like he was going to hug him, but he stepped back. "I'll check on Anders tonight, Hawke," he promised.

"Thanks, Donnic." Hawke suspected there was more than concern for Anders's wellbeing in Donnic's statement, but didn't question him. Fenris was his priority and whatever was going through Anders's head _this_ time would have to wait.

After a few handshakes, Donnic departed. As usual, Fenris walked slightly ahead but his bowed head and the slump of his shoulders spoke of how inattentive he was. In lieu of his usual protection, Hawke and Sebastian held their staff and bow ready. The merchants had started to pack away their goods and both men knew that this was the time of day when muggings and pickpocketing were at their peak. Hawke almost _hoped_ that someone would have a go--he was in the mood to beat someone up.

Nobody did have a go, however, and their journey to Lowtown passed quietly. Conversation was minimal between Hawke and Sebastian, and non-existent from Fenris; his companions didn't trouble him with the inanities they exchanged.

Eventually, they reached the slums and Hawke let them into Gamlen's home. Bethany had returned from Merrill's and settled Fenris down at the dining table while Sebastian and Hawke stepped back outside.

Sebastian didn't speak at first; the suspicious look he gave Hawke spoke for him.

"He's, um… he's had a shock. Bad news," Hawke mumbled in explanation of Fenris's behaviour and demeanour.

"Donnic told me he'd had a nightmare?" Sebastian queried, and there was a further, unspoken question there, as well as a restrained coolness to his voice.

"Yes, but I'm wondering if I…" Hawke paused, his mind still cogitating whether his confession had distressed Fenris so much as to bring on a flashback.

"Did you _tell_ him?" asked Sebastian. "Is that what's behind it?"

Hawke frowned, confused, but an alarm clamoured in his mind. " _Tell_ him? Tell him what?"

"That you're a blood mage," was Sebastian's blunt reply.

Hawke's breath caught, and his eyes widened, his mouth slowly opening.

"Yes, I know," Sebastian said stiffly. "Have you told him yet? I don't need to remind you that Danarius was _also_ a blood mage. Fenris has a _right_ to know."

"He knows," murmured Hawke, "and yes, I think that's what's behind it."

Sebastian folded his arms and let out a long sigh. "Well, I'm pleased to hear that you've been honest with him. He deserves that, as much as the truth has devastated him."

"It has," Hawke whispered, his eyes cast down, his posture slumping. "I'm… trying to put things right. I'm not a practising blood mage, although I don't suppose that matters to most people."

"I can see that. And in case you're wondering, I won't report you to the templars. I wouldn't do that to your mother or sister… or to Fenris."

"I wasn't--"

"…Not unless you give me reason to, Hawke. So long as you _continue_ not to practise it."

"I won't." Hawke exhaled, suddenly feeling very tired. "How did you know?"

"Your friend, Merrill. Something she said while we were engaging Hadriana."

Hawke nodded slowly. "She was worried that someone would guess. It's not her fault, though. Are you… going to report _her_?"

"Not for the time being. I'll be keeping an eye on her, though, as well. I won't abide the practise of blood magic, Hawke--it was what killed my family. From what I have seen of you so far, you appear to be a decent man, but I cannot ignore the fact you are bound to a demon, whatever the circumstances."

"I understand that, Sebastian. Just… we're not all like the Harrimans."

"Possibly, but the potential for corruption is always there. You have assured me that you are a non-practising blood mage, and I must take you at your word. Do not break it, Hawke, for Fenris's sake, and for your own. Think of me what you will. I must do what I feel is right."

"My opinion of you hasn't changed," Hawke assured him. "You're being a good friend to Fenris, and I'm grateful to you for that. If he decides he wants nothing more to do with me, which is a distinct possibility, he'll need a friend like you."

Sebastian eyed Hawke warily for a moment before nodding and releasing a sigh. "You must understand, Hawke, that I have seen the very worst of blood magic… not that any _good_ could ever come of it. Perhaps you see that, also, I don't know. I _am_ Fenris's friend, though, and I will do what I must to protect him."

"I know that, and so would I," replied Hawke, looking towards the door. "I… I wouldn't have hurt him for anything, but that's exactly what I've done. I've messed up, Sebastian, but I'm going to do whatever it takes to make it up to him. If he'll let me."

"I see your contrition, Hawke, which is why I discouraged Fenris from seeking refuge at the chantry. I do believe that you have his best interests at heart, and that you care for him." Sebastian's intense blue eyes fixed Hawke in place as he paused. " _Don't_ prove me wrong."

Hawke nodded once, and Sebastian bowed slightly, but did not offer Hawke his hand. "Good afternoon to you, Hawke. Maker watch over you."

"Good afternoon, Sebastian, and thank you." Hawke watched the archer walk down the steps and out of the slums. "Maker watch over you as well."

He entered the house to find Bethany, Leandra and a disgruntled Gamlen hovering near to the door. Fenris was seated at the dining table, nursing a cup of tea.

"Uncle Gamlen's taking us out, isn't that right, Uncle?" Bethany sang, receiving a grunt in reply. In spite of how anxious Hawke felt, he had to smile at his sister's none-too-subtle scheming.

"We'll be back later, darling," Leandra said, concern wrinkling her brow. " _Please_ get some rest."

"I will," he replied, and Leandra pulled him close, the suddenness and desperation in her embrace causing tears to spring to his eyes. "M-Mother," he whispered, pulling away, "I'm fine, really, I just need a good night's sleep."

An impatient sigh was heard from the door. "Are we going or not?" asked Gamlen.

Leandra nodded and released Hawke. "Make yourself at home, Fenris," she called, and the elf doffed a respectful nod.

"Thank you."

They left the house and made their way down the steps, Gamlen walking a short distance ahead, with mother and daughter arm-in-arm. Once they'd exited the slums, Leandra halted.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on, Bethany?"

"Going… on? What do you mean, Mother?"

"What's happened to Fletcher? Fenris?"

"They're just having a few issues which they need to talk about."

"Daughter, it's clear to me that there's a lot more than a few _issues_ here," Leandra interrupted. "Do you think I haven't noticed that Fletcher has lost weight? How he grimaces and clutches his stomach sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking? This is how he gets when he's worried about something, but when I ask him he pats my hand and tells _me_ not to worry. I _want_ to know what's going on."

Bethany sighed and placed her hands on Leandra's arms. "Fletcher and Fenris are… involved."

"I know that."

"Well, sometimes couples go through a rough patch."

"Bethany! In case you've forgotten, I _have_ been married! Do you think I don't realise they're having difficulties? I wish you and Fletcher would stop fobbing me off! I'm not a piece of china, in case you hadn't noticed! I won't break if you confide in me!"

Bethany stared at her mother, open-mouthed, suddenly comprehending that, in their efforts to protect her, she and Fletcher had only succeeded in causing her to worry even more.

"Or perhaps you think I'm only here to dispense tea and cake?"

"Oh, Mother, no!" Bethany's lip wobbled and she wrapped her arms around Leandra's waist.

Leandra cupped Bethany's face and sighed. "Oh, Bethany, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I-I've just… you and Fletcher never come to me as you used to. I worry so much about you both." Leandra tutted and shook her head as tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

"Oh, Maker," grumbled Gamlen, turning away from the embarrassing spectacle. "I'm going to carry on," he announced. "Catch me up whenever… ugh." He walked off, leaving Bethany and Leandra to talk about _women's_ things.

"You're right, Mother," Bethany said, barely noticing Gamlen's departure. "Maker knows _I've_ been worried about him going on the expedition, and you don't know anything about it, do you? You must have been imagining all kinds of things."

"I have," Leandra replied. "There could be all manner of monsters down there. And the darkspawn… I know you think I'm fussing, but I can't help it. I-I don't want to lose another son, dear."

"I know." Bethany took one of her mother's hands and led her down a side alley toward central Lowtown. "I know where we can go! Varric has a little place he's looking after. There are a few bottles of wine there. We'll snuggle up and have a girly chat, just like we used to."

"Oh, darling, that would be wonderful," said Leandra with a smile.

"I'll tell you everything that's been going on. The expedition, what happened up in the mountains. Fletcher _did_ get hurt, but he'll be fine. I'll tell you all about it." Bethany knew the only thing she couldn't share with her mother was that he was a blood mage.

It didn't take them long to reach the safehouse, and Bethany produced the chain around her neck that now held a key to the property as well as one to Varric's room at the Hanged Man. A small sealed note was nailed to the door and she pulled it off, squinting in the fading light to read it:

_Varric Tethras! You cannot avoid me forever!_

_Will either you, Hawke, or preferably both of you, report to the barracks forthwith! And don't think you can run off on that expedition of yours, either!_

_You cannot just claim ownership of an abandoned property that is actually owned, I'll have you know, by the sodding CHANTRY!_

_Get your arses up here or so help me, I'll come and find you both._

_GUARD-CAPTAIN (remember that?) Vallen._

"What's that, dear?" asked Leandra.

"Just a welcome note from one of Varric's friends," chirped Bethany, slipping the note into a pocket on her robe.

~o~O~o~

Hawke closed the door and turned around just as Fenris rose from the table, although his eyes were fixed firmly upon it.

"Do you… would you feel more comfortable if one of them came back?" Hawke asked, thumbing toward the door.

Fenris looked up and shook his head before closing his eyes, his shoulders drooping.

"The door's unlocked, you know."

Fenris's eyes opened and he frowned. "I… why…?"

"I just want you to feel safe." Hawke slowly walked up to the table, his eyes on the kitchen door. "May I fetch you a drink?" he offered.

"I already have one. Your sister brought it to me. Make one for yourself, if you wish." Fenris again lowered his head. "Not that you need my permission to make yourself a drink."

"I know that," Hawke replied with a gentle smile. "How are you feeling?"

"I…" Fenris shrugged his shoulders and his eyes slowly travelled up to meet Hawke's. The mage was standing only a few feet away, the closest they'd been to each other all day, and for the first time Fenris noticed how pale and drawn Hawke appeared. Fenris sighed, the realisation finally dawning on him that the last couple of days had been just as hard on Hawke as they had on him.

"I'm… sorry," he whispered, the memory of the ill, exhausted Hawke slumped against the mansion wall returning to him. "You have compromised yourself looking for me. You-you should sit down. I will bring you a drink."

Fenris moved aside to allow Hawke access to the settee and, when Hawke didn't move, he turned away and headed for the kitchen, only to feel a gentle touch to his arm.

Fenris stopped in his tracks, his heart racing. Hawke, the man--the blood mage--he wasn't even sure he could trust, was standing behind him, a dangerous position for anyone, and yet Hawke didn't move away. Warmth trickled into Fenris's veins as his markings bloomed their warning, surrounding him in a gentle blue corona, but still Hawke held his place.

"Hawke… you shouldn't."

"I know you won't hurt me. I _trust_ you, Fenris. Please don't run away from me."

Hawke's hand gently clasped Fenris's arm, turning him around, and the elf, weak with confusion, offered no resistance, although the glow of his markings did not wane.

Hawke raised his free hand, resting it against Fenris's other arm before he took a small step closer. "Don't run away from me."

The urge to flee came strongly upon Fenris again, yet he also remembered the relief that had coursed through him when he'd spied Hawke entering the courtyard of the mansion. He'd thought that solace could be found in isolation, in making himself invisible, in removing himself from everything so that nobody would have to look at him or suffer his company, but Hawke had risked his health to seek him out, and now offered Fenris solace of a different kind in his arms.

Making the decision for him, Hawke closed the gap as war broke out between Fenris's head and heart, and both thumped in tandem, sending him giddy. His markings responded to the perceived threat and flared violently even as his hands moved to rest against Hawke's chest, half pulling him closer, half pushing him away.

"The door's unlocked," Hawke reminded him, and the glow of his markings lessened slightly. "You can leave at any time."

Fenris closed his eyes. "…No."

Warmth enveloped him as Hawke's arms came around his shoulders. Fenris removed his hands from Hawke's chest and slid them around his back, the light of his markings waning as they held each other, Fenris finally finding his solace from the nightmares.

For now, Fenris's heart was winning the war.


	45. Strength In Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Fletcher's legs twitched and he snorted, batted his nose with his hand and then slumped and started snoring.
> 
> Was _this_ man evil, immoral, power-crazed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank my tireless beta-reader, and friend, Mary (Shakespira) enough for her help and hard work on this chapter. She really went above and beyond, and I am blessed to have her help and wisdom at my disposal.
> 
> Thanks also to Carina for making me think, and for being so gracious, as well as to all of you who continue to follow the story.
> 
> This chapter contains small spoilers for DA2: Legacy, and thank you again to Mary for your help with that.

Hawke and Fenris slowly pulled apart and stood together, still close but not touching, neither of them sure what to say. Fenris's mind raced as he desperately sought the appropriate words, anything to break the silence. Anything to break the push-and-pull, the dual repulsion and attraction he felt towards Hawke. Anything that would distract him from his ambivalence, his confusion, and the urgent _need_ that surged up from his belly and flooded his chest.

If only he knew what that need _was_.

"I will fetch you a drink," he offered again. It was the distraction he needed, an inconspicuous way to put space between them. He stepped further back, his eyes on the kitchen door.

_Escape. Solitude. Freedom._

"Please sit down, Fl... Hawke. You are clearly exhausted."

"All right, Fen. I'll do what you say," Hawke replied, his voice soft and quiet. He moved to the settee, taking up his usual spot, leaving Fenris's preferred seat free.

"I will return shortly." Fenris quickly disappeared into the kitchen and leaned heavily against the counter, closing his eyes and releasing a long sigh. Opening them, he looked around the kitchen. It was large and cold, and he felt very small and lonely in there. Once again a need, a compulsion, a longing, swelled within him and his eyes moved to the wall. On the other side of that wall Hawke was seated on the settee they'd once slept upon in front of a roaring fire.

_Warmth. Company. Safety._

What did he really want?

He shook his head, annoyed at his weakness and vacillation, and filled the kettle, hanging it above the fire. After a brief search, he found the biscuit barrel, and paused when he found several pieces of home-made shortbread within. Fletcher had taught him how to make shortbread. Fletcher was teaching him to read. Again, he glanced at the wall as though he could see through it.

A blood mage was in the next room. Danarius and Hadriana were blood mages. Most of the magisters of the Imperium, people he'd seen performing unspeakable acts in the pursuit of power, were blood mages. And yet, the blood mage in the next room liked shortbread. He was a dreadful worrier. He cried. He would do anything for his friends and family. His mother had made slippers for him. He'd gone out searching for Fenris despite being ill and so tired he was on the verge of collapse. He'd argued with his friend, Anders, while defending Fenris.

He'd told Anders he _loved_ Fenris.

When Bethany had first told him of Fletcher's past, Fenris's suspicious nature, the side of him that always looked for deception, at first made him surmise that her story was fabricated, that she was making excuses for her brother's status. After all, Fletcher was fiercely protective of his sister. Surely she would also do anything for him?

And then, the guilt had surfaced. Bethany was a _good_ person. How could Fenris think her capable of such trickery? Because _Fenris_ was not a good person, that was how. He looked for lies and wrongdoing at every turn, even more so since he'd become involved with a group that mostly consisted of mages. But those mages, even Anders--whom Fenris disliked intensely--had not once displayed any evil or immoral leanings. Not once.

And, as Bethany had related Fletcher's past and the reasons for his treaty with a demon, Fenris had found the story more and more plausible as she'd gone on. Had the story been about Danarius, Hadriana, or any of the other magisters, he would have thought it ludicrous and unbelievable.

But applied to Fletcher? It not only seemed plausible, it made perfect sense.

The small group Hawke had assembled had encountered many bandits, mercenaries and other miscreants on their travels, and some of their victories had been hard-won, but not once had Fletcher used his forbidden powers. Even in the direst of circumstances he hadn't given into temptation. Fletcher did not seem the type to use blood magic just because he could, because it was easy to do so. Fletcher _hadn't_ learned blood magic with the acquisition of power in mind.

Everything Fenris had ever held to be true about blood mages, everything he had once been absolutely certain of, and his beliefs--the only things that had been real and constant during his life of servitude--had been utterly demolished. How could he trust his own judgement? Who was right? Would anything ever make sense again? Would he ever regain that sense of _knowing_ , of absolute certainty?

And yet Fenris had laid himself bare to Fletcher, had dared to trust him, and on two occasions (that he knew of) Fletcher had betrayed that trust, had kept things from him. Not minor things, either, but things that were of vital importance to Fenris.

In the deepest recesses of his heart, his mind, though, Fenris knew _why_ Fletcher had not told him at first.

It should have been so simple. Fenris should have been able to look past the secrets which, in comparison to everything Fletcher had done _for_ Fenris, in comparison to how Fletcher made him _feel,_ _were_ minor. But, deep inside, there was a part of Fenris that still expected more betrayal, more lies, and more hurt.

And Fenris detested that part of himself. But it was as much a part of him as blood magic--and a demon--were a part of Fletcher. _Fletcher_ , however, had been strong and had resisted using his powers, renouncing his relationship with his demon. Fenris _believed_ that to be true. So why couldn't Fenris also be strong and renounce the part of himself he hated and which caused him, and others, such pain?

Would he ever be able to do that?

Gathering himself, he made the tea and took it through to the living room, but left the biscuits behind. Fletcher, understandably, was asleep, his hands folded in his lap, his head lolling to one side. Fenris set the tea down and stood watching him.

Fletcher's hair was, as usual, a mess; his robe was badly creased and his boots were scuffed and caked in mud. His mouth hung open and, before long, drool started negotiating its way out of it. This time, there was no beard to stop its path, and Fenris found himself smiling as the liquid began to pool on Fletcher's shoulder before sinking in, leaving a dark patch on his robe, which was quite a feat as it was black. One of Fletcher's legs twitched and he snorted, batted his nose with his hand and then slumped and started snoring.

Was _this_ man evil, immoral, power-crazed?

Taking up his own cup of tea, Fenris sat upon the seat with the elf-shaped dent and sank back, watching the fire. And there he waited, as Fletcher had once waited with him back at the mansion.

~o~O~o~

"I don't expect you to understand, Justice. You don't understand me, that's as clear as day. What's also clear is that you've never made any _attempt_ to understand me. Why should now be any different?"

" _Your behaviour of late has been erratic and confounding. That is what I do not understand. What are your reasons? What drives you to conduct yourself in such a manner? Why did you abandon Hawke?"_

"You _know_ why!"

" _Despite your explanation, I still do not understand how this motivates your actions. Hawke is_ not _Ruben. You have not seen Ruben for many years. You should have reconciled his loss by now."_

"Just because I haven't seen him for 'many years' doesn't mean I don't still care about him! It doesn't mean I've forgotten him! _That_ is the part I can't seem to make _you_ understand! And I haven't lost him! As far as I know, he's still alive!"

" _I_ do _understand that mortals form bonds with one another, Anders. I_ feel _what you feel. Do you forget that? I feel the tightness in your stomach, the ache in your chest. I taste the salt in your tears as they trickle down your throat. I feel all of it. But I do not understand how Ruben is connected to Hawke."_

"He reminds me of him! How many more times do I have to say it?"

" _I see Ruben when you think of him. His physical appearance differs vastly from that of Hawke's."_

"I mean his mannerisms, Justice! His sense of humour, the way he laughed… even-even his voice."

" _Anders…"_

Anders dashed tears from his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's bad enough that I think about him every time I see Hawke. I can't… I can't _talk_ about him as well."

" _How do you expect me to understand if you will not discuss your feelings? Remember, Anders, that upon completion of the Deep Roads expedition, Hawke will be working with us at the clinic. At that time, the first stage of our plan will commence. You must--"_

"I don't want to hear any more about how _strong_ I need to be! I know, all right? I bloody know! Just-just give me a bit of quiet time, eh? _Please_."

The spirit fell silent but the pounding in Anders's head did not cease. He leaned against a wall in his private room at the rear of the clinic and placed his hands over his face. For a moment he considered casting upon himself to relieve the pressure building inside his skull, but decided against it. He didn't _want_ to feel better.

Why wouldn't Hawke listen to him? Why was he bent on harming himself, on pushing his body to its very limit? Why had he taken up with someone who hated everything he was and who treated him so badly?

Why couldn't Anders _protect_ him? He couldn't face losing another--

"No. Hawke _is not_ Ruben. He's _not_. Get that into your thick head!" He pushed away from the wall and walked to the small basin in the corner, splashing cool water over his face. He was glad that his squalid little den didn't contain a looking glass as he didn't care to look at himself right now, to see the emptiness, the hopelessness he felt reflected back in his eyes.

A patient. That was what he needed. Someone he could care for, someone who would look at him with reverence and admiration, as many residents of the Undercity did. Someone who would thank him, appreciate him.

And that was enough. The fact that most of those very same people never asked him how _he_ was, how he paid for his supplies or if he needed any help was beside the point. He didn't _need_ them to care about him. He didn't _need_ them to love him.

Again, he gave silent thanks that there was no mirror in his private room, for if he glanced at himself in one now, he would also see the lies he continued to feed himself.

He dried his face and ventured up the stone steps to the main room of the clinic, hoping that someone up there would need his care; healing the sick filled the gaping hole in his soul, if only briefly.

Pushing open the door at the top of the steps, he startled as he almost knocked Mallory over. She'd been standing very close to the door, and she jumped back, emitting a startled yelp as he emerged.

"A-Anders! Oh, I wasn't… I mean… I-I just… I heard voices. Raised voices. I didn't intend to listen, but I couldn't help it. Are you all right?" There was caution in her voice and fear in her eyes, and she took a further step back as Anders took one forward.

"Mallory? You're still here?"

"Well, where else would I be?" Her eyes widened, and Anders realised that she must have seen him enter his private room when he returned to the clinic… alone.

"Is… someone else down there?" she asked tentatively, her eyes flitting to the door.

"No."

Her eyes dropped to the floor and then wandered back to the door. Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her. "But I heard two voices." She trailed off, and her bright blue eyes widened further as she stood awkwardly, both of them now aware that Anders had been talking to himself, or so it seemed.

Anders sighed and hung his head, taking a few steps back to afford Mallory some space. "I'm surprised you don't know," he said quietly, his posture making him appear smaller. "I'm host to a Fade spirit. Sometimes… we disagree," he added with a hollow laugh.

"Oh," murmured Mallory. "One of the lads said something about that, but I didn't believe him. I didn't even know it was possible."

"Neither did we. Justice and I, I mean. That's his name. It was sort of an experiment. I'm glad that it worked out, but sometimes… oh, never mind. Anyway, Mallory, there's no need to be afraid. I know it was probably weird for you to hear me talking to him, but he's a good spirit, very decent."

"You sounded upset."

Anders breathed deeply through his mouth, slowly exhaling out of his nose. "I'm-I'm fine. Just a bit of silliness," he said briskly, squeezing past her. "Any patients?"

"Um… Luke and Big Beatrice came in while you were out with your friends, but I sent them away with a couple of your potions. I hope you don't mind."

" _Mind_?" Anders laughed and his posture relaxed a little as he turned back. "Why would I mind?"

"Well, I was just thinking that maybe you'd feel I was trying to take over or something," she uttered, unable to meet his eyes.

"Mallory, I told you earlier that you're Maker-sent!" he replied lightly, and then his face fell a little at Mallory's nervousness. "I really did frighten you, didn't I? I'm sorry. I hope-I hope you don't think differently of me now."

She shrugged and stepped a little closer to him. "It's strange, I'll admit. But… well, you don't strike me as a frightening person. Lonely, though. I _do_ see that in you."

A heavy frown appeared on his brow and he stared, stunned, at the small young woman before him.

"I shouldn't have said that," she quickly stated. "I'm sorry. I'm used to being free with my opinions. Sometimes I run my mouth off, and sometimes I say things that I have no business saying."

"Um, no, it-it's fine," he mumbled. "It _can_ be a bit isolated down here sometimes," he added with a forced smile. "It's enough to drive a man cuckoo!"

A flicker of sadness in Mallory's eyes was quickly blinked away as she returned Anders's smile. "Well, while it's quiet, would you care for some company? We could have a bite to eat, and you can tell me all about… Justice?"

His smile widened, and his eyes sparkled as warmth tickled his insides. "I'd like that, Mallory."

"I told you to call me Mal," she scolded with a cheeky grin.

"I'd like that, _Mal_ ," he teased, and waved his hand, indicating that she precede him. "After you."

~o~O~o~

Fletcher slept for a long time. Fenris was determined to stay awake, although he wasn't sure why. It certainly wasn't out of fear of Fletcher; he had long stopped suspecting Fletcher of wanting to harm him, even with the discovery of his status as a maleficar. No, it was something else. Fenris found the near-silence, accompanied by Hawke's breathing and the occasional snort, soothing after the noise, the pain and the fear of his flashback.

In Hightown, when he'd stood before Donnic, the friend he'd almost--

A shudder travelled through him as he remembered how close he'd come… how easily he could hurt those he cared about, or worse. Not only did he feel wretchedly guilty but he was furious with himself for yet again losing control. He'd lost control at the barracks and he'd lost control in Hightown when Donnic, Sebastian and Hawke had decided what was going to be done with him.

He didn't blame them for that, of course. Fenris had been in no state to decide anything, then. But being in control of a situation, knowing _exactly_ what was going to happen, was important to Fenris, vital, even, after living for so long as a mere chattel with no control over his destiny whatsoever.

Here, sitting next to the slumbering Hawke, he _was_ in control. He knew that every exhalation of Hawke's would be followed by another. He knew that the logs on the fire would pop occasionally and that now and again Hawke would shift slightly or mumble something under his breath.

Fenris hadn't found comfort in being alone after all. Before he'd met Hawke, he'd become accustomed to being alone, but now realised that he'd become accustomed to company. Hawke's company. He knew that the two of them had a long road, paved with hard and possibly hurtful discussions, ahead of them but, in the meantime, he would enjoy the simple calm that company, and being in control, brought.

His enjoyment, however, was short-lived. A key noisily rattling in the door snapped him out of his relaxed state, and he sat up straight as the cantankerous man he'd briefly met earlier entered. Both men stared at each other uneasily for a moment before Gamlen closed the door and approached the settee.

"Is he...?"

"Asleep," Fenris finished for him.

Gamlen nodded, folded his arms and eyed Fenris carefully, sizing him up. "So… you're an elf, then."

"The last time I looked, yes. And you are a human," Fenris answered with equanimity.

Gamlen pointed at his dozing nephew. "And what are _you_ to _him_?"

"I am… a friend," replied Fenris after some consideration.

"A friend? Or a _friend_?"

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand the question. A friend is a friend."

"Are you the elf Leandra keeps harping on about? The one Fletcher's addled over?"

Fenris was baffled by the man's strange questions, but kept his tone polite. "As your sister is not here, I cannot know the answer to that, nor would I presume to speak on her behalf. Perhaps you should ask her? If it helps, my name is Fenris."

"Yes, _that's_ the one." The disapproval in Gamlen's expression was clear, but the deep lines and creases in his face told Fenris there wasn't much the man _didn't_ disapprove of. "Well, just keep the noise down," he warned, and headed toward his bedroom.

"I will," the elf promised, hiding his amusement well.

"If he wakes up, tell him that his sister and mother are getting leathered in that place the dwarf has just bought."

" _Bought_? Oh… yes, I see," answered Fenris, knowing exactly where Gamlen meant. "I will tell him. Goodnight."

"Hmph," grunted Gamlen before closing his bedroom door and locking it.

"Has he gone yet?" whispered Hawke, opening one eye.

"You are awake."

Hawke nodded, stretched, and sat himself up. "How long have I been asleep?"

"I am uncertain, but your tea is cold."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"You needed to sleep, Hawke. Do not trouble yourself over it." Fenris fidgeted in his seat and edged away from Hawke slightly, his fleeting sense of control slowly slipping away from him now that Hawke had awoken.

Hawke noticed the movement and hurt, fierce and bright, scalded his stomach. "You're back to calling me 'Hawke', then?"

He regretted his question as soon as it had left his mouth. It was a cheap shot, and he knew it, resulting from his injured pride. He'd caused much more hurt to Fenris, who hadn't deserved that. He sighed. "I'm sorry. Call me what you think is appropriate. I'm-I'm sorry. Bloody hell, I'm so selfish. How are _you_ feeling, Fenris?"

"You are back to calling me Fenris," said the elf, his tone even.

Hawke turned his head toward Fenris, a weak smile hesitantly tugging at his mouth. "Was that a joke?"

"I don't know. Was it?" No smile graced Fenris's face, and his voice was perfectly emotionless.

Hawke, crestfallen that Fenris hadn't returned his smile, unconsciously increased the distance between them by crossing his legs and leaning away. "We're being awfully polite with each other, aren't we?"

Fenris clasped his hands together and stared at the fire, sighing quietly. "We are."

"You don't need to be, you know. I want you to say what's on your mind. I want you to yell at me, call me every name under the sun, pound me with your fists if it makes you feel better."

"And what would that accomplish? We would still be here, and the past would remain unchanged. Besides, I do not think your uncle would appreciate me yelling."

"He'd probably join in with you, actually." Hawke pushed himself forward and stood up, vainly attempting to smooth some of the creases out of his robe. "Would you like to take a walk with me?"

Fenris shook his head. "You are going nowhere. Did you not see the concern on your mother's face?"

"I'm not suggesting we walk to Sundermount, F--" He paused, unsure what to call the elf. "I just feel like a sniff of air, that's all. If I break into a sprint, you have my permission to take me down."

Fenris recognised the humour in Hawke's words, but was uncertain whether or not he should smile. "Very well," he conceded as he rose. "We will remain in the slums, though."

"Right, of course."

They stepped outside and Fenris watched Hawke closely as they walked down the steps. Hawke glanced obliquely at the elf and grinned, heartened by his concern.

"I'm not going to faint or anything, you know."

"Good," answered Fenris dryly. "I would not like to be the one to carry you back up the steps."

Hawke laughed quietly and allowed himself the tiny hope that, in spite of everything, he and Fenris might still emerge from the debacle as friends.

"I wouldn't do that to you, F… Fenris."

"I appreciate that."

They walked on in silence, not really sure where they were going, but Hawke gradually steered them towards the Alienage.

"I'm going to show you where I do most of my thinking," Hawke said. "Yes, I _do_ think occasionally, in case you were wondering."

Fenris nodded and, as they descended the steps into the Alienage, he halted, stunned. "This is where--"

"Yes. Where we first met, at the foot of the steps."

Fenris's eyes glazed over as he recalled that night. He'd been so different, then, so bitter and full of vitriol. That part of him was still very much alive, but its presence was now obfuscated, veiled; its voice was softer, its teeth had no bite. It was a part of him that emerged only rarely now and, when it did, it no longer gave him strength, conviction or purpose. It felt _wrong_. And the man standing next to him had been responsible for much of that change in him: the change in his fortunes, the change in his beliefs, his perceptions.

The man standing next to him had changed his entire life.

Right there, on the steps of the Alienage, was where it had all begun, where everything had started to take a turn for the better. This was a very important place, and the revelation that Fletcher spent time there alone, thinking, signified how important he also considered it to be. Once again, the compulsion--the _need_ \--Fenris had experienced earlier took hold of him, but Fenris was no nearer to knowing what that need _was_. He knew what both his head and his heart were telling him, but so far neither had gained the upper hand.

Hawke, seeing that Fenris was deep in thought, stood beside him on the steps and waited. Eventually, the elf blinked and continued on, his brow heavy with care.

"Over here," Hawke said, walking to the Vhenadahl, where he crouched down, re-lighting some of the candles that had gone out. Fenris walked around the tree to assist and, before long, the base of the giant tree was surrounded in a soft halo of light. An elderly elf who was passing by bade them good evening and thanked them for keeping the candles lit.

They found a space to sit at the foot of the tree, and Hawke leaned against it, looking up at the night sky.

"I was born on 13 Drakonis, 9:04 Dragon," Hawke said. Fenris glanced at him and frowned, not understanding. "I'm starting from the beginning," explained Hawke. "You're going to know everything about me, with nothing left out. If you can stay awake, that is."

An intimation of a smile skittered along Fenris's mouth. "I will do my best."

"Do _you_ know when you were born?" Hawke asked cautiously.

"I do. I once managed to glimpse my papers, Danarius's proof of ownership. One of the other slaves who had a rudimentary grasp of reading and writing was able to tell me the date."

Hawke nodded but said nothing.

"8 Kingsway, 9:01 Dragon," Fenris told him. "The occasion was not celebrated, however, not like it would be here."

"Kingsway's passed," Hawke said sadly. "Although… we _could_ have a belated celebration."

"I have never celebrated my Naming Day. I do not even know what my name _is_. _Fenris_ was 'gifted' to me by Danarius."

"Do you mind being called that?"

Fenris shrugged and also looked up at the sky. "It is as good a name as any, I suppose."

The creak of a door caught their attention and Merrill stepped out of her small house, situated across from them. "Here again, Hawke?" she called, before she spotted Fenris. "Oh. Good evening, Fenris."

"Merrill."

"Merrill often joins me out here," Hawke told Fenris. "She usually very kindly brings me a cup of tea and sits with me for a bit. Most of the time, we're quiet. It's nice to share silence with someone." He then turned to face the Dalish elf, who slowly walked up to them. "I'm sorry, Merrill, but I forgot the shortbread tonight."

"Oh, that's all right, Hawke. Well, I can see that you two probably want to talk. I'll leave you to it. If you want to pop in afterwards, you'd be very welcome. You too, Fenris."

Fenris nodded and then glanced uncertainly at Hawke.

"We'll do that, Merrill. Thank you," Hawke replied.

"Right, then, I'll leave you to it. Um… I've already said that, haven't I? I am daft. Do you-do you want a blanket or anything? It's a bit nippy out, isn't it? Mind you, I've only got the one."

"We're fine, thanks. You keep the blanket," Hawke answered with a smile. "We'll see you in a while."

"Oh, right. I'm going, then. Hope you have a nice chat." Merrill turned and scampered back into her house, closing the door behind her.

"Hardly fits the stereotype of an evil blood mage, does she?" Hawke asked Fenris, who stared at the door to Merrill's home, giving a reluctant shrug.

"We come in all shapes and sizes," he went on. "I'm not trying to make excuses, though, but in Ferelden and the Free Marches blood mages are pariahs. They don't have the power and prestige that they do in the Imperium. Most blood mages don't draw attention to themselves, and some of them are even pretty decent people."

Expecting a rebuttal, Hawke was surprised when Fenris leaned back against the tree and sighed. "I don't know what to think anymore," he said shortly, frustration in his voice. "Everything I have ever known, everything I ever believed, has been turned on its head. Rarely have I felt so… perturbed."

"I know. And I'm sorry that… I'm sorry it was such a dreadful shock to you. I _could_ have told you earlier, several times, in fact. But I was weak and selfish. I didn't want to lose you. As my feelings for you deepened, though, I knew that I couldn't go on lying to you. The thought of you finding out without me having told you… I hope you'll believe me when I say that I didn't care for the consequences to myself in that eventuality, but rather I cared about how _you_ would feel. I _had_ to tell you, even though I knew it would very likely destroy everything we have. _Had."_

Fenris hung his head and bent his legs, resting his elbows on them. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.

"You must feel like the rug's been pulled out from under your feet," Hawke said sympathetically.

Fenris's head turned in Hawke's direction, but he didn't look at him. "Yes, that is exactly how I feel. You understand."

"Never be in any doubt that I _know_ what I've done to you. I wish… if I could go back… oh, it's pointless to think that, isn't it? What's done is done."

"I… do understand how difficult it must have been for you to tell me," Fenris replied quietly. "I also understand that there are extenuating circumstances. I still-it does not make the news easier to bear, however. The thought that _you_ \--" Fenris stiffened momentarily and then sighed. "I know that you have not had an easy life. I know of the sacrifices you have made, of what you have lost. I am not without sympathy for you. It's just… it's difficult."

"I know that," Hawke said in a hushed tone, "and it's very decent of you to see my side, as well."

"You are not Danarius, and you never will be. When I compared you to him that one time, that was wrong of me. Terribly wrong."

"You were hurt, and had good reason to be."

"No." There was anger in Fenris's voice, anger directed at himself. "I see now what you were trying to do. Sometimes, when emotions are involved, when they take over, one can be blinded to the motivations of others. At the time, I did not see. I did not _want_ to see. I was blind, to you and to everyone else. I know why you kept it from me. You were correct, Hawke, I _would_ have taken off into the mountains alone, where I would likely have been re-captured. How, then, would you and the rest of my friends have felt? My actions were utterly selfish and I know how much I hurt _you_ with my reaction. I will _never_ forget the look on your face. I am far from perfect."

Hawke sat forward and inched closer to Fenris. "You know, we can keep blaming ourselves and apologising until we're blue in the face. Let's just stop it, now, both of us. What do you say?"

Hawke offered the elf his hand, and Fenris considered the gesture for a moment before extending his own hand and shaking it. Both men then folded their hands in their laps, mirroring each other as they leaned back against the tree.

"Will you listen, Fen, if I tell you everything? Once you know everything, you can decide what you want to do, with all the facts at your disposal. I'm going to tell you now, though, that I don't intend to give you up easily, but if friendship is all you feel you can give, I'll take it. I need you in my life in _some_ capacity. I didn't realise how empty my life was before you came along."

Fenris's eyes lowered and he squeezed them closed, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. He knew that Fletcher spoke from his heart, that his words were the truth. The impulse, the compulsion he'd felt so many times that day, now manifested as a yearning, a _hunger_. He now knew what he hungered for, but denied it himself even so, afraid and uncertain of what he was about to hear. He slowly opened his eyes and drew a shaky breath. "Yes, I will listen."

After a few moments of silence, Hawke proceeded to tell Fenris his life story, right from the very beginning. He shared tales from his childhood, some funny, some sad, and some downright strange. As he talked, he noticed the occasional bob of Merrill's head through the small window at the front of her house, and Hawke knew that she was concerned about them, probably still feeling guilty about 'revealing' Hawke's secret.

Hawke told his story confidently and engagingly, only becoming more subdued as he approached his teenage years. Fenris noticed a change in Hawke's entire demeanour when he mentioned Dalton Bradshaw, and the friendship the two young men had shared.

"Your sister has already explained what happened to your friend," Fenris said, not wanting Hawke to re-live the story of Dalton's demise unnecessarily. "I am sorry for what happened."

"Thank you." Hawke cleared his throat and again sat forward, crossing his legs and holding onto his feet. Fenris imagined it was how a child would sit. "Beth didn't actually tell you everything," he quietly confessed, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "Fen, I'm going to tell you things now that _nobody_ knows, not even Mother or Beth."

"You do not have to--"

"I've never told anyone and I _need_ to tell someone," Hawke broke in. "I can't tell Beth or Mother, and I trust you as much as I trust them. You may not approve of, or like, what I'm going to say. But this is part of who I am, who I've become, and you need to know."

"I am ready," said the elf stoically, his jaw clenching in anticipation of what was to come.

"I want you to know that I never promised Father not to tell anyone. It was just assumed, really, but I'm not breaking my word by telling you. Under the circumstances, I think Father would understand, anyway."

Fenris nodded and waited. Hawke took a deep breath, then another.

"Father… Father was also a blood mage."

A jolt, a surge of panic, shot through Fenris but he remained as a statue, careful not to let Hawke see his discomfort. This was obviously not easy for him to talk about. "Oh," he murmured as myriad thoughts raced through his head. What kind of a man had Hawke's father been? Had his father practised it in secret, or not at all? Had his father congratulated Fletcher on his new-found power, or had he censured his son?

Hawke's eyes were wide as he watched Fenris closely, but he knew the elf was accomplished at masking his feelings when the situation demanded it. "When he found out about me… he-he told me. I was very upset at the time and didn't take in everything he told me, but apparently it was something to do with the Grey Wardens. They _forced_ him to use blood magic," he said angrily, his voice trembling.

"Forced? How?"

"It was… damn, I wish I'd listened more at the time," Hawke replied, shaking his head. "He _did_ explain it to me, but I just couldn't take it all in. What I know for certain is that he did it to protect his family. Apparently those bastards threatened Mother, who was pregnant! Father had no choice!" He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, conscious of the late hour.

"He was a _good_ man, Fenris. Even though he was forced into it, he was appalled, horrified, that he would be forever bound to a demon. What I'm trying to tell you is that he was in the same position as me--he used blood magic _once_ and never used it again. He told me that's what I had to do, I had to completely distance myself from my demon and _never_ give in to temptation because I would lose myself if I ever did. I looked up to my father, Fen, he was everything to me. I swore to him at the time that I would never use it again and I'm swearing it to _you_ , now. Father said he would always be there to guide me if ever I faltered, but…"

A lull took the conversation, and Fenris could see that Hawke was struggling to keep his emotions in check.

"If I may ask, how did your father…?"

"Do you mind if I tell you that another time, Fen? I-I know that I said I would tell you everything, but I-I don't want to... not now. I'll probably embarrass us both if I tell you now, and I want to tell you everything else."

"Of course," Fenris said softly. "Forgive me, I did not mean to--"

"No, it's fine, really. I've just… I've never come to terms with losing him and I still find it really hard to talk about. I just want you to know that there was nothing sinister about his death. It was nothing to do with his demon, or anything like that. I _will_ tell you one day, Fen, I promise. Just not today."

"I understand. Tell me only what you feel comfortable with."

Fletcher released a shaky sigh and went to reach for Fenris's hand but retracted his own hand at the last second, still wary of forcing his touch on the elf. "Please don't judge my father. He was as good a man as ever walked Thedas. He was a giant to me. I usually tell Beth everything but I don't want to shatter the illusion she has of him. She might not understand. I-I _know_ that blood mages can be good people. I…"

Hawke clasped his hands together, but not before Fenris noticed that they were shaking. "Would you like to go home?" asked the elf.

"No, no, I-I want to tell you about Dalton," Hawke spluttered.

"I already know," Fenris intoned, placing his hand on Hawke's arm, wanting the conversation to end, as much for his sake as for Hawke's. He could feel his control of the situation deteriorating along with Hawke's. "Do not torture yourself further. Please, let us go back."

"Dalton was a mage," Hawke blurted out.

"I… don't understand," said Fenris. "Bethany told me that you suspected, but that he denied it?"

"He denied it all along, but confessed the night before he… that was why he was so troubled. He didn't _want_ to be a mage. When I told him that I'd made a deal with a demon, he got this look in his eyes and it all came tumbling out. His family were good people but they were very old-fashioned. His parents had told him that, although they had nothing against Father, Beth and I, they felt blessed that no child of theirs had been born a mage."

"So he concealed the truth from them?"

Hawke nodded. "For almost twelve years. I always had suspicions, though." Hawke turned his palms upwards and showed them to Fenris. "You probably already know this, but mages have rough patches, marks, on certain places on their palms. Look."

Fenris examined Hawke's palms closely and nodded. "Yes, I know the marks of which you speak. Mages have special glands on their palms. I am aware of this."

"Well, Dalton wore gloves a lot. That wasn't unusual, with him being a farmhand and all, but I saw him without them a couple of times, and I was certain he had the hands of a mage."

"His status as a mage disturbed him, then?"

"Greatly." Hawke stood up and folded his arms tightly across his chest, keeping his back to Fenris. "That night... we both cried together. We spoke of what tomorrow would bring. Neither of us knew. Everything seemed so hopeless. We-we knew, though, that whatever happened, we would have each o--"

Fenris pushed himself to his feet as he heard Hawke's voice break, and stood next to the mage, feeling helpless.

"Sorry. I-I'm not trying to make you feel pity for me, I swear," Hawke began, composing himself. "It's just such a relief to finally tell someone. I just… I don't understand why he did it. Was it me? Was he afraid of what I was?"

"It was _not_ your fault," Fenris said firmly.

"I don't know." Hawke sighed, hanging his head. "I guess I'll never know."

"I am honoured that you shared this with me." Fenris's voice was also unsteady and he was deeply concerned by Fletcher's fragility. Fenris touched his arm and started to guide him out of the Alienage. The dazed mage offered no resistance. "I will take you home now."

"But Merrill…"

"She will understand. Perhaps we could visit her tomorrow?"

"You'd come with me?"

"I will go with you," promised the elf, having no intention of leaving Fletcher alone for the time being. "After all, you have invited me into your home. I will accompany you on your travels tomorrow."

"Th-thanks. You're… you're a good man, Fen. A very good man."

Fenris didn't answer, but kept hold of Hawke's arm as they left the Alienage.

Merrill, who'd been watching through her window, smiled slightly at the tentative accord the two men appeared to have reached, and closed her drapes before locking up for the night.


	46. Red Becomes Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris slowly turned to Hawke, their eyes meeting as the elf seemed to think about his answer. Hawke's eyes travelled down to Fenris's lips, his stomach clenching when Fenris unconsciously licked them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to the wonderful Mary for her beta, and thank you to all of you who are reading the story.

Upon their return to the house, they were relieved to find a slightly tipsy Leandra, who was grateful to see them safely back. For a brief time, they engaged in polite conversation, which Fenris and Fletcher welcomed. It wasn't until she'd turned in that an awkward silence fell over the room, which Fletcher did his best to fill with inane small-talk.

A short time later, Bethany arrived home and, once again, a proper conversation started up. After informing Fletcher that Varric wanted to meet him in Hightown the following day--as Aveline wanted to see them--she made a tactful exit and also went to bed.

The change in the atmosphere could be felt almost immediately. Feeling weary, Fletcher decided that he, too, would retire for the night.

Would it ever get any easier for them, he wondered in dismay, as he went in search of blankets. Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the gulf. "Shall I sleep here on the settee as well?" He held his breath, waiting for an answer.

"Sleep where you wish. This is your home," was the elf's dignified reply, which did little to ease Hawke's mind, but it was _something_.

"Well, it's warm in here, and I wouldn't want to wake Uncle Gamlen."

"Of course."

Nodding, Fletcher passed Fenris a blanket and took up his seat at the opposite end of the settee, covering himself with his own blanket.

"Goodnight then, Fenris."

"Goodnight, Hawke."

Eventually, fatigue overtook their troubled minds and both men fell asleep, together, yet apart.

~o~O~o~

The following morning was busy as it was bath day in the Hawke household. The usual routine dictated that Fletcher would make breakfast while Bethany and Leandra took their baths, before he took his own. Gamlen, who left early for his job at the docks, would bathe upon his return. Fletcher explained to Fenris that he and Bethany used magic to fill the baths, and offered Fenris the opportunity to step out while they were casting.

The elf thanked him for his consideration and took a walk around the slums. Several people bade him good morning and, although he didn't know any of them, he politely replied in kind. After a while, he found himself standing on the steps to the Alienage, and once again he thought back to the night he and Fletcher had met.

His reverie was broken when he heard Merrill's voice ringing out above all the other elves who milled about, preparing for market day at the Alienage. She was out of sight but Fenris could hear her very clearly, rabbiting on about something with one of her neighbours. Although he'd promised to call on her later with Hawke, he wasn't quite ready for her at such an early hour, or without Hawke for that matter. He turned and headed back to Gamlen's house.

When he arrived, breakfast and a freshly-drawn tub of cool water were waiting for him. He took breakfast with the family first, who had awaited his return.

Taking his seat next to Bethany, he waited until he was invited to help himself to toast, and took one piece. Fletcher quickly added two to Fenris's plate and pushed the butter and jam toward him. "Get that down your neck," he instructed the elf.

"There is no need for politeness in the Hawke household," Leandra told him with a smile. "You must help yourself."

"But… this is not my home. I cannot just--"

"It is your home, for as long as you're staying here," Bethany replied, "and even when you're not."

"You are all very kind," the elf said modestly, spreading butter on his toast. "I'm very grateful for your hospitality. May I pour the tea?" he offered.

"Please do," Leandra replied. As Fenris stirred the pot, Fletcher reached for the butter, only to be stopped by a sharp tap on the arm from his mother, who was seated next to him.

"You're to have dry toast, dear."

"What?"

"You're still under Anders's care, and he said that you are to eat plain, bland food for the next few days. I have full instructions."

"But I'm starving!" Fletcher whined. "Surely that's a sign I'm getting better? Just listen!" He paused and, sure enough, the growl of his stomach could clearly be heard.

"Then you'll have two pieces," said his mother.

"But Fenris has three!"

"I did not _ask_ for three," the elf replied calmly, a hint of mirth in his voice. "I would not manage three pieces."

"That's your problem, not mine," said Fletcher, and a brief smile passed between the two men.

" _Two_ ," Leandra repeated.

Fletcher pouted but snatched up two pieces of toast, making a show of pulling a face as he chewed on the tasteless slabs of bread.

"So, what are you boys up to today?" Bethany asked as Fletcher affected a scowl, watching Fenris spread jam on his toast.

"Well, we're going to visit Merrill, if that's still all right?" he asked Fenris, who nodded. "Then we'll go and talk to Bartrand and see what Aveline wants me and Varric for."

"I should probably speak to Aveline as well," the elf added. "Oh… Donnic promised to call on me," he said to Leandra. "I am uncertain whether he will call here."

"I think that's what he meant," Hawke said, and his face fell a little. "I suppose I should visit Anders as well, but I'll do that later. Is there anything else you'd like to do, Fen… ris?"

After thinking for a moment, the elf nodded. "There is something, yes, but I will discuss it with you on the way to the Alienage."

"Oh, all right, then," Fletcher replied lightly, but wondered why Fenris wouldn't discuss it in front of his family.

After breakfast was cleared away, Fenris took his bath and emerged to find that Donnic had arrived, and was talking outside with Hawke. Fenris remained inside, not wanting to intrude in case they were having a private discussion. After a while, Hawke popped his head around the door and invited the elf outside.

"Morning, Fenris," Donnic said, offering the elf his hand.

"Good morning, Donnic. How… are you feeling this morning?" He glanced at Donnic's neck, which was now bruise-free, and guessed that the keep's resident healer had attended to him.

"I'm fine, Fen. Did you have a good night?"

"Yes, thank you." Fenris glanced at Hawke and then returned his gaze toward Donnic, although he couldn't quite look him in the eye. "Hawke's family has made me feel very welcome."

"That's great, I knew they would. I spoke to Aveline, and she said she'll suspend your duties for the time being. She was expecting it anyway, what with the expedition coming up. She wants to see you at the barracks, though, at your earliest convenience. She has something for you. Oh, and she said to bring Hawke with you."

Hawke laughed. "Very clever. She's after me and Varric. We're going there anyway, Don, at around midday. I wonder if it's about the safehouse?"

"Not for me to say," Donnic replied, unable to hide his grin. "Well, I'd best get going. If I'm late back at the barracks, those greedy bastards will have had all the sausages."

"Oh, _don't_ ," moaned Hawke, clutching his growling belly.

"On a diet, Hawke?" teased Donnic.

"The most boring bloody diet every devised," Hawke bleated, making a sour face at Fenris, who was making a sterling effort not to smile. "Yes, you can gloat, after your strawberry jam on toast!"

"I was not gloating," claimed the elf quietly. "I was merely… frowning in sympathy."

Donnic burst out laughing, and Hawke folded his arms, his dancing eyes betraying his stony face.

"I'll miss you, Fen," said Donnic, still chuckling. "Don't keep him too long on this expedition, eh, Hawke? Listen, I'll be in bed when you visit the barracks," he told them both. "I know it won't be long before you set out on your big adventure, so make sure you come and say cheerio, all right?"

"We will," Hawke promised, and Fenris nodded his agreement. "Before you go, did you happen to see Anders last night? Was he all right?"

"Yes, I saw him briefly and he seemed okay. I think the clinic was fairly quiet last night. He was making up a load of potions, told me they were for the expedition. There was a young lady helping him."

"Oh, yes, Mallory. I suppose I'd better get some potions done myself," Hawke mumbled absently, and Fenris could see that his mind had wandered at the mention of Anders.

"Be seeing you, then." Donnic clapped them both on the arm and started down the steps. "Don't forget what I said, Fen. Come and let me know when you're setting off."

"Of course."

"You see, Fen? He's fine," said Hawke as the guardsman headed out of the slums. Fenris continued to watch Donnic without answering. "You ready to go, then?" Hawke asked, doing his best to keep his tone light.

"Yes, I am ready."

Hawke could tell that Fenris felt awkward now it was just the two of them, and knew he'd have to do most of the work. "We'll just pay Merrill a flying visit. I like to check on her now and again. I got into the habit when she first moved in, when she was on her own. She's made a lot of friends in the Alienage, now, though."

Met with a nod, he remembered that Fenris wanted to discuss something with him once they'd left the house. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"Oh." Fenris blinked as though woken from a dream, and came to a halt at the foot of the steps. "I have received a stipend for the few shifts I undertook with Donnic. It is a modest amount, as I am not a full guard, yet, but it is surplus to what I need. I was thinking… no. Perhaps it would be inappropriate."

"What would be inappropriate?"

Fenris clasped his hands together and glanced to his side. "Your mother. She has…" He glanced down at his slippers, and then briefly at Hawke. "She has been very kind to me. I was wondering… I don't know what the custom is, but I would like to…" He shrugged, his eyes moving to the ground.

"You don't have to get her anything in return, you know," Hawke said warmly, touched that Fenris would consider such a gesture. "She's just being a mum. She lives to look after people."

"I-I know, but still, I would like to show my appreciation, but I don't know what would be appropriate."

"Well, she always appreciates flowers."

Fenris shook his head. "Something that will last."

Hawke thought about that as they headed towards the Alienage. "She does like jewellery. She had to leave her gems behind when we fled Lothering, and Beth and I buy her the odd trinket when we can afford it. I'm not suggesting something expensive, though. She likes anything tasteful and well-made."

"And would that be an appropriate gift?"

"Fenris, if you plucked a weed from a crack in the pavement and tied a ribbon around it, my mother would love it. In fact, she'd probably burst into tears because you'd thought of her."

A small snort escaped through Fenris's nose, and his mouth curved upward slightly. "If a weed would please your mother, would jewellery not be an ostentatious gift?"

"Not at all. Just leave it to me," Hawke assured him. "It's market day, and I'm sure we'll find something."

"Thank you." They walked on in silence for a while until they reached the Alienage, although Hawke noticed Fenris glancing at him occasionally. When they reached the steps, the elf looked ready to burst. "Did you… did you sleep well last night?" Fenris asked as they descended.

"I did," Hawke replied, laughing. "Although I _have_ been up for a couple of hours, you know."

"Yes, I…" Another snort came from the elf, and he shook his head, turning back to face the steps once they'd reached the bottom.

"There's no reason to be afraid of these steps, you know."

"I do not fear them. In fact, this is the second time I've found myself here today."

Hawke sat on the bottom step and Fenris stood next to him, both watching the traders set up their stalls, and both waiting for the other to speak.

"I think of when we first met when I come here, you know," Hawke finally said. "That night… I was a different person, then."

"As was I," admitted Fenris, also taking a seat on the bottom step, a few feet away from Hawke. "I thought you were the spawn of evil."

Hawke laughed softly, his eyes still on the market vendors. "I probably gave you good reason to. I wasn't the nicest of people back then, and I thought _you_ were a crabby old bigot, albeit a stunningly beautiful one. How wrong I was. Except about the beautiful bit."

Fenris snorted slightly in acknowledgement of Hawke's compliment. "We were both wrong."

Hawke shuffled a little closer to Fenris, looking directly at him. "And what about now?" he asked softly. "Do you think I'm the spawn of evil all over again?"

Fenris slowly turned to Hawke, their eyes meeting as the elf seemed to think about his answer. Hawke's eyes travelled down to Fenris's lips, his stomach clenching when Fenris unconsciously licked them.

"Hellooo! Here for a few bargains, are you?"

Both men sprang away from each other, hastening to their feet as Merrill appeared behind Fenris.

Hawke grinned, the sexual tension that had built inside of him expended in a laugh. "Morning, Merrill," he greeted, rocking on his heels. "Fancy coming shopping with us?"

"What are you going to buy?" asked Merrill excitedly. "Um… good morning, Fenris."

The elf nodded once, not even bothering to disguise his sigh. "Merrill."

"Well, we're after a gift for my mother," Hawke answered, "and we thought we'd see what else we could find."

"A gift? Oh, I _love_ buying gifts! Is it her Naming Day, Hawke?"

"No, no particular occasion," answered Hawke, knowing that if Fenris wanted anyone to know anything, then _Fenris_ would tell them. The elf's appreciative look at Hawke confirmed this. "I was thinking maybe jewellery?"

Merrill clasped her chin and tapped her index finger against her lips. "What colour are her eyes?"

"Blue."

"Blue eyes, grey hair… I think something in silver or lilac," Merrill mused.

"Exactly!" Hawke exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "Cool colours with cool colours." His eyes wandered to Fenris, who was wearing the fawn undertunic of the guard along with black leggings.

The elf did a double-take at Hawke. "What?"

"You shouldn't be wearing _that_ ," Merrill said to her fellow elf. "It drains you, makes you look sallow."

"Sallow? What are you...?" Fenris's nose wrinkled slightly, and he looked morosely at Hawke.

"I don't know about _sallow_ ," Hawke said diplomatically, "but maybe something in… oh, I don't know. Maybe--"

"Pink," Merrill chipped in, completely oblivious to the sucking in of air through Hawke's teeth and the impossibly dark scowl Fenris sent her way. "I know it's a sort of girly colour, but you don't care what people think, do you, Fenris? Not a rough, tough warrior like you. Ooh! Phraan's store is open! Come on!" She took the stupefied elf's hand in her own and dragged him to one of the clothing stalls, leaving Fenris gaping back at Hawke, his expression that of a suffocating fish.

When Hawke had stopped laughing, he decided he'd better go and rescue Fenris, and joined them next to the stall, the occasional snigger bursting forth as he reached them.

"I am _not_ wearing _that_!" Fenris barked at the heedless mage as she held up a ghastly fuchsia-coloured chemise with purple piping.

"Uh, that's a bit fruity even for me," Hawke supplied, unconvincingly hiding his laughter behind a cough.

"But he always wears black, or _that_ thing," Merrill protested, looking among Phraan's wares for something else. "He wants to brighten himself up a bit."

"And what makes you think _you_ know what I want to do?" Fenris demanded, exasperated.

"How about this?" Hawke asked quietly, holding up a hip-length, fitted navy blue tunic with a white belt and grey embroidery along the neckline and cuffs.

"No! That's too drab!" Merrill pulled a face and continued to sift through Phraan's gaudiest creations.

"It's not drab. It's smart, classy, and modest," Hawke said, holding Fenris's gaze as he passed it to the elf. "Just like someone I know."

Fenris took the top from him and examined it closely before draping it across his chest.

"Do you like it?" Hawke queried. "It suits you."

"I am not in need of new clothing."

"That's not what I asked." Hawke waved to attract Phraan's attention. "How much for this one, ser?"

The elven merchant walked closer to them. "Sixty-five silver apiece for the ones on that table, messere, or two for a sovereign."

"Two, eh? Fenris, you pick the other one."

"I am not paying a sovereign for something I don't need," Fenris insisted.

"You're not paying, I am."

Fenris shook his head. "No."

"If you argue, I'll let Merrill pick the other one," Hawke threatened with a glance at the Dalish elf, who had already lost interest and had moved on to the next stall. "Go on, say it. Pertinax asinus."

Fenris rolled his eyes, turning his head so Hawke wouldn't see he was on the verge of smiling. "It is hardly necessary to state that which is incontrovertible."

"Merrill will choose pink, y'know," Hawke said loudly.

"I will not wear it."

"Then you'd better pick one you _will_ wear."

With a sigh, Fenris stepped closer to the stall and cast a cursory glance over the wares on display. Phraan, the stallholder, watched Fenris for a moment and then pointed to the selection of red garments.

"If I might suggest, messere, perhaps a deep maroon. Such a hue would look very striking with your colouring."

"Yes, yes!" Hawke stepped past Fenris and sorted out a few likely-looking shirts, presenting them to the elf, who shook his head in refusal.

"I do not wear colours."

"What do you call this, then?" asked Hawke, nudging Fenris's tunic. "And don't tell me it's part of your uniform. You're suspended, remember? Off duty? You're _choosing_ to wear colours today."

Fenris folded his arms and raised a dark eyebrow. For a moment Hawke was tempted to call attention to it, but decided against it. The back-and-forth between them reminded Hawke of when he and Fenris had first started to develop feelings for each other, but were still wary. Was that what was happening now? Were they feeling each other out all over again?

"Choose one, or _I'll_ choose," Hawke warned Fenris.

Pursing his lips, Fenris pointed to a muted burgundy tunic, and Hawke handed it over to Phraan. While they waited for the goods to be wrapped, Hawke nodded in the direction of the undergarment section.

"Maybe you should purchase a few pairs of undies? Did you leave yours behind at the barracks?"

"I do not wear them," Fenris informed him impassively, his expression unchanged as Hawke's mouth dropped open.

"Wha… honestly?"

"I find them too confining. I wear a protective truss when battle is anticipated."

"And… what about today?" Hawke teased, only to be met with Fenris's _neutral_ expression. "Um, sorry," mumbled Hawke, his eyes dropping to the ground.

"There is no need to apologise."

"Does that mean you'll answer my question?" Hawke asked with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

"No," uttered the elf, turning his back on the smiling mage.

"That'll be a sovereign, messere." Hawke handed Phraan a sovereign in exchange for the wrapped parcel, and caught up with Fenris, who had wandered away from the stall. When Hawke reached him, the elf produced a sovereign.

"No, I told you, I'm paying," Hawke protested. "You're already buying something for Mother."

"There is no need to reciprocate. I will pay for them." Fenris attempted to press the coin into Hawke's palm, but the mage snatched his hand away.

"If there's no need to reciprocate, then why are you buying Mother a gift?"

Fenris shook his head. "That is different."

"No, it's not. Besides, I'm not buying them to reciprocate anything." He passed the parcel to Fenris, who eyed it warily. "Happy Naming Day, Fenris."

"But, I don't… I already told you, my naming day has passed."

"Sorry it's late."

"But…" Fenris carefully turned the parcel over in his hands, his confusion evident.

"Now you _have_ to wear them, else I'll be offended," Hawke told him with a wink, before he turned and joined Merrill at the jewellery stand. Fenris watched him go, but didn't notice they were beckoning him to them until Merrill shouted his name. He approached them, clutching his parcel as though it was a piece of spun glass that would shatter if he dropped it.

"Merrill's found something I think Mother would love. Look at this."

In his hand was a small, oval brooch, fashioned from silverite with a pale lavender-coloured stone at its centre. Fenris tilted his head, considering it. "What kind of stone is this?" he asked.

"Sundonium, mined from beneath Sundermount," answered Merrill.

"Reasonably priced now while it's plentiful," the stall vendor chipped in. "An investment for the future, messere. They reckon it'll run out in a few years' time. That's when it'll become valuable."

"She would like this?" Fenris asked Hawke, who nodded. Fenris then glanced at Merrill, who turned her attention back to the stall.

"What's wrong?" Hawke asked.

Fenris sighed. "I have never bought a gift for anyone before. It feels… strange. I would not know what to say when I present it to your mother. Are you certain this isn't too grand? Would she not think… I am not suggesting that she would be ungrateful." He sighed again. "I am not making any sense."

Hawke breathed in deeply as his stomach fluttered. He hated seeing Fenris so unsure of himself, and was certain that the events of the last couple of days had exacerbated the elf's already-precarious lack of self-confidence.

"We _could_ buy it together, if you wanted?"

"Together?"

"Just a thought," said Hawke. "That way, I could present it to Mother, and you wouldn't have to say anything. I'd make it clear it was from both of us, though. This isn't the sort of thing I'd usually buy for her, although I know she'll love it. I think she'll guess it's really from you."

Fenris's eyes moved to one side, and then to Hawke, before he nodded. "Yes. We will buy it together." A soft smile appeared and he held Hawke's gaze for a moment. "Thank you."

Hawke smiled back. "It's Merrill you ought to be thanking. She found the brooch."

Fenris's shoulders stiffened and a grim look tightened his face as he slowly walked over to Merrill, his movements rigid but dignified, like he was walking to his own execution. Hawke clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he watched the discourse between the two elves: a few curt nods and mumbled utterances from Fenris, and a few slaps to the arm and giggles from Merrill, plus a fair amount of bouncing.

Feeling as though his smile would never leave him, Hawke approached the vendor and haggled a fair price for the brooch, which he and Fenris paid for between them. After perusing a few more stalls, and waiting very patiently while Merrill agonised over choosing a new scarf, eventually settling on _another_ green one, Fenris and Hawke took their leave.

"Thanks for the advice, Merrill," Hawke said warmly as they stood next to the Vhenadahl.

"Oh, you're welcome. Not that you took it. Um, my advice. About the top, I mean."

"Well, the second top was _sort_ of pink," Hawke whispered to her, "just a very, very dark pink. But don't tell Fenris that. And you found the perfect brooch."

Merrill jumped on the spot and grinned, delighted that she'd been helpful, and wrapped her arms around Hawke, who returned her hug. "It's nice to see you two back together, Hawke. Well, sort of. But at least you're talking, that's what's important. Just keep talking, and you'll get there in the end."

Hawke pulled back and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll come and see you before we enter the Deep Roads," he promised, before joining Fenris, who was standing at the foot of the steps.

"You'd better!" she called after him. "Glad you liked the brooch, Fenris!"

Fenris nodded and forced an awkward smile. If she'd been standing closer, he might have thanked her again, but he wasn't about to shout it across the Alienage.

As they left, Hawke noticed that Fenris was still hanging onto his parcel like grim death. "You liked that navy tunic, didn't you? I could tell. I think it'll really suit you. If you like, we could stop by at home and you could change into it."

"That will not be necessary, but thank you," Fenris replied, his eyes fixed ahead.

"Sorry. I'm being a pain in the arse, aren't I?"

Fenris stopped and frowned at the ground. "It's not that. I just don't understand what I've done to merit this."

"Well, nothing, really, but it's a belated naming day gift. I can understand it being a bit strange for you, not having celebrated it before." A sly glint came into Hawke's eyes, and he lowered his voice. "I'll let you into a secret. Do you remember when my naming day is?"

"I do. 13 Drakonis, next month."

"Well, then."

Fenris's frown deepened, and he looked up at Hawke. "Are you… after a gift for your own naming day?"

"That's how it works," said Hawke through a laugh. "We only buy gifts because we want one in return."

"That is not commensurate with what I know of you so far. Your attempt to extinguish the candle _is_ commensurate, however."

"'Extinguish the candle'? Is that the same as pulling the wool over one's eyes?"

"Perhaps. I prefer 'extinguish the candle'," replied the elf, walking ahead with Hawke's laughter following him.

To Hawke's utter delight, their conversation as they headed for Hightown was notably less stilted than it had been of late, although there was absolutely no flirting or physical contact, and Fenris retained his _neutral_ expression throughout. Still, Hawke's heart soared at every dry remark the elf made, and his heart thumped as they stood at the top of Hightown's steps, although that was probably because Hawke was out of breath. At the sight of the food stalls at the top of the steps, Hawke sniffed the air and began salivating.

"Would you tell Mother if I bought some pork ribs for lunch?"

"Yes."

"What if I bought you some?"

Fenris folded his arms and shook his head, his expression stern.

With a loud tut, Hawke walked across the town square to where he could see Varric and Bartrand bickering over something. "Varric will show some sympathy for my plight," he said, just loudly enough for Fenris to hear, before he stopped and allowed the elf to catch up. "Um… you haven't met Bartrand yet, have you?"

"No. You once told me that he is nothing like Varric."

"He's a bit… abrasive. Just to warn you."

"I understand. I have dealt with his kind before."

 _I'm sure you have_ , Hawke thought as he walked alongside the elf. When Varric spotted them, he did a double take at Fenris, and a bland smile settled over his face, but he was secretly tickled to see the two of them together.

"Ah! Here they are. Bartrand, allow me to introduce you to Br… uh, Fenris."

"So, Twinkletoes is back, huh?" Bartrand backed away from Hawke and eyed Fenris with disdain, then turned away to bark a quick order at one of his men before turning back. "An elf with a sword?" he scoffed. "You certain you can hold that thing, Tubby?"

Fenris removed his sword from his back, his expression frosty as he approached Bartrand, wielding the giant blade with _one_ hand. "As you can see, dwarf, I am quite certain I can _hold_ it. Perhaps a demonstration would be in order? You are just the right height."

"The right height for what?" Bartrand asked, his voice hesitant.

"Why, for cleaving your head from your shoulders, of course," said the elf calmly, having no qualms about intimidating anyone who had been _abrasive_ with Hawke, or had called him _Twinkletoes_ , for that matter.

"Uh, that won't be necessary," Bartrand insisted, holding his palms up. "Now, what do _you_ want?" he snapped at Hawke.

"Forgive me," Fenris interrupted, passing his parcel to Hawke and taking a further step closer to Bartrand. "I will not have my sword skills called into question. To set your mind at ease, I must demonstrate."

"No, wait, what do--" Before Bartrand completed his sentence, a _whoosh_ was heard, and steel glinted in the sun as it arced above the dwarf's head. Bartrand stumbled back, his hands on his neck, making sure his head was still attached to it. Fenris calmly bent down and picked something off the ground. Taking one of Bartrand's hands, he dropped a few strands of neatly-sliced hair onto his furry palm.

"I believe these belong to you." He sheathed his sword and turned toward Varric and Hawke, who had their backs to him. A strange screeching noise was emanating from one of them, but he couldn't tell from whom.

When they eventually turned to face him, Varric was calm, if rather pink. Hawke, however, could barely speak and looked about to burst into tears, or laughter.

"I will leave you to discuss business," the elf announced, "while I call on Guard-Captain Vallen. I will await you at the barracks."

"Sure, elf," Varric replied, shaking his hand. As Fenris departed, he nodded at Hawke, who could only tremble in reply.

"Will-will _he_ be going on the expedition?" Bartrand shouted, but only once the elf was out of earshot.

"You betcha," Varric answered, as Hawke was still unable to form cogent sentences. "Impressive, isn't he? Now, let's do what the elf said and discuss business."

~o~O~o~

Fenris's own business with Aveline was quickly concluded, and he waited around at the barracks, where he chatted with the guards who were coming off duty or were just starting their shift. He had a long wait, as there were many final preparations for the expedition investors to make, as well as many squabbles to sort out, most of them of Bartrand's making. During a quiet moment, Fenris sat on a small bench near Aveline's office, reflecting on his brief stint in the Kirkwall guard.

He felt at home, here. He liked being a guard, and was eager for the expedition to be over so he could resume his duties. He had Donnic and Hawke to thank for his new-found sense of purpose and usefulness; yet another thing Hawke had done for him, _given_ him.

What had he done for Hawke in return?

He knew Hawke didn't think that way, but several times during the morning he'd wanted to _do_ something for Hawke, but had failed to arrive at an answer, a solution. When Hawke had gifted Fenris with clothing, he hadn't known how to feel as he'd never before received a naming day gift, but he'd immediately resolved to find a gift for Hawke's own naming day. He would have to do it soon, as it was unlikely they'd be out of the Deep Roads before 13 Drakonis.

He knew in his heart, though, what Hawke really wanted from him, but when Fenris turned his thoughts to rekindling their romance, he felt numb and weary. He was neither ready nor willing to deal with that, yet, but he also knew that he couldn't string Hawke along. If he no longer felt able to continue with their relationship as it had been, he knew he had to tell Hawke.

The problem was, he _did_ want to continue, more than anything. There were more reasons to do that than Fenris could count.

There was still one reason not to. But Fenris knew _he_ was the only one allowing that reason to eclipse all others.

~o~O~o~

When Hawke and Varric finally arrived at the barracks, they took Fenris by surprise, as he'd been sitting, daydreaming, outside Aveline's office. After apologising for startling him, and for keeping him waiting, Hawke stepped back, his mouth agape, as Fenris stood up, looking unusually pleased with himself.

"Your cuirass! They finished it?" Hawke exclaimed as Fenris raised his arms from his sides, allowing Hawke and Varric a better look.

"That's nice, elf, real nice," Varric complimented. "You can tell a lot of work's gone into that."

"I am pleased to see _someone_ appreciates good craftsmanship," Fenris said with a sly glance at Hawke, who grinned back.

"It looks really graceful, Fenris, not heavy or clunky at all," opined the mage.

Fenris nodded with satisfaction. "Guard-Captain Vallen said that I could break it in while in the Deep Roads. However, any dints sustained will have to be hammered out at my own expense."

Hawke laughed. "That sounds like our Aveline!"

Varric glanced at Aveline's office door and quirked an eyebrow. "Sounds like she's in a good mood, Hawke. Why don't you two run along and let me take care of this?"

"Are you sure, Varric?"

"Sure I'm sure. Besides, you're still under doctor's orders. You'd better get home to your mashed potatoes."

"This is a bloody conspiracy," moaned Hawke. "You're both determined for my stomach to die of boredom, aren't you?"

"Up to you, Hawke. Either you get chewed out by Carrot-Features, or you go home and chew on something soft. And, let's face it, you just don't have the charm it takes to handle the former. Unlike Yours Truly."

"I've never been so happy to be insulted," replied Hawke. "Fenris? Would you like to go back now?"

"What… did you just refer to Guard-Captain Vallen as?" Fenris asked Varric.

"Hey, who said anything about Guard-Captain Vallen? I was talking about _Aveline_. See you guys later at the Hanged Man?"

"He is not allowed to drink alcohol for the time being," Fenris piped up. "I clearly recall his mother saying so earlier." Noticing Hawke folding his arms from the corner of his eye, he gave a rueful smile. "I believe I have outstayed my welcome."

With a nod to Varric, Fenris ascended the stairs to the main keep, while Hawke lurked for a minute. "We _will_ see you later," Hawke murmured to the dwarf. "Any chance of slipping a little something into my ginger ale?"

"I heard that," said a stern voice from the top of the stairs.

"Bugger!"

"He's an elf, Hawke. Bigger ears."

Shaking his head, Hawke trudged up the stairs, hearing Varric's rap against the office door. He made his best effort to ignore Fenris on the way out of the keep, but a rush of laughter betrayed him before they reached the exit.

~o~O~o~

When they arrived back at Gamlen's house, no one was home. "They're probably out shopping," Hawke said, heading straight for the kitchen, followed by the elf. "Here to assist, or to keep an eye on me?" he asked Fenris, who shrugged his shoulders before filling the kettle.

After going through several items of food in the kitchen, Fenris finally approved vegetable soup and bread which, after some moaning from Hawke, was warmed up and served on the dining table.

"You going to try on your new clothes?" Hawke asked Fenris as they ate. "You can go in my room, if you like. I promise not to peek."

"Perhaps later," replied the elf, reaching for the parcel and turning it over in his hands. "Thank you for this. My first ever naming day present."

"You can thank me by wearing one of them. I know you definitely like the navy one."

"I like both of them," the elf answered immediately. "But… I am unaccustomed to wearing colours in public."

"Hm. Maybe I shouldn't have gone for red," Hawke mused. "You're not a man who seeks attention. Sorry. Maybe _I_ could wear it? What do you think? May I borrow it?"

"I think it optimistic to believe you would fit into an elf-sized tunic, even with your recent weight loss," Fenris remarked in amusement.

"I'll have a go at anything, you know me," Hawke said with a warm smile.

"You would tear it." Fenris smiled at the parcel and stood up. "May I use your room?"

"By all means. Need any assistance taking anything off?"

Ignoring Hawke's cheeky question, Fenris shook his head and entered the bedroom with the parcel, emerging a short time later wearing the burgundy tunic, and looking decidedly self-conscious. "What do you think?" he asked awkwardly.

Hawke rose from the table, a soft light in his eyes. "You look…" He cleared his throat and sighed. "It does look very striking. Colours suit you. Red really… it looks lovely." A fleeting look of longing came to his eyes before he averted them, frowning, and started to clear the dishes away.

"Please, let me assist," offered the elf.

Hawke cleared his throat for a second time. "Thank you. You don't _have_ to wear that, you know. If you feel awkward in it, I'd rather you didn't. I won't be offended at all."

"I… do like it. I will wear it indoors for now, until I become accustomed to it."

A brief smile was exchanged, and they washed the dishes amid a comfortable silence. Taking a fresh pot of tea through to the living room, they sat at the table again, and Fenris noticed that Hawke looked uncomfortable in his seat.

"Is all well, Hawke?"

Hawke stood up and covered his mouth with his hand, appearing to be deep in thought. "Just a minute," he mumbled before disappearing into the bedroom.

He re-emerged carrying two very old, dog-eared books, and looking very bashful indeed. Intrigued, Fenris watched him until he sat back down in the chair opposite.

"I, um, my dad gave me these books when I was little," he began, pushing them across the table towards the elf. "I thought you might find them useful. They're no good to me now."

Fenris opened one of the books and smiled a little at an illustration of a duck. "You would lend me these?"

"No. I want you to have them."

"I-I cannot keep them, Hawke. If your father gave them to you…"

"I have plenty more. What good are children's books to me, anyway? You'd get more out of them than I would."

Fenris stared at the books and considered Hawke's offer for a few minutes. "No. I will not keep them. The books are no use to me without a teacher, anyway."

"Well, I just thought that if you wanted to find another teacher, then you could use them," Hawke babbled.

"I do not want another teacher," the elf said quietly. "I _would_ appreciate a reading lesson, though, Hawke. I have mi… I have not had one for a while. If… you would be willing?"

"Oh." Hawke blinked and bit his lip to stop an idiotic grin. "Well, would you like one now?"

"Yes, I would like that very much."

"Um, well, I'd have to sit next to you. Would that be all right?"

Without a word, Fenris stood and moved to the chair to his right, leaving the other chair pulled out.

His grin breaking through, Hawke moved to the chair, sitting down next to Fenris. "Which book would you like to start with?" he asked as he poured the tea.

"Which would you recommend?"

"Um, I think you'd like the farmyard animal one, but it's up to you."

"Farmyard animals it is, then."

Passing Fenris his tea, Hawke opened the book and the reading lesson began.


	47. Held in Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am not going to cluck for your amusement!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, Mary, for your always-invaluable advice and suggestions!

"H-O-R-S-E."

"And what does that spell?"

"I can already see what it is, Hawke. There's an illustration of a horse above."

Fletcher rested his chin on his hand and sighed around a smile. "Well, it _is_ a small children's book. I think it's assumed the reader might not know what a horse is. Pretend you've never seen a horse before and you don't know how the word's pronounced. How would _you_ pronounce it?"

Fenris read the word again and frowned. "Horz. You did say that the letter 'S' can also sound like the letter 'Z', especially if followed by an 'E'. Why _is_ there an 'E' at the end of the word? Should it not be spelled with a double 'S' if pronounced in such a way?"

"I have no idea." Fletcher laughed, thinking what a great reading teacher Fenris would make, once he could actually read. "I didn't invent the language. It's fortunate you _do_ know how 'horse' is pronounced. I'd have a hard time explaining to someone as intelligent as you why they stuck an 'E' on the end of it."

"Fortunate indeed," agreed Fenris and, recognising the compliment, he permitted himself a small smile.

"So… what sound does a horse make?"

"Why?" Fenris asked suspiciously.

"Just tell me."

"Well, they… neigh, do they not?"

Fletcher's expression was solemn but, as usual, the impish glint in his eyes gave him away. "Make the sound."

"Make the sound? What does that have to do with learning to read?"

"It's very important," claimed Fletcher, failing to translate his serious demeanour to his voice. "You'll associate the sound with the word."

"I already _know_ what a horse _looks_ like. I _know_ what sound a horse makes. That will suffice." Fenris folded his arms and stared at Fletcher until he sniggered.

"Just a little whinny?"

" _No_."

"A nicker?"

Fenris turned away, shaking his head, and Fletcher heard a quiet snort. "That's the spirit! Horses do that, too." Fletcher knew Fenris was smiling, and wished more than anything that the elf would turn back to him so he could see it. He was delighted, though, that he'd made him smile at all, and decided not to push his luck. He rose from the table and gathered his and Fenris's empty mugs.

"It's past noon. What say we crack open some wine? I'll have half and half with water. It's been a good lesson, and I think we should treat ourselves."

"It _has_ been a good lesson, save the _animal noises_ ," murmured the elf, facing Fletcher, a remnant of a smile lingering. "Very well, I will permit a _small_ amount of wine," he decreed, one edge of his mouth twitching slightly.

"Yes, ser!" Fletcher bowed and walked to the kitchen door, hearing a quiet chuckle from Fenris. A warm glow caressed his insides, and he paused at the door, facing the elf. "I've missed this, you know. Just us two, being... well, just us two."

Fenris's face fell a little, and he clasped his hands together on the table, his expression pensive. For a moment, he looked about to speak, but instead he nodded. Fletcher nodded back and, suppressing a sigh, entered the kitchen.

Immediately ashamed by his cowardice, Fenris pushed to his feet and stared at the kitchen door. Why did he keep _doing_ this? He'd raised Fletcher's hopes by asking for a reading lesson, and now he'd dashed them by failing to reciprocate Hawke's--innocent, it had to be said--sentiments. But he couldn't acknowledge them because he didn't _know_ how he felt. Did he?

What would be wrong with saying he'd missed the reading lessons, though? He _had_ missed them. Why was he afraid of giving Fletcher a little happiness by admitting that?

He moved towards the kitchen door and then paused, his hand resting on the jamb. Something Bethany had told him--and something he'd tried very hard not to think about--invaded his mind. Hawke would _die_ by his own hand before his fiftieth birthday, and there was nothing to be done about it. If he was born in 9:04, then he would turn twenty-seven next month. 9:54 seemed so far away, but the three-and-a-half years that Fenris could remember had passed in the blink of an eye.

He'd known Fletcher for three months of that. And, despite the ups and downs, it had been the happiest, and most fulfilling, three months of his life.

Time was wasting.

Fenris coughed to clear the thickness in his throat and pushed the door open, finding Fletcher leaning against the counter, head in hands.

"I-I'm just getting the wine," Fletcher blurted out, quickly pushing himself off the counter and turning his back on the elf, while he sought out a couple of wine glasses.

"I apologise," Fenris said in a stiff, strained voice. "I apologise unreservedly."

"Eh? What for?" Fletcher asked with forced nonchalance as he began to rinse the glasses.

"You are _trying_. I… am not. This-this has been a difficult time for us both. I have also missed the reading lessons. I have missed… you. Your company." Fenris felt the first flutters of mild panic in his belly as his self-control wavered, but he forced the words out. He spoke the truth, and Fletcher deserved to hear it.

Fletcher straightened up and nodded, still with his back to the elf. A minute of silence passed before Fenris took a step nearer and cleared his throat. "I know what you would have of me. I, too…" He sighed and moved to the counter, where he halted. "I am uncertain, and need some time. I do not want to give you false hope. You are… you are a good man, and I will not hurt you if I can possibly prevent it."

Fletcher hung his head, and Fenris heard his sharp intake of breath. Slowly, the mage turned around, releasing his breath, and leaned back on the counter. "I know that, Fen. And Maker knows I don't want to hurt _you_ any more than I already have."

Fenris moved closer and rested against the counter that was set at a right-angle to Fletcher, only a few feet separating them. "What should we do?"

Fletcher gave a wan smile. "Maybe we shouldn't do anything. I think, maybe when we're both feeling more settled, we'll need to talk about things. But for now, let's not put any pressure on ourselves. Why don't we just enjoy each other's company? As friends. Keep it nice and simple."

"Is that what you really want?"

Fletcher's shrug answered Fenris's question, but he went on, "Maybe it's what we both need? No expectations, no pressure. I'm just glad we're talking again, and that we're spending time together. I wouldn't have blamed you for walking away, but you didn't, and that means a lot to me, Fenris. A _lot_."

After a pause, Fenris uttered softly, "Had it been anyone else, I would have."

Their eyes met briefly, then were averted. "What do you think, Fen?" asked Fletcher. "You know how I feel, but… let's just see what happens. And if nothing happens, that's fine. I'd be honoured to have you as a friend. I'm not trying to put any pressure on you, not at all. What I'm saying is that _you're_ in control of this. We'll talk when _you're_ ready. And if you decide that you don't want to… proceed, then I hope we'll always be good friends."

Fletcher walked to the far side of the kitchen where he retrieved a bottle of wine, watched by Fenris the entire time. "You do understand me," said the elf quietly as Fletcher returned. "And, now that I have seen past myself, I believe I understand you a little better, as well."

"I'm a very simple man," Fletcher half-joked as he opened the wine and began to pour it. "There's very little about me _to_ understand."

Not for the first time, Fenris was struck by how self-deprecating a man Fletcher was; a far cry from the bloated, self-important magisters of his former home. "You do yourself a disservice," he said softly.

With a tentative smile, Fletcher passed Fenris his glass, and gestured at the door. Fenris shook his head and stood his ground.

"The water? You were to have half wine, half water. You are not yet fully recovered."

Fletcher glared at his glass, tutted and poured half of the contents back into the bottle. "Shit. I thought you'd forgotten about that."

"Not a chance," was the elf's concise reply as Fletcher topped up his glass with water.

"Here, then, _Master of the Wine_." Fletcher shoved the bottle into Fenris's other hand and flounced into the living room, his nose high in the air.

As he moved to the table, Fletcher's head snapped up and his breath rushed out as he realised: he'd just referred to Fenris as _Master_. Panicking that his joke had caused Fenris offence or distress, he raced back to the door, his heart battering against his breastbone. "What is the _matter_ with you?" he castigated himself.

The long, loud burst of laughter from the kitchen stopped Fletcher in his tracks, and he almost collapsed against the door in relief. After a second to catch his breath, his own laughter joined that of the elf's.

~o~O~o~

When Leandra and Bethany returned laden with groceries, the reading lesson had resumed, and the two women exchanged a delighted look, taking a seat on the settee for a quick rest before unpacking. After Fletcher and Fenris had risen to greet them, Fletcher prodded the book on the table with his finger, reminding Fenris that the lesson had not yet ended, and they returned to their seats at the table.

"Now, where were we?"

"I am _not_ going to cluck like a hen," Fenris hissed through gritted teeth.

"You just mooed like a cow! What's the difference?"

"I did _not_ moo! I said the word 'moo', and that was only to shut you up. I see now that my plan was lamentably ill-conceived."

"Go on. Just a little chirrup."

"Hens do _not_ 'chirrup'."

"And how do _you_ know so much about hens all of a sudden? Eh?"

Silence. Although the two women couldn't see Fenris's expression from where they sat, they could picture it quite vividly.

"I'll give you fifty sovereigns if you cluck."

"You do not _have_ fifty sovereigns!"

"I'll cancel the expedition and get my money back."

An exasperated groan was heard, as was the creak of the settee as the women moved closer to listen.

"You know, Fenris, sometimes I don't think you have the necessary dedication for this. If you want to learn, you need to _apply_ yourself," Fletcher joked, bracing himself.

"H-E-N. _Hen_ ," the elf recited testily. "I can say it, I can _read_ it. I am not going to cluck for your amusement!"

Two giggles came from the settee, and Bethany peered over the back of it. "You might get a cluck of disapproval if you're not careful, Fletcher. Or worse. And I wouldn't blame Fenris one bit."

As she rose, so did Fenris, quickly followed by Fletcher. Fenris moved to Bethany's side, picking up a few bags of groceries. "I believe this to be an appropriate juncture at which to end the lesson."

Fletcher huffed, his hands on his hips. "Well, you're already Master of the Wine, you may as well be Headmaster of the Lessons as well! Why not?" he exclaimed dramatically, flinging his arms into the air.

Dipping his head so his hair obscured his face--although Fletcher could swear he caught a glimpse of a grin--Fenris went into the kitchen, holding the door open for Bethany, who carried the remainder of the bags.

Leandra rose and walked up to Fletcher, an excited gleam in her eyes as she glanced at the kitchen door. "You and Fenris seem to be getting along well, dear."

Fletcher also glanced at the door, a faraway look in his eyes. "I hope so, Mother. At least we're squabbling. You need to be talking to someone to squabble with them."

"That wasn't squabbling, darling, it was banter, the kind that flows easily between friends. Your father and I had similar exchanges, do you remember?"

"I do," replied Fletcher with a sad smile. "You and Father were best friends. You were very well-suited."

"You have my cheekiness, Fletcher. I was the perfect foil to your father, who was very straightforward and direct. I loved making him laugh. It took some effort, sometimes, but it was worth it each and every time. I see that same dynamic between you and Fenris. You're also very well-suited."

Fletcher grinned and hung his head a little before he sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "Does it bother you that there won't be anyone to carry on the family name now that Carver's…? The Hawke name, I mean?"

Leandra's arms wound around her son's waist. "Fletcher, I used to take so many things for granted. That I would have dozens of grandchildren, that one day I would reclaim the Amell estate and we would all live as nobles, as we were entitled. But we've lost so much, darling. Our home, your father, and-and…" Fletcher sighed and pulled Leandra close, and she rested her head on his shoulder. "But we have a roof over our heads," she went on, "and I have two beautiful children who make me prouder with each day that passes." She stepped back and cradled Fletcher's face in her hands. "It has been a while since I saw you so at ease, my dear son. To me, that is worth a thousand grandchildren."

"Oh, Mama, stop it," mumbled Fletcher. "You'll make me tear up." Too late, he pulled her close again and took a few deep breaths. "I know you're grateful for what we have, but I want better for you and Beth. Even for that old… for Uncle Gamlen. When the expedition's over, things will be better. There'll be no more second-hand clothes, no more rats. You'll live as you're supposed to."

"Just bring yourself back in once piece, Fletcher. That's all I want." Leandra's voice wavered slightly and they stood together, quietly, for several minutes.

In the kitchen, Fenris unpacked the heavier of the bags while Bethany put some water on for tea. He politely enquired about their shopping trip and, when Bethany noticed his new tunic, she complimented him on the colour and he provided details of his and Fletcher's own shopping trip, discreetly leaving certain details out.

"Bethany?" he asked quietly, once the shopping had been packed away, "may I ask your advice?"

"But of course, Fenris." She opened the back door and beckoned him outside. He stepped out and closed the door behind him, smiling wryly at the two chickens that strutted around the small yard.

"Fletcher should have brought you out here for the lesson, he would have had all the clucks he wanted," remarked Bethany. "Is everything all right? Things seem to be going well between you and Fletcher. It's lovely to see."

Fenris nodded and remained silent for a moment. "I merely wanted to ask… it has come to my attention that your brother's naming day falls next month."

"Ah," Bethany said, her face brightening.

"I would like to purchase a gift for him before we enter the Deep Roads, but I have no idea what to buy. He has many robes, a sturdy staff… I do not know what would be of use to him."

"First things first, Fenris. Fletcher is _not_ a practical man. Buy him a 'useful' gift and he'll be delighted that you thought of him, but if it's not something he can wear, or eat, it'll be shoved in a drawer and forgotten about. You're right in saying he has plenty of robes. I know he'd like a fancy staff, but none of us have the coin for that. If you want my advice, you can't go wrong with a book."

"Ah. I should have known. Is there anything you would recommend?"

Bethany thought about that for a moment. "I'll tell you what he'd really love--a first edition of _Treatises on Medicine and the Hippocratic Aphorisms_." Met with a blank look, she smiled. "It's a very, very dry medical tome, written by forty of the most esteemed physicians of the Steel Age. Their knowledge and methods seem crude and laughable, now, but he loves that sort of thing. It would cost silly money to buy, and I have no doubt he'd sell Mother and me to get his hands on a copy." They both laughed softly, and Bethany folded her arms, thinking. "That's not very helpful to you, though. Tell you what, if you have nothing planned this afternoon, I could take you to a very nice bookshop I know of. It's not far from Darktown. It'd take us a little while to walk there, but it's a nice day, and I know we'd find something suitable."

"Oh, I would not want to take up any of your time," Fenris began to protest.

"You wouldn't be taking up my time at all." She smiled, and Fenris followed suit. "Besides, Varric asked me to pick something up for Fletcher's naming day that he can give him in the Deep Roads. We can kill two birds with one stone."

"I am very grateful for your time, Bethany." The elf bowed slightly, and Bethany waved her hand in dismissal.

"Don't thank me for spending time with you, Fenris. It's hardly a chore. You're a very erudite and intelligent man, and it would be nice to spend a bit of time with you before you head off, anyway. You're practically a part of the family, now."

Fenris felt a rush through his chest, and tears choked the back of his throat. He noisily cleared it and nodded, his face betraying nothing of what he was feeling inside. Bethany had an inkling, however, but didn't say anything. "That is very gracious of you," said the elf.

"The only problem we have is explaining where we're going to Fletcher. The best thing for us to do is brazen it out. Just follow my lead." She tapped the side of her nose and winked. Although he was unfamiliar with the gesture, Fenris tapped the side of his own nose, intrigue lighting up his face as he followed her inside.

"Fenris and I are going for a stroll," she announced loudly as she breezed into the living room. Fenris entered behind her, having assumed an unassuming look.

"Did you forget something, dear?" Leandra asked, still mid-hug with her son.

"No, not really. I just fancied stretching my legs, and Fenris has very kindly agreed to keep me company."

Fletcher knew his sister well, and gave her a _what are you up to_ look, but said nothing.

"We'll be back a bit later," said Bethany, reaching for her stole.

"Oh, I need to change, first," Fenris said and, after asking permission to use Fletcher's room again, he changed back into his guard tunic, but left the cuirass inside. Much to his appreciation, Fletcher locked the door when he'd finished.

Fletcher watched curiously as the conspirators headed for the front door, neither of them looking him in the eye. Thinking of Fenris's new clothes, a thought occurred to him, and he decided against interrogating them.

"Have fun," he called to them. Bethany waved and Fenris bowed in their direction--meant for Leandra--and his eyes very briefly locked with Fletcher's, an undeniable furtiveness in them.

"Where do you think they're off to?" Leandra wondered aloud as the door closed.

"I _suspect_ Fenris is buying me a naming day present." Fletcher beamed, feeling elated, before his expression flattened a little. "Well, I may as well go and see Anders, I suppose."

"Oh, how is he?"

"I guess I'm about to find out." Kissing Leandra goodbye, he stepped outside, waiting until Fenris and Bethany were out of sight before setting off, a strange heaviness settling over him.

It was a chilly day in Lowtown, though sunny. Normally, Fletcher would have enjoyed the walk but thinking of Anders darkened his mood. Fenris had been at the forefront of his mind but, once apart from him, he realised he was still angry with Anders. When Anders had stormed off, Fletcher had been left confused and hurt. He'd already been worried sick about Fenris, and was so tired he could barely think straight. Yes, he knew he'd ignored Anders's advice and, in his position, Fletcher would have felt the same. Would Fletcher have abandoned _his_ patient, though?

Was he being unreasonable? Sebastian and Donnic had been there, after all, and Anders _was_ entitled to be frustrated with him. Fletcher recalled Anders's statement that he'd never loved anyone, nor had he been loved, and his stomach plummeted.

Well, now instead of feeling angry, he felt _guilty_.

"Why is nothing straightforward with him anymore?" Fletcher groaned to himself as he approached the jetty, having taken a slightly different route than Fenris and Bethany, suspecting they wouldn't want him tagging along.

"First sign of madness, that, you know."

Startled, Fletcher spun around, fresh irritation pricking at him as his eyes settled on the owner of the voice.

"…Talking to yourself, I mean. Where have you _been_ , Hawke? I've been looking all over for you! Anyone would think you're trying to avoid me!"

"Funny, that, I thought it was the other way round," grumbled Fletcher, folding his arms. "Come to pay me those two sovereigns you owe me?"

"Actually, I have!" Isabela reached into a small pocket and produced two shiny coins which she dropped into Fletcher's hand.

"Thanks. Nice to see you." Fletcher turned around and continued on his way.

"Woah-woah-woah! What's the hurry?" Isabela caught up to him and slipped her arm through his.

Fletcher once again stopped, sighing. "Look, I know what you're after. Varric told me you've been pestering him. We're not taking _any_ women on the expedition. It's nothing personal."

"Oh, _I_ get it!" Isabela winked at him, a very unwholesome glimmer in her eyes. "All those hairy, sweaty brutes down in the deeps… you'll be happier than a pig in shit! I can't say I blame you, but surely you could share a little of that action around? Don't be greedy, now."

A mirthless laugh escaped Fletcher's mouth, and he shook his head. "Trust me, Isabela, if you met the leader of the expedition, you'd change your tune pretty quickly."

"Does that mean we're going to see him?" she asked optimistically.

"No, we're not. Look, it's not you, honestly. Varric raves about your skill with those daggers of yours, and you'd be a great addition to the crew. We just can't take any women. Bethany's not going, and neither are Merrill or Aveline, not that Aveline would have the time, anyway."

"And why not, Hawke?" she demanded.

"I'd speak to Anders if I were you, he's the one who insisted on no women. It's a Grey Warden-darkspawn thing, apparently."

"I don't think I'll bother. I went to see him yesterday for some cream and he was quite snooty with me. If you ask me, he's got his eye on that assistant of his. Anyway, I was asking _you_."

Hawke stared at her wearily for a moment, and then walked over to a small wall on the quay where he sat down. Isabela joined him, and he recounted what Anders had told him about the Broodmother he and the other wardens had defeated in Amaranthine.

"…Being a healer, Anders has seen some pretty gruesome sights in his time, and has developed a cast-iron stomach. But he told me that he and one of the other wardens vomited as soon as they set eyes on it. He said it was an aberration of nature. I think it was the _smell,_ too. He couldn't even describe it to me."

" _Tentacles_?" Isabela exclaimed, pulling a face. "I know _some_ mothers let themselves go a bit after having a baby, but--"

"This is not a joke, Isabela. _That_ is the reason you can't come, and that's _final_. Please don't keep on about it. You'll only irritate me, and I still won't change my mind."

Isabela leaned back a little and sighed. "All right, Hawke, I'll be straight with you. The truth is, I need to disappear for a bit. I've, well…"

"Don't tell me. Some people are after you?"

"Something like that. Look, how many men are you taking on this expedition? There must be loads of you. I promise I won't wander off on my own, and if I see any of those mean darkspawn thingies, I'll scream, all right?"

"Isabela, the answer is _no_. I'm _sorry_. As annoying as you are, I wouldn't wish that fate on you. It's too much of a risk."

"But I'll--"

" _No_."

With a casual shrug of her shoulders, she stood up. "Oh, well. You've got to give me credit for trying, haven't you?"

"What's this trouble you're in?" Hawke asked, also standing up. "Is there anything I can do to help before we set off?"

"It's nice of you to offer, but you know me, Hawke, I always have something up my sleeve. I'll be fine, I always am." With a wink and a jaunty wiggle of her hips, she sauntered off, leaving Fletcher with doubt nibbling at his thoughts, though he couldn't quite understand why. Shaking his head and dismissing Isabela from his mind for the time being, he continued down the jetty steps toward one of the entrances to Darktown, the heaviness in his bones returning.

Fletcher knew there was an entrance leading from the Amell estate to Darktown, as he, Bethany, Anders and Varric had cleared out the slavers beneath the estate several months ago; before he'd met Fenris, in fact. He'd even procured a set of keys to the estate, and it would have been easy for him to slip into the mansion and enter through the tunnel, but his mother was still awaiting a reply from the Viscount's office regarding their claim on the estate, and he wanted to do things properly. If the city guard caught him sneaking into the property, he'd not only hamper his mother's efforts, but would place Fenris and Donnic in a difficult position, and he wasn't about to do that.

For now, he'd have to take the long way through Darktown, which he never relished, as the conditions under which some of the refugees were living were shocking. His resolve to help make life easier for the indigent people, with Anders's help, had not wavered. He just hoped that he and Anders would be able to keep from each other's throats long enough to do that.

Upon reaching the clinic, he found Anders and Mallory hard at work crafting poultices. Anders was instructing her on the correct ratio of herbs used in the mixture for the antiseptic coating. Mallory greeted Hawke when he entered, but Anders didn't look up until he'd finished.

"Anders, you put me to shame. I haven't even started on my batch, yet," Hawke said in an even tone. He was unsure of how he felt, and didn't want a scene in front of Mallory. More than that, he was painfully aware that soon, he, Fenris and Anders would all be confined underground where there would be no escape from each other, and Fletcher didn't want to be the one to cause ructions.

"I expect you've had your hands full, Hawke, what with Fenris." Anders stopped himself and glanced at Mallory, who smiled at Hawke and excused herself. "Guardsman Hendyr told me you'd found him. How is he?"

Hawke could tell from Anders's tone that he wasn't really interested, but he played along. "He's getting there. It wasn't easy for him to find out about…you know. He's doing his best."

Anders nodded, looking thoughtful. "How about you, Hawke?"

"Well, I'm still following your diet. I've been trying my best to get out of it, but Mother and Fenris are having none of it."

"Good." Anders began to tidy up his worktop, and Hawke glanced at Mallory, who was arranging boxes at the far end of the clinic.

"Anders… are _you_ all right?"

Anders looked up, uncertainty in his eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"It was just something you said…"

"Oh, ignore that." Anders resumed his task, and something in his voice told Hawke not to press him on the matter, which did nothing to ease Hawke's discomfort. "How are the plans for the expedition coming along?"

"Oh, most of the equipment and supplies have been moved to the site and there are just last-minute things, now. I'm going up there tomorrow to set up the oxygen generators. Fancy lending a hand? If you're not too busy?"

Anders considered the invitation, and also considered asking if Fenris would be going along, but didn't want to antagonise Hawke. "I'd like that. I know how it works but I'd be interested to see how you've made a portable one."

"Not one, Anders, lots of little ones. Oh, by the way, we'll be at the Hanged Man tonight, if you're interested. It might be our last chance for a card game in a relatively well-lit place. I can't vouch for the air quality, though. Bring Mallory, if she wants to come."

"Lots of little ones? Now I am intrigued." Anders gave a thin smile and nodded. "I'll see about the Hanged Man. There's a stomach bug doing the rounds down here at the moment, and it depends if there are any new cases."

"Need any help?"

"I'll certainly send for you if things get out of hand, but I think it's contained for now. Actually, I was going to ask… if it spreads, I'm not going to leave Mallory on her own to deal with it."

"If that happens, Anders, then the expedition will be postponed until it _is_ contained. We're not going without you, Warden or not."

"Well, thanks, Hawke, I really appreciate that," Anders replied quietly around an uneasy smile.

"If I don't see you tonight, I'll call for you tomorrow? Around midday?" asked Hawke.

"Yes, all right."

"See you when I see you, then, Anders. Bye, Mallory!" he shouted, and she looked up and waved.

"See you, Hawke, and thanks for calling on me."

With a nod, Fletcher left the clinic, feeling a huge weight lift from his shoulders. He did wonder momentarily when his and Anders's next spat would be, but decided not to dwell on that thought as he headed for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Treatises on Medicine and the Hippocratic Aphorisms_ is a real book, believed to have been compiled in 1145 in Hereford, England. It was written by forty of the most noted physicians of the time.


	48. A Gathering Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're going to have to do something about him, Hawke," Anders said tightly. "The only thing I'd trust him to lead us to is our deaths."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mary for her beta, and to Carrie for her insults :-)

When Anders failed to show up for the card game at the Hanged Man the night before, Fletcher decided an early start was called for the following day, concerned that the stomach bug doing the rounds in Darktown had worsened. The game hadn't gone on for very long, anyway; Donnic had been on duty and the other participants--Hawke, Fenris, Varric and Sebastian--all had preparations to make before setting out for the Deep Roads.

Upon leaving the pub, and after a visit to a herbalist in Lowtown, Fletcher and Fenris had returned home, where Fletcher had began crafting some of the stock of potions needed for the expedition. Fletcher and Anders had compiled a list of essential items several weeks earlier, and each mage had steadily worked on his own share. Most of the stock had been moved to the expedition site outside Kirkwall, but some had to be prepared at the last minute as they were made with fresh, organic ingredients. Fletcher, with assistance from Bethany and Fenris, had crafted the required number of potions and unguents plus several more, and had then started on an extra batch of lyrium potions for him and Anders. Only when Fenris had insisted he get some sleep had he stopped.

After breakfast, during which Fletcher resisted the temptation to ask what Bethany had hidden in her room when she and Fenris had returned from their stroll, Fletcher and Fenris left for Darktown to call on Anders, each carrying a sack of various dressings and potions.

"Will you need me to visit the site with you?" Fenris asked once they were underway.

"Well, you don't have to come, but I'd like you to," answered Fletcher. "Why? Is there something else you have to do?"

"No."

They walked on for a while and Fletcher occasionally glanced at Fenris, as usual gleaning no information from the elf's inscrutable expression. "Everything all right, Fen?" he asked casually.

"Yes, of course." Fenris slowed down and turned toward Fletcher, his eyes narrowing ever-so slightly. "Is everything well with you?"

Fletcher halted completely, seeing a flicker of uncertainty in Fenris's eyes as he, too, came to a stop. "What's the matter?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, I know you well enough by now," Fletcher said quietly. "Is it because we're going to see Anders?"

"I do not _fear_ Anders," was Fenris's immediate, slightly defensive reply.

Fletcher placed his sack on the ground and sighed. "I know that. But there's something wrong, I can tell. It might make you feel better if you talk about it."

A soft exhalation was heard, and Fenris stared ahead for a moment before shaking his head and walking on. "Pay me no heed. It is foolishness, and nothing more. I will deal with it."

"Wait." Fletcher caught up and clasped Fenris's arm, stopping him. "It's not foolishness if it's making you unhappy. Please tell me. Is it the expedition? Is there something about it you're not looking forward to?"

Fenris's nostrils flared, and Fletcher noticed the elf's free hand clenching at his side. It took several minutes for Fenris to answer, and when he did, his voice was hushed. "I would not want to cause any... problems once we are in the Deep Roads."

"And why would you do that?"

Irritation flashed across Fenris's face and he shook his head. "Do you not remember what happened at the barracks? When I _assaulted_ my fellow guards? When I was too much of a coward to face them? To face anyone?"

"We've been over this. That wasn't your fault."

"What if it happens again? What if I were to..." Fenris released a shaky breath. "It has been on my mind while I have been boarding at your house. If I were to frighten your mother or sister... if I were to lash out at you, I--"

"I warned Mother and Beth that sometimes your sleep is disturbed, and if anything happens, they're not to wake you, but to call me. We'll explain that to everyone going on the expedition as well."

"But would they not think--"

"I couldn't care less what they think," Fletcher replied firmly.

"Nor do I, but I am thinking of you," said Fenris. "You are one of the leaders of the expedition and the workers will look up to you. Their perception of you is of utmost importance. I will not cause you discomfiture if I can possibly prevent it."

"Just stop right there," Fletcher interrupted, taking a moment to quell his anger, which was not directed at Fenris, but rather at the damage Danarius had wrought upon his self-esteem. "Firstly, I don't consider myself to be a leader. Bartrand is in charge of the expedition. True, I've put him straight a few times because frankly, some of his ideas have been idiotic, but _he's_ in charge.

"Secondly, you won't be alone. Anders is a Grey Warden and he warned me that once he's underground and can sense darkspawn, he might have a few nightmares of his own.

"Thirdly, if I considered you the slightest bit dangerous, do you really think I'd have invited you into my home, to stay under the same roof as Beth and Mother?"

Fenris looked to the side and sighed.

Fletcher took a step closer to Fenris. "Beneath the wounds that bastard inflicted upon you is one of the gentlest, most humble and unassuming people I've ever met. The fact you feel such guilt and conflict over your actions, which were involuntary, I'll remind you, is an indication of how good--how decent--a man you are." Fletcher moved his hand to Fenris's chin and gently pushed his head up, but Fenris's gaze fell to the ground. "I see the real you, and so do Donnic, Sebastian and all of your friends in the guard, as well as Mother and Beth. They're the only ones that count."

Noticing Fenris's frown, Fletcher paused momentarily before continuing. "You know, I learned a long time ago to care only what my friends and family think, and to the Void with everyone else. Those people--the ones who know you and care about you--are the ones that count, and they _accept_ you. Mother and Beth think the world of you, as do Donnic and Sebastian. As do I. I couldn't imagine Donnic fussing over you as Mother does, though. It might put a dent in his reputation as a burly guard, mightn't it?"

Fenris laughed briefly but didn't smile, and once again hung his head, only for Fletcher to nudge it back up with his hand.

"I'm going to do something now that will probably embarrass you, but I make no apologies for it," Fletcher said. Not giving himself time to think, he leaned down and placed a quick peck on the elf's cheek before drawing back and releasing his chin. Fenris's mouth gaped open but, to Fletcher's immense relief, he gave no indication of being disturbed or displeased by the gesture.

"I'm proud to be seen with you, and these people," Fletcher waved his hand toward several passers-by, some of whom quickly averted their gaze, "can think what the hell they like. I don't know them, I don't care about them, and they mean nothing to me. Very few of the people going on the expedition mean anything to me. Those that _do_ won't say anything should you have a nightmare. If they do, and I can't imagine they would, they'll get short shrift from me, I can tell you. Now, shall we get going?"

Fletcher picked up his sack and, slinging it over his shoulder, began to walk ahead. He looked back and waited for Fenris to arrive next to him. Both men were quiet on the way to Darktown, but this time, when Fletcher glanced at the elf, the faint smile he wore said more than words ever could.

~o~O~o~

When they reached the clinic, Anders was hard at work cataloging and sorting through his own creations. Mallory was nowhere to be seen.

"How are things, Anders? Any new cases?" Fletcher asked as they approached, with Fenris falling a short distance behind.

"Hm? No, no new ones," Anders mumbled absently as he placed a few poultices into a bag.

"Well, that's good," replied Fletcher. "Sorry we didn't see you at the Hanged Man last night."

"Oh, I forgot about that." Anders looked up, glanced at Fenris without acknowledging him and then proceeded to place items in the rest of the bags. Fenris moved to stand at Fletcher's side, and they exchanged a fleeting glance while they waited. When Anders had finished, he tied the bags up and walked to the entrance of the clinic. "Wait here. Mallory said she'll give me a hand." He then exited, leaving Fenris and Fletcher alone.

"Well, he's certainly organised, isn't he?" Fletcher asked breezily, hiding the vague sense of unease he felt in the pit of his stomach.

"So it would seem." The distaste in Fenris's voice was obvious, and his expression had once again returned to inscrutable.

"Hey, at least Mallory's coming with us. If Anders is in a snit about something, _she_ can talk to him, and we won't have to."

"That's true," replied Fenris with a small smile.

After waiting for a few minutes, Anders returned with Mallory and returned to the bags.

"Hello, Hawke," she greeted, and shook Fletcher's hand.

"Hello, Mallory. Are you settling in well? You seem very at home here."

"Yes, I'm really enjoying myself," she answered brightly. "I've become acquainted with most of the people down here and Anders has been great. I've learned a lot from him."

"I know the clinic will be in good hands while I'm gone," Anders piped up, smiling warmly at the small woman.

Fletcher managed to smile as well, determined not to let Anders's standoffishness bother him. "You haven't met Fenris, have you?" he asked her, and Fenris stepped forward, doffing a polite nod.

"Oh, it's nice to meet you, Fenris," she answered pleasantly. "Are you a friend of Anders and Hawke, then?"

"I will be accompanying them on the expedition."

"I'm sure they're very glad of that," she said with a glance at his sword, before Anders interrupted.

"Let's get a move on, then," he said briskly, gathering up the large bags. He passed one each to Mallory, Fletcher and Fenris, taking two for himself. "Is that all you could manage to craft, Hawke? Two bags?" he asked airily.

Fletcher, annoyed that Anders hadn't acknowledged Fenris at all, answered, "As you _know_ , we were making the lyrium potions. They take a lot longer than poultices, plus they're heavier."

"All right, Hawke, can't you take a joke?" Anders laughed as he walked past them toward the exit.

"I can, Anders, when it's a funny one." Irritation found its way into his voice, and a small hand touched his arm. Fletcher looked at Fenris, who shook his head.

"Oh dear, someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning," said Anders from up ahead, and Mallory laughed nervously, looking uncomfortable, before she walked ahead to catch up with him.

"As you said, Hawke, the woman can talk to him now," Fenris offered.

"Yes, lucky for me I get _you_ to keep me company," Fletcher grinned with a wink at the elf, not quite succeeding in hiding his annoyance, and as they left the clinic together, Fenris firmly suppressed his own vexation with the abomination.

~o~O~o~

After roughly an hour's walk out of town, they reached the site of the entrance to the Deep Roads that Bartrand had deemed most suitable for their purposes.

" _This_ one?" Anders wondered aloud, pulling a face. "This would have been the last one I'd have chosen."

"Oh? Why's that?" Fletcher asked, concerned.

"Well, it's the nearest one to town, and it goes down deeper than any of the others. After a certain depth, the map ends. If there's anything nasty down there it could very well be unleashed upon the population of Kirkwall. Not a very smart man, this Bartrand, is he?"

"I won't argue with you there," muttered Fletcher. "All he can see are sovereigns. If we and Varric weren't involved in this expedition, he and all of his workers would have died after a day or two, either from lack of oxygen or smoke inhalation. And I wouldn't put it past him to stick a knife in the back of anyone who found any of these fabulous riches he's promised us."

"We must keep our wits about us, then," Fenris said darkly.

As they neared the first of the caves, Bartrand's voice could be heard from below the ground. Several workers milled about, running to and fro. Fletcher, having already met most of them, introduced them to Anders and Fenris.

"Hawke! There y'are!" shouted a deep, gruff voice. They turned in its direction and Fletcher grinned and waved at a very stocky, black-haired dwarf with ruddy cheeks and a beard like a rhododendron bush. After leaving their sacks with the appropriate worker, they walked over to the dwarf, Fletcher shaking his hand.

"Everyone, this is Torbal of House Barakar, possibly the most intelligent man I've ever met. Well, almost," he added with a wink at Fenris, who rolled his eyes. "Torbal and I have been working on the oxygen generators."

" _Another_ sodding mage?" laughed Torbal with a glance at Anders. "Ancestors help us all. And what's this? An elf? You keep eclectic company, Hawke."

"This is Fenris, Anders, and his friend, Mallory," Fletcher told Torbal, clapping a hand on the dwarf's shoulder. He glanced cautiously at Fenris, but was relieved to see that Torbal had not offended him, probably because Torbal had not insulted Fletcher as Bartrand had.

Torbal nodded at Fletcher's companions and then glanced behind them. "And where's that reprobate Varric?"

"Oh, he's spending a bit of time with my sister before we set off."

"Spending _time_ , huh?" teased the dwarf. "Is _that_ what you humans call it?"

"Now, now, that's my sister you're talking about," Fletcher said in a slightly stern tone, but he was smiling. Fenris's eyes darted between them, his muscles tightening, unsure whether they were joking or not.

"Hey, no offence intended," said Torbal, holding his hands up. "I'm not gonna be responsible for _another_ human taking his ball home to mama."

" _Another_ human? What do you mean?" Fletcher asked.

Torbal sighed, his huge, crinkly beard rustling as he shook his head. "That whore-humper Bartrand couldn't organise a piss-up in an alehouse. He's got a real spark in his ass, but there's nothing but tumbleweed bouncing around upstairs. We've already lost five men because they couldn't take the way he spoke to them. They were all humans, you see, like delicate hothouse flowers compared with dwarves."

"Well, that leaves me, Anders and a few of the other humans," Fletcher commented thoughtfully, "but we can stand up to Bartrand, don't you worry."

"And how about you, uh, Fergus? Finbar?"

"Fenris," the elf calmly corrected. "I am already acquainted with Bartrand, and I left him in no doubt as to my opinion of his leadership style."

"Hahaha! I like you, Fenton! And if you keep leaving that son of a bitch in no doubt, I'll go right on liking you!" Torbal then waved his hand toward an area where several animal skins had been staked across the ground and were drying in the sun. "They're almost ready, Hawke. We've been lucky with the weather, and we'll get the skins sewn up by tonight. Got a prototype, if you're interested?"

"If I'm _interested_? Where? _Where_? Show me!" Fletcher jumped up and down excitedly and Fenris chuckled quietly at the sight.

Torbal waddled over to a wooden crate and pulled out a large gourd-shaped pouch, fashioned from one of the pieces of dried skin. Attached to it were two straps, as well as a small hose, all of which were made of leather. He passed it to Fletcher, who grinned widely as he examined it.

"Mallory," said Hawke, "as you're not carrying a weapon, would you care to assist me in a demonstration?"

"I'd be happy to." She smiled, stepping forward.

"Thank you." Hawke asked her to hold her arms out and he attached the pouch to her front, securing it by tying the straps around her neck and back. "This will be carried on the chest and the belly, depending on how tall you are, as we'll all be lugging stuff on our backs," he explained to the others. "The pouch will be half-filled with a solution of salt water. Inside is a piece of metal that will be charged with electricity. Anders, that's where you come in. The metal will be in constant contact with the water, and the resulting chemical reaction will produce bubbles that rise to the top of the water and 'pop', thus providing us with oxygen, which can be breathed in using the hose."

"Each charge should last for a couple of hours," Torbal added, "by which time the water will need to be changed, anyway."

"Is this safe?" Fenris asked with a frown. "How strong will the electrical charge be?"

"Strong enough to singe that pretty hair of yours," answered Torbal, "but not strong enough to kill ya. And that would only happen if you're dumb enough to take the thing apart. The metal's contained _inside_ the apparatus."

Fenris tilted his head and nodded as he examined the pouch. "This is very clever. You are to be congratulated," he said to Torbal and Fletcher.

"Very nice," Anders commented.

Fletcher grinned and began to remove the apparatus from Mallory. "It's not our idea, it's just a crude version of Paragon Garius's invention, but it'll do for us. We won't need to start using them until we're a ways in, but it might be a good idea for us to wear them anyway, just to get used to them. While we're in camp, Anders and I will make a large static generator so none of us have to sleep in these. Both Torbal and I know the precise amounts of salt, sodium bicarbonate and other ingredients that go into the mix. Don't make your own mix, come to us for it. I'll tell you the formula as well, Fenris and Anders, just in case anything happens to me or Torbal."

"So, it is not as simple as mere saline?" asked Fenris.

Fletcher shook his head. "If the balance of salt is off, then chlorine gas might be produced instead of oxygen, and if you inhaled that, you wouldn't need to worry about oxygen any more. Also, the apparatus isn't to be used around naked flames. We'll explain all of this to everyone before we set off anyway."

"Let _me_ tell Bartrand," Torbal joked. "I won't forget. Promise."

"Don't tempt me." Fletcher smiled and clapped the dwarf's shoulder again. "Do you need anything?"

"Nah, I got what I need."

"I'm on my way to talk to Bartrand. Any concerns?" asked Fletcher. "I won't say they came from you."

"Tell that bastard I'm _concerned_ that a knuckle-scraping, shit-for-brains, asshole-caste dwarf is heading up the expedition, if you like, and feel free to tell him it came from me. I told him something along those lines only half an hour ago, anyway, but I've toned down what I _actually_ said for the benefit of the lady," Torbal said with a nod at Mallory.

"A polite dwarf? Whatever next? A Qunari jester?" Fletcher joked.

"Hey, I'm only polite once a month, and I just used up my quota, so watch it, Human," warned Torbal, his fat cheeks reddening further as he grinned. "Now get outta here. I got work to do." He offered his chubby hand to Anders and Fenris, who shook it, and he bowed to Mallory. "Hey, Hawke, ignore that stuff I said about your sister, I didn't mean nothing by it. I'm sure she's a nice girl. Maybe needs her eyes examining, but that ain't her fault."

"No worries. Keep smiling, Torbal. See you soon." Fletcher shook his hand again and led his companions in the direction of Bartrand's voice.

"We're going to see your friend, Fenris. Think you can behave yourself?" Fletcher teased.

Fenris glanced sidelong at Fletcher and quirked an eyebrow. "I promise nothing."

As the elf's eyes left him, Fletcher's stomach flipped over; it had been a while since Fenris had looked at him like _that_. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Good," was all he could manage in reply.

"Actually, it would be better if I remained above ground with the woman," Fenris said quietly. "Bartrand is rather uncouth, and she should not be exposed to that."

"She didn't seem bothered by what Torbal was saying," Fletcher reasoned.

"That is true, but he was at least moderately respectful toward her. Should Bartrand insult her, he may find himself divested of more than a few strands of hair."

"And what if he insults Anders?"

"Anders is a grown man who can fight his own battles."

"Right, we're _all_ going to see Bartrand," Fletcher announced loudly, sniggering as Fenris's eyebrow crept up. "Don't worry, Fenris," he whispered, "I doubt even Bartrand would be stupid enough to try anything with you around. I just want to see the look on his face when he sets eyes on you again. And I've missed Bill. I think _he_ should be introduced to Bartrand as well."

"Perhaps you should name my sword as well?" Fenris suggested, "As it is just as likely he will be introduced to that."

When they reached the mouth of the cave, Fletcher held his hand up and stopped, listening.

"What is that bloody racket?" Anders demanded, placing his hands over his ears.

"It sounds like someone's being murdered!" exclaimed Mallory at the ear-splitting squeals coming from within the cave.

Fenris unsheathed his sword and moved to the cave mouth. "Remain here," he ordered Mallory before he entered, followed by the two mages.

They cautiously picked their way along toward a source of light they could see ahead; the high-pitched screeching seemed to be coming from there. Walking behind Fenris, Anders and Fletcher readied their staves. "Anything, Anders?" Fletcher asked.

"It's not darkspawn," he answered confidently.

As they neared the lit chamber, all three men paused, finding it hard to concentrate due to the assault on their ears. Amidst the din, Bartrand's voice could be heard yelling expletives. "No magic unless it's absolutely necessary," Fletcher shouted at Anders, thinking of Fenris, as they entered the chamber. "What in the blazes?"

As one, Fletcher, Fenris and Anders's mouths dropped open at the sight that met them: Bartrand, plus several of his workers, were chasing around after numerous small, squealing creatures that resembled a cross between a pig and a mole. Again and again, the creatures evaded the men's clutches, and Fletcher didn't even bother to hide his laugh when Bartrand fell flat on his face. They could quite happily have watched such a farcical sight all day, but as their ears were starting to hurt, Fletcher decided that swift action was warranted.

"Outside, Fenris, I'm going to cast," he said quickly, holding his staff aloft.

Fenris shook his head. "I will stay. Be quick."

With a sigh, Fletcher recited a basic paralysis spell, not bothering to refine the sphere of the spell as he wanted Fenris's discomfort to be as brief as possible.

In an instant, everyone inside the chamber, Bartrand included, froze, and mercifully the clamour stopped; the only sound that could be heard was Fenris's heavy breathing. Anders walked ahead to examine the strange creatures while Fletcher tentatively placed a hand on the elf's back. "Are you all right? I'm sorry. Are you in pain?"

Fenris shook his head and steadied himself against the cave wall. "I will be fine. Thank you for your concern."

"Are you sure?" Fletcher suddenly became aware that he'd been instinctively stroking Fenris's back, and stilled his hand, but did not remove it. Fenris raised his head and gave a pained smile.

"I am sure. Please do not worry over it. I will have to live with it. Your powers will be called upon many times during the expedition."

"No." Fletcher shook his head emphatically. "You're not going to _live with it_. If I ask you to step out again, please do as I say. I'm not trying to order you around or anything, but I hate to see you in pain. Please, Fenris. I'm asking you."

Fletcher removed his hand from Fenris's back, watching as the elf leaned against the wall and folded his arms, sighing. "Very well. As _I_ hate to see _you_ worry, I will do as you say. I will not step out, however, if our lives are in danger. No arguments."

"Well, I can see us having a big argument if I asked you to do that. Fair enough. You have a deal." Fletcher offered his hand to the elf, and Fenris shook it, but Fletcher did not release it immediately. Fenris's eyes moved up to meet his, and for a moment, neither spoke. Fletcher's stomach flipped again, and he completely forgot they had company. "Fenris, I..."

"When you two have finished, I think I know what these animals are," Anders called over.

A jolt of irritation shot through Fletcher at the interruption, but if Fenris felt the same, he gave no sign. They walked over to Anders, who had awoken one of the creatures, which chirped quietly as he scratched behind its ears.

"This is a nug, I'm certain of it," Anders told them. "Oghren, someone I used to know, raved about them. The dwarves love them, to eat, I mean. Some people even keep them as pets, but dwarves find such an idea laughable." He glanced around the chamber, counting no less than twenty eight of them. "Looks like someone didn't keep the males and females apart. They breed like there's no tomorrow."

"A piss-up in an alehouse, indeed," Fletcher said crabbily, walking up to Bartrand and placing a hand on the dwarf's shoulder, none too gently.

With the spell reversed, Bartrand blinked and a scowl immediately formed. "You took your sodding time, _Partner_!" he seethed, slapping Fletcher's hand away. "You go and check on the vittles _before_ you check on me? That's all kinds of crazy! I guess I shouldn't expect any less from a limp-wristed mage!"

Anders and Fenris joined them, and Bartrand glowered at the sight of another mage, but avoided Fenris's gaze completely.

"We meet again," Fenris hissed menacingly, and Bartrand took a step back before stomping away from them.

"Where's that fucking nug wrangler?" he yelled before pointing at one of the frozen men. "Mage! Get over here and wake him up!"

Anders gave a groan of exasperation. "Please don't tell me this is the leader of the expedition. Is this sort of thing going to happen often? Can't you step in and take charge, Hawke?"

"That's a tempting idea, but I won't do anything like that without speaking to Varric first. I wouldn't want to embarrass him. Come on, give me a hand." They approached the frozen workers and reversed Fletcher's spell by touching them. After giving the men a moment to collect themselves, Fletcher asked them to round up the paralysed nugs, this time keeping the males and females separate. He then turned his attention to Bartrand.

"Has the safety equipment been installed in the main shaft yet? The lighting? Or have you been too busy chasing after pigs?"

"Nugs," Anders corrected.

"Whatever. Well, Bartrand? You're already two days behind schedule from what Varric told me."

" _Varric_ isn't down here doing all the donkey work, and neither are _you_ ," Bartrand accused. "While you're all mincing around up on the surface, _we're_ the ones breaking our sodding backs down here. You have no idea what's going on."

"Tell me, then," Fletcher said in a reasonable tone. "Why are you behind? Do you need any help?"

"It's a little late in the day to be offering help, isn't it?" Bartrand barked, and Fenris, feeling his ire rising, drew a steadying breath. "Cram it, Mage. It's not your concern."

Feeling a movement to his left, Fletcher held his arm out to stop Fenris from advancing. "It's very much my concern, _Dwarf_. I've put a lot of my hard-earned money into this venture, and these two men," he added, gesturing at Anders and Fenris, "helped me earn it. I want that safety equipment installed _now_. And I understand you've driven five men away. Have they been replaced?"

"Who told you that? Was it that fat bastard Torbal?"

"Never you mind who told me!" Fletcher snapped. "Have they been replaced or not?"

"I'll replace them when I get a fucking chance!" Bartrand bit back. "You want safety equipment put in. You want nugs rounded up. You want men replaced. Are _you_ gonna get your hands dirty down here, Precious? I doubt it!" Bartrand grabbed one of Fletcher's hands and examined his palm. "Just as I thought! You've never done an honest day's work in your life!"

"I'll have you know I'm a farmer's son!" Fletcher bristled, snatching his hand back. "Don't try and tell _me_ I know nothing of hard work. And it was never part of the deal that Varric or I helped set up the equipment. In fact, you told us we'd only hold you up."

"A farmer's son? Well, your daddy must be even more of a shiftless fucker than you are," retorted Bartrand.

Fenris, who could feel Fletcher trembling next to him, pushed in front of the dwarf. "I find your tone, and attitude, _highly_ irritating," he snarled, and Bartrand's sneering countenance quickly melted away, giving way to ambiguity. "You will _do_ as he directs, if you know what is good for you."

Bartrand held Fenris's murderous gaze for a second, but quickly looked away, an odd growling sound coming from his throat. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm not gonna get anything done if I'm standing here, talking to you, am I? Now get out of my hair!"

"That equipment _will_ be in place by _tonight_ , Bartrand," Fenris commanded. "Everyone else is prepared, even if you are not."

"But we'll have to work through the night!"

"Then you'll _work_ through the night," interjected Fletcher. "I don't want to hear any more excuses. You've had plenty of time and money to get this done. _I'll_ find the extra five workers. I know plenty of strong men who want to earn some money."

"Yeah, I'll bet you do," Bartrand answered caustically, the rest of his reply dying with another withering glare from Fenris. "Go on then, sod off, the lot of you. I've got a fucking night to work through. Hope you all sleep well in your nice, comfy beds."

They watched him stomp off, and Fletcher helped corral the last couple of nugs. When the workers had departed, he stood on the spot, his head falling back as he groaned.

"You're going to have to do something about him, Hawke," Anders said tightly. "The only thing I'd trust him to lead us to is our deaths. I'm going to check on Mallory." With that, he walked toward the cave entrance and disappeared around a bend.

Fletcher could hear Fenris's quiet footfalls as the elf moved to his side, and both of them stood together in contemplation for a while. Fletcher then heard a sigh, and Fenris softly cleared his throat.

"I hope you did not take exception to my intervention," the elf said humbly. "I did not mean to overstep--"

Fletcher gave a humourless laugh. "It's a good thing you did intervene. I think Bartrand is one of those dwarves who doesn't have much respect for mages. Especially bent ones."

"Bent?"

"Yes, you know, with a preference for men." He shook his head dejectedly, and noticed Fenris folding his arms from the corner of his eye.

"Your status as a mage is irrelevant," Fenris insisted angrily. " _You_ should be the one leading the expedition, not him. Not all mages are corrupt or untrustworthy. He would do well to remember that."

All troubling thoughts of Bartrand and the expedition fled from Fletcher's mind as he turned towards the elf, wearing a hesitant smile. "Do you realise what you just said?"

Fenris took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Yes. I do. Now let us return to the surface." He walked away from Fletcher, pausing as he reached the entrance to look back. "Are you coming?"

"Fenris?" Fletcher walked up to him, stopping at his side. "Would you like to take lunch with me? Just the two of us? I suspect that you appreciate peace and quiet as much as I do. Maybe we should get as much of it as possible, while we still can."

"Peace and quiet," Fenris repeated softly. "You are correct in saying there will not be much of it once we are down here. Have you anywhere in mind?"

"How about at the foot of the Vhenadahl? We can head home, grab a bit of food and then go to the Alienage. It should be quiet there today as there's no market. Although we might have to fend off Merrill."

"After Bartrand, Merrill would be a soothing balm to my ears," replied Fenris wryly.

"Is that a yes?"

Fenris smiled, nodded once and led the way up to the surface, with a beaming Fletcher not far behind.


	49. Confidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do I need to hold my partner's dick when he takes a piss?" Bartrand demanded.
> 
> "You can barely hold your own, Brother, let alone anyone else's!" countered Varric to braying laughter among the group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to Mary for her quick and thorough beta, and to Mary and Carrie for their encouragement. It helped! :-)

Finally, the day of the expedition arrived. Fletcher and Fenris, who had once again slept on the settee together, rose early as Fletcher wanted to make his mother and sister a cooked breakfast before they departed.

After washing and dressing, Fenris assisted him in the kitchen. Conversation was minimal, but they were much more relaxed around each other than they had been of late, thanks in part to the previous day's picnic. They'd taken lunch at the Alienage, where Merrill had joined them long enough to share their food, before taking herself off.

To Fletcher's surprise, Fenris had told him of the extravagant, often excessive dinner parties Danarius used to host at his estate in Minrathous, pointing out the differences between them and the simple pleasure of eating sandwiches and cake beneath a tree. He'd also recounted some of the more profane pursuits of Danarius and the other magisters, stating that he'd find it difficult to imagine any of the mages he'd met in Kirkwall behaving in such a way.

Although Fenris hadn't said so, Fletcher felt that he was being compared with the magisters, and that he'd acquitted himself favourably against them. He also wondered if Fenris wasn't also talking about Merrill, but decided to let Fenris say what he wanted to say, and to leave it at that.

That evening, Leandra, with Fletcher's help, had prepared a huge roast dinner. Donnic and Merrill were invited, and Bethany, Varric and Gamlen were also there. Fletcher had considered asking Anders, but, remembering his odd demeanour when he'd visited the clinic earlier, and that he'd 'forgotten' the card game at the Hanged Man, Fletcher decided against it. Also, Fletcher would not have been so understanding if Anders 'forgot' to turn up when his mother had made dinner.

"So, when shall we give Mother the brooch?" Fletcher asked the elf, cracking a few eggs into a pan. Fenris was on bacon duty. "We're sort of running out of time."

"After breakfast, before we depart."

" _Just_ before we depart? Why not give it to her during breakfast?"

"No particular reason," Fenris said quietly with a shrug, and Fletcher caught a glimpse of shifty green eyes through white hair.

"You really think she's going to be offended, don't you?" Fletcher laughed. "You don't know my mother. The reason I suggested giving it to her _during_ breakfast is because she'll be hugging you for about twenty minutes. If we give it to her as we depart, we'll be late!"

When no answer came from the elf, Fletcher took his pan of eggs off the flame and set it on the counter. "Or is that what you're afraid of?"

"I am _not_ afraid," Fenris said as he turned the bacon over, and Fletcher once again noticed Fenris's eyes darting around beneath his hair.

"Well, what is it, then?"

Fenris also set his pan aside and slowly released a breath. "I am not certain you would understand. Or perhaps you would? I don't know."

"You won't know unless you tell me, will you?" Fletcher encouraged gently.

Fenris hung his head a little and took a minute to answer. "It is just... I do not remember my own mother." His eyes darted up to Fletcher's. "Not that I'm... I would never presume that _your_ mother..." He sighed and shook his head.

"I think it's a bit late for that," Fletcher said with a smile. "Mother loves to _mother_ people, and she's very fond of you. When we were in the kitchen last night, she gave me a hug and said she felt better about me going on the expedition knowing that you'd be with me. She also said she'll be very cross if either of us are hurt."

Fenris laughed briefly before anxiety marred his brow. "I am... touched." He briefly considered asking what he had done to deserve her care, but suspected such a question would anger or upset Fletcher, and he refrained. "I am unaccustomed to family life. I do not know how to conduct myself, or what is proper."

"You're conducting yourself just fine, Fen." Fletcher placed his pan back on to the heat, but kept one eye on the elf. "All you have to do is be yourself. That's the person Mother is so fond of. That's the person I... well." Fletcher also shrugged and worried the eggs with a spatula.

"Forgive me," Fenris said mildly. "You must be weary of my interminable _humility_."

"No, not at all." Fletcher laid the spatula down and turned to face Fenris. "Humility is a strength, not a weakness. It _can_ be overdone, though. I do wish you saw yourself as others see you. As I see you." He sighed and moved a little closer to Fenris, who was keeping an eye on the bacon. "Don't ever think you can't tell me what's on your mind, though. Everyone needs a confidant, and I'm honoured to be yours."

A small smile curved Fenris's mouth and he looked up at Fletcher through his fringe. "And I am honoured to have you as my confidant. Tell me, who is yours?"

"Up until now, it's been mainly Beth, I suppose, even though you know things about me that nobody else does. As soon as we walk out of that door today, though, there'll be a vacancy for the position of my confidant. Interested?"

"What are the requirements?" Fenris asked nonchalantly.

"Well, I'll only take elves."

"Merrill, perhaps?" suggested Fenris, his tone warm.

"No. It has to be a man, in case I need to talk about _personal_ stuff."

"But Bethany--"

"Bethany's my sister, and _nothing_ embarrasses her. No, her replacement will have to be a man. And preferably a fair-haired one. Beth's dark-haired and I fancy a change."

Fenris's smile widened. "And is there any other criteria?"

"I'd prefer a non-mage, to bring a different perspective, you know? And they _have_ to be comely. It wouldn't do for me to be seen with an unattractive person."

"I see." Fenris smiled as he placed the cooked bacon onto a plate. "And how does one apply for the position?"

"Well, you just ask." He moved a little closer and whispered, "As you're already friends with the boss, I'm sure he can pull a few strings for you."

Fenris laughed softly and shook his head. "In that case, I would like to formally apply for the position of Confidant to Messere Fletcher Hawke."

"It's Fletcher Malcolm Hawke, actually," Fletcher informed him. "You've got the job."

"Is there no interview? No trial?"

"You've just had the interview, and you impressed the boss. He's not even seeing any of the other candidates. Welcome to the team." Fletcher extended his hand. When Fenris had stopped chuckling, he shook it.

"You make me laugh," the elf uttered softly.

"Well, you make me laugh, as well," Fletcher answered, still holding on to Fenris's hand. He saw Fenris's eyes move behind him, and _Bill_ made an appearance.

"For my first duty as Confidant to Messere Fletcher Malcolm Hawke, I should inform him that his eggs are burning."

"What? Oh, shit!" Fletcher hastily released Fenris's hand and turned his attention to the eggs, but they were beyond saving. "I blame you for this," he joked. "Boss's privilege."

"Ah, I see how it's going to be," Fenris answered. "You had better hope that _your_ boss is more accommodating. You _are_ my confidant, after all."

"Uh-oh," muttered Fletcher.

"Yes. You would do well to be on your guard," the elf teased, and passed Fletcher a few more eggs.

~o~O~o~

During breakfast, Varric called to collect Fletcher and Fenris, and to say goodbye to Bethany. After clearing up, Varric and Bethany stepped outside, leaving Fenris and Fletcher with Leandra.

"Mother, before we go, we have something for you," announced Fletcher, reaching into his pocket and producing a small box. Fenris stepped back a little, shifting uneasily on the balls of his feet.

"For me? How thoughtful!" Leandra exclaimed, taking the box. "What is it?"

"Open it," invited Fletcher.

With an excited glance at the two men, she slowly removed the lid and gasped as she stared at the silver and lavender brooch. "Oh, this is exquisite! You really shouldn't have, but I'm so glad you did! And it's a perfect match for my dress!" Leandra began to pin it to the collar of her grey and lilac dress, with assistance from Fletcher.

"It's from both of us," Fletcher told her, "but it was Fenris's idea to buy it."

The blood drained from the elf's face and he gulped, relaxing only when Leandra looked at him with tears in her eyes, obviously _not_ offended. "Oh, Fenris, what a wonderful thought. Thank you so much." She walked up to the elf and swallowed him in a hug. Fenris laughed nervously and brought one hand around to awkwardly pat her back. "And which of you chose this?" she asked as she pulled away, wiping her eyes.

"Uh, that would be Merrill," Fletcher confessed with a laugh.

"Well, I will be sure to call on her to thank her," said Leandra, giving her son a hug and kiss. "I will treasure this. Oh, I will miss you. Both of you. Look after each other, won't you?"

"We will, we have your cooking to come back to," Fletcher joked with a glance at Fenris, who had moved to the door. "In a hurry, Fen?"

"We, uh, we should not be late," Fenris said, looking mildly embarrassed, a flush in his cheeks. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said to Leandra with a bow.

"As Bethany said, this will always be your home, Fenris," she told him. The elf nodded quickly and opened the door.

"Thank you. I will... leave you to say your goodbyes." Without another word, he ducked outside and leaned against the wall, sighing heavily. To his right, at the bottom of the steps, he saw Bethany and Varric, who were obviously having a private conversation, and he turned away, not wanting to intrude, but he couldn't help hearing them.

"Here, Sunshine, I want you to look after this for me."

"But this is your father's signet ring, Varric! I can't take that!"

"Look, I'll only end up losing it down there. And if times get hard, you should be able to get a few sovereigns for it."

"I would never sell this."

"Hey! I'm a dwarf, remember? I _expect_ you to sell it if you need the coin. It's just a ring."

"Well, I'm a human, and I'm _not_ going to sell it. It'll still be here when you return. Don't take too long, all right?"

"Listen, Princess. I'll be back to you as soon as my stubby little legs will carry me." Varric paused, then, and sighed. "I guess I'm gonna need to speak to your brother. About... you know."

"No, you don't," Bethany replied. "Fletcher and I talked about that a long time ago, and he approved, so long as we were careful. And we were. I couldn't let you leave without saying goodbye properly."

Fenris scratched at his ears, trying to block out the kissing sounds that ensued, and stared at the door, willing Fletcher to come out. Quickly.

"Your brother's a good guy," Varric said quietly. "Well, Aveline may have confiscated my key, but I persuaded her that I would buy the safehouse when we come back, so she's keeping the Chantry at bay for now. What she _doesn't_ know is that _you_ still have your key." He chuckled. "Just keep the entertaining of men to a minimum, huh?"

"Oh, Varric," she said sternly. "Don't joke about such things."

"Ah, I just figured if you thought me an ass, it would be easier for you to say goodbye. Guess that didn't work. Come here." They fell silent, and Fenris assumed they were embracing. "Tell 'em I've gone on ahead, Sunshine," Varric said after a few minutes. "You take care of your mama, okay?"

"Yes, I will," she answered. "And take care of yourself, dearest." Fenris heard the dwarf's booted steps growing quieter as he left the slums, and his stomach lurched as Bethany started sobbing quietly. To his eternal relief, the door opened and Fletcher finally stepped out.

~o~O~o~

After consoling Bethany and saying his own goodbye to her, Fletcher, with Fenris, caught up to Varric on the way to the site. Fenris observed that both men seemed to be covering their wistfulness by playfully insulting each other, and was glad that he wasn't leaving someone who meant a great deal to him behind. He wondered how _he_ would feel if Fletcher wasn't going on the expedition, or if he wasn't. The ache he felt in his belly answered the question for him, and he did his best to join in with the banter, also hoping to buoy Fletcher's spirits.

When they arrived at the site, Sebastian was already there, watching as several small carts were being taken into the main cave. He seemed pleased to see Fletcher and Fenris together and apparently in good spirits. If he still harboured any concerns over his discovery of Fletcher's secret, he didn't show it. Anders also arrived a short time later and chatted to Varric while Fletcher, Fenris and Sebastian lent a hand to the workers.

When all of the supplies and livestock had been taken to the main chamber about a quarter of a mile in, the workers congregated outside for a break and to feel the sun on their faces one last time for possibly the next few months.

After a while, some of the dwarves seemed impatient to get started, and approached Bartrand, wanting to know when they'd be setting off. The expedition leader moved a distance away and loudly called for the assembled workers to gather together.

"Right! You all know what you're doing. Well, you'd better, 'cos it's too late to turn back now," he stated, eliciting some laughter, but not from Fletcher's group. Indeed, the mage gave Varric a concerned glance, which Varric shrugged at. "Let's get plunderin', then! We'll all be rich men by the time we get outta there! Let's go!" Bartrand headed toward the main cave, with Fletcher hot on his tail.

"Wait a minute!" Fletcher caught up to the dwarf and moved in front of him, blocking his path. "Is that all you're going to say to them?" he demanded quietly, not wanting to show Bartrand up for Varric's sake.

"What else do you want me to say to them? Should I give them a cuddle and a pat on the head and tell them not to be afraid of the dark? Some of these people have been underground for most of their lives. These are _men_ , son, not the kind of _boys_ you're used to."

"Don't think you can talk down to me, Bartrand. And not all of the men have been underground. There are several humans and surface dwarves here. Aren't you going to say anything about safety? About the effects of being underground for long periods?"

"They all know what they signed up for," growled Bartrand, "but if you need to coddle the humans, be my guest. Just don't take too bloody long over it."

" _You_ should be doing this," Fletcher hissed, not relishing the prospect of speaking to a large group of people, something he'd never done before. "It's lucky for these people that a couple of healers are coming along, who actually care about their health. Now you'd better announce me, if you don't want to lose face."

"You're too kind, Twinkletoes," Bartrand said with a sarcastic bow. "Don't expect me to thank you, and don't expect any thanks from this lot for being told what they already know."

"I'm doing it for Varric's sake, not yours. Now get on with it," Fletcher ordered tautly.

"The mage wants to say a few things," Bartrand told the group unenthusiastically, and Fenris noticed Fletcher's nostrils flaring and his posture tensing as he stepped forward.

"Good morning, everyone," Fletcher said to the group, and was answered with a few murmurs and nods. "I've met some of you already, but to those of you who don't know me, I'm Hawke, and I'm one of the investors, along with Varric and Bartrand. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm also a mage, a healer, as it happens, and so is my friend, Anders." Fletcher pointed to Anders, who moved to Fletcher's side and nodded at the group.

"I know that some of you originally hail from Orzammar," Fletcher went on, "and the last thing you want to hear is a lecture on how to live underground from a human. I'd just like to say a few things for the benefit of the other humans and the surfacers. Oh, and the elf, of course." He grinned and nodded to Fenris, who squirmed a little but nodded back. "If you'll all humour me, I'll be as brief as I can."

As there were no objections besides a few pairs of rolled eyes, he took a deep breath, hoping he wasn't about to alienate the dwarves by appearing condescending.

"Before I start, is everyone happy with their oxygen apparatus? Does anyone find it uncomfortable?"

"They're all right, Hawke," Torbal piped up loudly. "There were a few grumblers, but they soon came round to the idea when I told 'em they didn't _have_ to breathe if they didn't wanna."

"I can imagine." Fletcher gave a nervous laugh. "Well, at the entrance to the main cave, there are several piles of items." He gestured toward the cave, and waited until everyone had taken a good look. "I know you've all brought things with you, but I'd like for you all to take a couple of each item. We don't know how long we'll be down there for, and our own supplies might run out."

"What's there?" a grizzled, grey-haired Orzammar dwarf, Reijyr, called out.

"There's soap, wash cloths, socks in several different sizes, emergency dried rations--"

" _Soap_? Wash cloths?" Reijyr scoffed. "You're seriously telling grown men that they need to _bathe_?"

"Yes, we are," Anders answered calmly. "Cleanliness is very important. You'll be getting no daylight and the air down there will be stale and moist. If you don't stay clean, you'll get some pretty nasty skin complaints."

"This is ridiculous," Reijyr complained. "Maybe you humans don't know how to wash, but I was keeping myself clean before you were born, Sonny Jim."

"Let 'em speak, Reijyr," Torbal argued. "You'll get your coin soon enough, you grasping old bastard." The dwarven workers burst out laughing, and Fletcher and Anders shifted uneasily while they waited for the hullabaloo to die down.

"Go on, Andreas," Torbal directed.

Anders nodded at the dwarf gratefully, not bothering to correct him. "As I was saying, it's very important that we _all_ keep ourselves clean. Pay particular attention to your hair, beards, armpits, genitals and feet. I don't want anyone coming to me or Hawke with festering sores because they didn't wash properly. Apart from being very unpleasant and painful, they don't heal well and could become infected. Hawke and I don't have unlimited reserves of magic or potions. Anyone acquiring a serious infection will _not_ be permitted to continue, and will therefore hold up the expedition."

"That's right, you'll hold up the expedition," Varric echoed, "and I know how _stabby_ you Orzammar folk get when you're kept away from your riches." After some heckling and a few laughs, Varric went on, "So, the lesson to learn from this is stay clean, or you'll annoy everyone. You annoy our human mage friends, here, and they'll cluck, shake their heads, and if they're _really_ pissed, they might even frown a little. You annoy the _dwarves,_ on the other hand, and a festering sore will be the least of your worries."

A laugh rippled around the group, and Fletcher once again waited for quiet. "Anders and I are both healers. I know that some of you don't trust, or like, magic, but a lot of ailments can be treated without it. If _any_ of you injure yourselves or feel unwell I want you to come to one of us, no matter how minor you think the problem is. It's better that you swallow your pride and come to us with a cut on your finger than for you to have it amputated later on."

"That'll be you _humans_ , then, going to a healer with cuts on your fingers," another Orzammar dwarf, Thirin, spat with a pointed look at the extra five workers Fletcher had recruited from among the refugees in Darktown.

"I don't know where you get your ideas about humans from, Dwarf, but none of us have had it easy," Thom, one of the refugees, retorted. "We're not as fragile as you think. Just keep that handsome nose of yours in your own business."

"And what about the knife-ear?" Reijyr joined in. "He looks like he'd fall over in a strong breeze. I give him two nights down there before he cracks."

A clamour erupted, and Fletcher removed his staff and struck the ground at his feet with it. A violent rumble travelled along the ground, and the group quickly shut up.

"We are _not_ going to have any of this dwarves-versus-humans-and-elves nonsense!" Fletcher barked, angered by the slight on Fenris. "We're all here for one purpose, and it would be nice if we could do it without us all wanting to kill each other! If any of you think you can't do that, I suggest you leave while you still can, because I assure you that I will _not_ tolerate racism on this expedition from anyone."

"It was _your_ idea to put humans, dwarves and elves together, Mage," Bartrand added unwisely. "It's inevitable there will be trouble. How do you plan to deal with it, exactly?"

"You don't want to know the answer to that, Bartrand," Fletcher seethed, pointing his staff at the dwarf. " _Don't_ try me. I can only be pushed so far." He turned back to the group, his face red, and gripped his staff tightly to hide his trembling hands. "Does anyone else have anything stupid to say? Let's get it out of the way now."

A few members of the group mumbled, and some shuffling of feet was heard, but no one had anything further to add.

"Good," Fletcher snapped. Feeling a hand on the small of his back, he took a deep breath and glanced at Fenris, who had moved next to him. "Good," he repeated in a softer voice, and pointed to the entrance of the cave. "Among the pile of items are several large chunks of chalk. I want you all to take some and stow it in your packs, and for you to eat a one-inch piece of it once a day."

"You want us to _eat_ chalk?" one of the humans exclaimed, but none of the dwarves looked surprised.

"It'll help keep your bones strong," explained Fletcher. "It's no substitute for sunlight, but it's something. Actually, it doesn't taste as bad as you'd imagine. I wouldn't recommend eating it long term, but it won't hurt for a short time."

"Dwarves have been eating it for centuries," Torbal declared, "and it hasn't done any of _us_ no harm. Well, besides stunting our growth and making us cranky as hell. Oh, and giving us our distinctive pretty looks. But I'm nit-picking, here." He and several other dwarves laughed at the nervous expressions on the human workers' faces.

"He _is_ joking," Fletcher assured the humans once the laughter had subsided. "I think. Anyway, I know that many of you have spent time underground before, but there are just as many of you that haven't, myself included. Most of you have families, children or friends on the surface or in Orzammar. Dwarf, elf or human, none of us are immune to feeling lonely or homesick."

"What are you talking about, Hawke?" one of the surface dwarves interjected. "I'm going on this expedition to get _away_ from the sodding missus!"

This time everyone, even Bartrand, laughed. "Well, for those of us who are _not_ trying to escape our wives," Fletcher said, "I just want to say that Anders, Sebastian--who is an Andrastian--and I are always around if you want to talk about anything, in the strictest of confidence. And in case you're not comfortable talking to a human, or a mage, Varric here is also at your disposal."

Varric grinned and bowed, and some groans and laughs were heard, but a few words of thanks were also given.

"For those of you who don't know, I'm a Grey Warden," Anders announced. More groans were heard, but they were quickly silenced by others in the group. "I know Bartrand has a route planned out, but if I sense darkspawn in our vicinity, we may have to deviate from that route. I don't want to engage them unless we have no other choice."

" _Deviate_?" Bartrand barked. "Nobody said anything about deviating!"

"I would think it would be obvious to any intelligent person," Anders retorted defiantly. "Clearly, some of us don't fit in that category."

Bartrand stomped up to Hawke and folded his arms. "Isn't this why you brought a warden along? To deal with the darkspawn? A chicken-shit warden who avoids darkspawn isn't much use to us, is he?"

Ignoring Bartrand, Anders turned back to the group. "I'm _here_ to sense the darkspawn and to formulate strategies if we do have to engage them. If you want to blindly follow Bartrand against my advice and become tainted, be my guest. I'll tell you now, though, that magic doesn't cure the Blight disease, which is a slow, agonising death, and I don't have the ingredients with which to perform the Joining. I know you all want the gold Bartrand's promised you as quickly as possible, but you can't spend it if you're dead."

A hush fell over the group before one of the human refugees, Dudley, piped up, "I'll do whatever you say, Anders. I had to flee Ferelden with my family because of the Blight, but it's thanks to you lot I still _have_ a family. My village would have been overrun if it wasn't for them wardens. You're all heroes to me, and should be treated with respect." Some members of the group echoed his sentiments, and Fletcher grinned at Anders, who smiled back. Bartrand, however, looked far from pleased.

"One more thing," Fletcher said. "We're all going to be spending a lot of time together and privacy may be difficult. When we're in camp, of course everyone is free to wander around, but _please_ tell someone where you're going, and don't go too far. And, although lighting has been set up in the main tunnels, we'll still be exploring some dark places. I'd like to ask everyone to pair up with someone, and to stay close to your partner at all times when not in camp. We'll be doing regular head counts. If you become separated from the group, stay put and we'll come back for you. If you wander off, it'll be that much harder to find you."

"And that advice is doubly important if darkspawn are around," added Anders.

"Do I need to hold my partner's dick when he takes a piss?" Bartrand demanded.

"You can barely hold your own, Brother, let alone anyone else's!" countered Varric to braying laughter among the group. Fletcher, feeling increasingly uncomfortable talking to a large number of people he barely knew, pressed on while he still had the courage to do so.

"Speaking of bodily functions, we'll do what the Grey Wardens do when it comes to solid waste," he said with a nod at Anders, who addressed the group.

"A private area will be designated each time we make camp. Do your business there and please be considerate by using the knife provided to break it up. I know it's not pleasant, but it'll save Hawke having to do the whole lot when he burns it at the end of the day. Hot water will be available for washing. The washing part is _not_ optional. We haven't provided wiping rags, by the way, and if you've brought your own you'll need to discard them on the faeces pile." 

"Now that delightful topic's out of the way," Hawke said, "if you'll all bear with me for one more minute, I'm going to do a head count." He pointed at each man as he counted them. When he'd finished, he frowned and muttered something under his breath before counting again. "Fifteen dwarves, one elf, eleven humans. That's not right." His frown deepened and he clasped his chin. "Anders, count the group for me. My numbers are off," he said quietly.

"How many should there be?"

"Twenty-six. I counted twenty-seven."

Anders mumbled to himself as he also counted the group. "Including us lot, Bartrand and Torbal, I make it twenty-seven."

Fletcher walked up to Bartrand. "Have you employed an extra person?"

"I've employed lots of people," he grunted unhelpfully. "What difference does it make anyhow? So long as the numbers match what we have now, what's the problem? You've done enough talking, Mage. Wrap it up and let's get started. You were the one haranguing _me_ for being behind."

Shaking his head, Fletcher walked back to Anders and addressed the group. "We seem to have an odd number, so some of you will have to make up a threesome."

Fletcher rubbed his forehead as the group leered and whooped, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

"Back here, Hawke!" a human worker announced, indicating that three of them had formed a trio.

"Thank you. Oh, just one more thing--"

"You already said that!" Bartrand growled. "Get a sodding move on before we all die of old age!"

Fletcher's stomach knotted as some of the group appeared to agree with Bartrand, and he tried to console himself with the fact that not all of them had, but he couldn't help feeling a little intimidated. "Anders and my friend Fenris, here, sometimes suffer from sleep disturbances. Should this happen, _do not_ wake them, but call me, even if I'm asleep."

"What kind of sleep disturbances?" Bartrand demanded. "Are we gonna be woken up in the middle of the night because these two streaks of piss are missing their mommies?"

"You don't need to know why," Fletcher answered crisply, struggling to rein in his irritation. "Just do as I've asked." He faced the group again. "I won't keep you any longer. Thanks for listening. Sebastian would like to say something very quickly."

Sebastian stepped forward and politely bowed to the increasingly-impatient group. "Good morning to you all. I will be performing a blessing for our forthcoming journey. Should any of you wish to participate, you will be very welcome. I will be just over here." He gestured to his side.

The group broke apart, and a few mutters of "stupid idea bringing humans and elves along," and "what business do humans have going into the Deep Roads?" or similar were heard from some of the dwarves.

"Tough crowd," Fletcher murmured disconsolately as he watched the majority of the dwarves head for the cave with Bartrand, while Torbal hung around by himself, not wanting to receive a Chantry blessing, but wanting to follow Bartrand even less.

"Hey, you did great, Hawke," Varric reassured him. "The humans are with you and, considering you still have a head, I'd say the dwarves think you're okay, too. Dwarves don't buy you flowers or hug you if they respect you. They leave you be. Don't sweat it." Seeing that only six of the humans had joined Sebastian, Varric joined him along with Anders, while Fenris waited for Fletcher.

As Fletcher moved to the elf's side, he was almost knocked off his feet by a hefty slap to his back. He warily turned around to face Reijyr, the dwarf that had barracked him earlier.

"Didn't expect a _human_ to think of the chalk," the dwarf said gruffly before nodding and walking off.

Fenris moved to Fletcher's side and watched Reijyr depart. "Perhaps you will yet emerge from the Deep Roads with your head intact?" he quipped, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

"Maybe." Fletcher shrugged, allowing himself a sliver of hope as they walked over to Sebastian to receive their blessing. "Um, Fenris?" he asked nervously, feeling uncertain of himself after talking to the group.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering. Um, would you-would _you_ like to be my partner? I know you're already my _confidant_ and I don't want to put upon you. There's always Varric, Sebastian or Anders. Well, maybe not Anders. Um, it doesn't even have to be any of them. You can partner whomever you like, of course you can. I was just suggesting."

Fenris, sensing that Fletcher's nerves were frazzled, waited patiently for a break in the mage's blathering. "Have you finished yet?" he asked kindly when Fletcher stopped to take a breath.

Fletcher halted abruptly, his mouth hanging open, mid-blather.

"Ah, you _have_ finished," decided Fenris, his expression hidden by his hair as he looked straight ahead. "Asking me is unnecessary. I assumed we would be partners. Providing _you_ have no objections, of course?"

"Objections?" Fletcher spluttered through a laugh. "You let me say all of that, and all along you--"

"It _was_ rather droll," the elf quietly interrupted.

"What? Watching me twist in the wind?" This time Fenris didn't answer, and, with a glance to his side, Fletcher could see the elf's shoulders trembling. "For that, you can partner _Anders,"_.

"I will gladly partner Anders, if _you_ partner Bartrand," was the elf's composed reply.

They joined Sebastian and waited for the Chantry brother to prepare himself for the blessing. "It would seem we're stuck with each other, then," Fletcher whispered.

"It would seem."

As Sebastian began to speak, a warm, fond smile passed between the two of them and, for the time being, Fletcher's worries eased.


	50. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't tell me what's good for our house, little brother. You've been hanging out with those humans for too long, and you've lost sight of what's important."
> 
> "No, Brother," Varric answered, "I've _discovered_ what's important. I hope you and your gold will be very happy together when you're an old man, because that's all you'll have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank-you to Mary for her beta and brainstorming services! I appreciate you more than you know.

After Sebastian had bestowed a blessing upon the small group he, along with Fletcher and the others, went through to the main underground chamber, where the preliminary forays into the Deep Roads would begin.

When they arrived, Bartrand was busy issuing orders to the dwarves. The workers set off down various tunnels, all carrying equipment that appeared too heavy for them to bear, but they made no complaints. Fletcher and his little group set their belongings down and Fletcher approached the expedition leader.

"What do you want us to do, Bartrand?" he offered.

"Don't worry your pretty head over it, Snowflake," Bartrand muttered, turning away from his workers for a moment. Fletcher sighed and rolled his eyes. "This is no kind of work for a human."

"Hawke's a strong lad," Varric defended, "and the rest of these guys are no slouches, either. Put 'em to work, Bartrand. I know you, and I won't have you refusing to split the money because the humans didn't do any of the dirty work."

The brothers scowled at each other for a minute, and Fletcher was surprised by the stubborn set of Varric's jaw. After a while, Bartrand seemed to relent. "All right. We'll be setting up camp here tonight, so you," he said, pointing to the human workers, "get tidying up and setting up bedrolls and stuff. They're all over there in the corner. Elf, you stand there and look pretty if you like."

"Hey!" Fletcher growled when Fenris made no attempt to defend himself. "Don't you _dare_ talk down to any of us, Bartrand! I know _you_ wouldn't know pretty if it smacked you in the face, but--"

"Can he cook?" Bartrand asked Varric.

"I _can_ speak for myself, you know!" Fletcher retorted angrily. "And yes, I can cook, but I don't see--"

"That's _your_ job, then," Bartrand ordered, walking over to a stack of small wooden cages containing live nugs. "One of the humans that buggered off was meant to be our cook. The only dwarf here that knows how to cook is Thirin. He used to work in a tavern but I need him in the tunnels."

"What? And you didn't think to say anything until now?" replied Fletcher incredulously. "What if _none_ of us knew how to cook?"

Bartrand gave an indifferent shrug and opened one of the cages, grabbing a wriggling nug by the throat. "You know how to prepare these?"

"Well, no, obviously."

Bartrand groaned and shook his head. "Thirin!" he yelled at the top of his voice, causing Fletcher and some of the others to jump. "Get your ass over here!"

A mean-looking, dirty-blond dwarf with a plaited beard dropped his tools and stomped over to them. "What?"

Bartrand shoved the nug into his hands and started to walk away, with Varric following close behind. "Show 'im how to make nug," he commanded. "The _real_ workers'll expect food when they get back."

"Show a _human_ how to make nug?" Thirin questioned, but Bartrand ignored him. Thirin eyed Fletcher's group with disgust and shook his head. "Get a spit set up," he ordered gruffly.

"And how do we do that, serah?" Sebastian queried politely.

"Do I have to do everything?" barked the dwarf.

"I know how to build a spit," Anders announced. "I've done my share of camping out. Somebody give me a hand." He moved to a pile of rubble and began to sort out suitable materials. Sebastian followed him to assist.

"Here," Thirin said, passing the nug to Fletcher and taking another out of the cage. "Six of 'em should be enough."

"Um, what do you want me to do with this?" Fletcher asked with wide eyes.

"Kill it, unless you like your food extra rare."

"B--but I've never--" Fletcher stammered faintly.

A sickening squeal was heard as Thirin twisted the head of the nug he was holding, breaking its neck. He then threw the unfortunate animal to the ground and removed another nug from the cage. "Well?" he growled.

Fletcher looked into the creature's eyes and it blinked at him before nuzzling its snout into his armpit. "I--I don't think I can," he protested weakly.

"Ancestors' tits! You'll _eat_ it though, won't you?" Thirin yelled as he broke the neck of the other nug he was holding. "Sodding humans! Gimme that!" He snatched Fletcher's nug and quickly killed it, tossing it to the ground.

"Look, I could put them to sleep before you do that," Fletcher offered, breaking into a sweat as his stomach roiled. "It's a shame."

"I'd rather eat my own crap than eat anything that had _magic_ used on it," the dwarf snarled, and he quickly dispatched the remaining nugs amid horrendous squealing. "Any of you know how to butcher meat? Or do I have to do that as well?" he demanded.

"Yes," Fletcher answered quietly, looking down at the nugs, some of which were still twitching.

"So do I," Sheldon, one of the human workers, called out.

"Get on with it, then," Thirin ordered Sheldon. "I'll tell _you_ how to make the sauce," he said to Fletcher, pointing to another stack of crates atop a small wagon. "Onions, butter, flour, plums, tomatoes, nug blood, vinegar, sugar. Those small sacks at the front of the cart contain herb mix, ready-made."

"Wait, nug blood? Tomatoes?"

"Nug blood's an essential part of the sauce," Thirin informed him. "If you're too squeamish to eat it, then make you and the other humans some sauce without it. Just don't try passing off that crap to the dwarves, or you won't like where they shove it. The nug blood comes from the _nugs_ , by the way, not the _sacks_." Thirin jabbed the side of his head with his finger, indicating that Fletcher should think for himself.

"Fair enough," Fletcher answered, hoping to placate the belligerent dwarf. "But tomatoes? Aren't they poisonous? They're part of the nightshade family."

"One of your medical books tell you that, did they?" scoffed the dwarf as he walked up to the cart and ripped open a sack of small, round red fruits. He took one and bit into it, its juices running out of his mouth onto his beard. "One of the finest discoveries I made since coming to the surface," he confided in Fletcher, passing him a tomato, which Fletcher eyed warily. "We used to get 'em brought in to Orzammar, but they ain't the same. Too cold in the Frostbacks, see. Ever tried one?"

"No. I've always been led to believe they were poisonous. I use belladonna and mandrake in some of my crafting and they all come from the same family."

"You eat potatoes, don't you?" Thirin asked. "Which family d'you think _they_ come from?"

"Well, you've got me there," admitted Fletcher, glancing at the tomato. "Really? You _eat_ these?"

"Go on, take a bite," challenged the dwarf as he polished off his own tomato.

Fletcher gulped. He'd been warned ever since he was a child not to eat tomatoes, and that he could expect choking and violent stomach cramps at the very least if he did. Was that a fallacy, or were dwarves immune to the poison? He glanced at Anders, who was building the spit with Sebastian, and consoled himself that he had an excellent healer on hand should his throat close up. He then looked at Fenris, who was helping the humans to tidy up, and decided he'd better be quick before the elf noticed what he was doing and stepped in.

Taking a deep breath, he raised the shiny fruit to his mouth, ignoring Thirin's rumbling laugh. He squeezed his eyes closed and bit into the soft flesh, doing his best to ignore the slimy, gelatinous texture as he swallowed his mouthful.

"Hey, you didn't spit the seeds out," Thirin observed approvingly.

"Was I supposed to?" asked Fletcher in a panic.

"No! It's just that most people do when they first try 'em. You gonna eat the rest of it?"

Fletcher sniffed the tomato and felt a fragrant, slightly acidic taste linger in his mouth. He took a second bite, this time cautiously chewing it. "That's actually not too bad," he commented in surprise.

"Thirin! Aren't you done, yet?" bawled Bartrand from the far end of the chamber.

"Keep your sodding hair on!" Thirin shouted back. "You got that, then?" he said to Hawke. "Make a sauce out of that lot."

"But what quantities do I use?"

"Twenty-seven people... let's say half a sack of tomatoes, a quarter sack of onions, a plum apiece--take the stones out first--a couple mugs of herb mix, vinegar and sugar, and a fist of butter and enough flour to thicken it. As much blood as you can get out of the nugs. Make the sauce nice and thick, or you'll get it thrown back at you."

Fletcher repeated the instructions under his breath, committing them to memory. "But how do I--"

"I gotta go. You'll figure it out." Thirin walked off, leaving Fletcher scratching his head.

"Hey, Fenris," he called, beckoning the elf to him. "Fancy giving me a hand with chopping some vegetables?"

"If you wish," said Fenris, dusting his hands off. Fletcher led him to the cart and together they gathered the required ingredients and found some utensils and a large pot.

"Well, at least they brought these," said Fletcher as they sat on the ground. "Guess what? _I_ just impressed one of the dwarves," he boasted, puffing his chest out.

"Good for you," replied Fenris, examining one of the tomatoes. "What is this?"

"A tomato. Have you never seen one before? They're a dwarven delicacy. That's how I impressed Thirin, by eating one."

Fenris sniffed the fruit and placed it on a block of wood on the ground, where he began chopping. "The dwarf is easily pleased, it would seem."

"He is," Fletcher agreed with a smile. "I just have the rest of them to win over. What do you think my chances are?"

"Slim," replied Fenris. "But if anyone can do it, you can. You're a very charming man."

Fletcher snorted quietly, feeling heat in his cheeks. "I don't think dwarves can be won over by _charm_. Shouting, bravery or reckless stupidity seems to impress them more than anything."

"Well, you have at least one of those qualities in abundance," the elf remarked dryly.

"Would you care to expand on that, _Partner_?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say," answered Fenris with a small smile.

"I see. And how would you like to take onion duty?"

"I cannot do that. Elves are allergic to onions."

Fletcher laid down his knife and folded his arms. "Well, that's funny. I distinctly remember Merrill eating onion soup at the Hanged Man a while back. She _loves_ onion soup."

Fletcher looked askance at the elf as he wriggled slightly. "I meant... in their raw form," Fenris amended shiftily.

"She had _raw_ onion on a salad."

"Well, she _is_ Dalish," Fenris answered immediately, his hand stilled on his knife. "They are more attuned to nature, from what I hear."

"Oh, I see your logic," Fletcher answered seriously. "They're more attuned to nature, therefore they're more attuned to onions?"

"Something like that," Fenris mumbled, betrayed by a quiet snigger that escaped his mouth.

"Nice try, Elf." Fletcher plonked half a dozen onions in front of Fenris. "Now get chopping. You're becoming really sneaky lately, you know that?"

"And where do you suppose I learned _that_ from?" asked Fenris cheekily.

"Hm. You have a point there," mused Fletcher as Fenris passed three onions back to him.

"You are jointly responsible for my newfound sneakiness, so get chopping yourself," teased Fenris, smiling.

Fletcher returned his smile, and they set about their monotonous task. "Fenris? May I ask you something?" he enquired after a lull.

"Of course."

Fletcher set his knife down again and sighed. "Why didn't you defend yourself when Bartrand insulted you?"

" _Did_ he insult me?" asked the elf, also laying his knife down. "His words meant nothing to me. I was not offended."

"Well, I think he did insult you, and _I_ was offended. I don't get it. If he'd said something similar to me, you would have been all over him."

"That is different," said Fenris quietly.

"How?"

Fenris shifted his weight onto his side and faced Fletcher. "His words did not injure me. I will not make a spectacle of myself over the likes of him."

"Or is it that you think you don't deserve to be defended?" ventured Fletcher. "Is that it what it is? Because you've defended me quite ferociously in the past, and yet when he said that to you, you just hung your head. I didn't like it," he said with anger in his voice. He glanced at Fenris, who was watching him apprehensively. "I didn't mean... I'm not angry with _you_. But I've seen it before. Anders has said a few things to you in the past, and Uncle Gamlen was quite rude to you on one particular occasion. I thought so, anyway."

"I was a guest in your uncle's house, and it would not have been appropriate to talk back to him. Besides, it's my belief that he was concerned for you. He was quite right to question me. He knew nothing of me."

Fletcher sighed again. "I know, and appreciate, that you're very well-mannered. That's one of the reasons Mother likes you so much. But there's a difference between being respectful and being _submissive._ I hate seeing you just accepting it when someone insults you. What about that dwarf, Reijyr? He called you a knife ear. That's about the most insulting thing anyone can say to an elf. How can you accept that?"

Fenris was silent for a while as he considered Fletcher's words. "When I resided in Minrathous, it was required that I said nothing unless spoken to. And then, when I escaped, I lived among the Fog Warriors for a time." He paused, lowering his eyes, and Fletcher placed his hand on the elf's arm.

"Fenris, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have--"

"No, it's fine. Who else can I talk to about this but my confidante?" He forced a smile for Fletcher's sake, but Fletcher, cursing himself for making Fenris re-live painful memories, couldn't return it.

"When I... parted company with the Fog Warriors, I was a fugitive. I became accustomed to not drawing attention to myself. It is a hard habit to break. And I have endured far greater hardships than mere name-calling."

"I know." Fletcher removed his hand from Fenris's arm and stared ahead. "I didn't mean to... I _care_ about you. When I see you react like that, or _not_ react, it makes me so angry. It makes me think that that's how you used to be, all of the time. I--I can't bear it."

"I would not see you distraught," Fenris said softly, "but I cannot change the way I react--or don't react--to things. It is the way I am. I could not change that any more than you could change being the emotional, passionate man that you are."

Hearing the word _passionate_ from Fenris caused Fletcher's stomach to clench, and he inched closer to him. "I wouldn't change you for anything. It's just sometimes I get a glimpse into what your life used to be like, how you used to feel about yourself, and... it kills me, Fen. You're so much better than that."

Fenris smiled kindly at him, took up his knife, and began to peel an onion. "Do not be troubled on my account. It is true, there was a time when I had no dreams, no aspirations. There was simply no point. But that time is no more. The life I have now is more than I could ever have hoped for or imagined. I... have you to thank for that."

"No." Fletcher placed his hand over Fenris's, halting the elf's movements. "You made all the choices. _You_ created this life for yourself. Take some credit for what you've achieved."

"I do," Fenris answered quietly, his eyes moving to Fletcher's. "But without someone to share this life with, it is meaningless. I know how much you care for me. I have wasted so much time."

Fletcher's mouth slowly opened and his breath rushed out, his heart beating wildly. "Do you mean maybe we could try again?" He saw Fenris's eyes move behind him, and the elf cleared his throat.

"First nug's on the spit," Sheldon declared proudly and then, realising he'd interrupted something, he backed away. "Hey, sorry."

"Thanks, mate," Fletcher said with a faint sigh, biting back his frustration as he released Fenris's hand. "I suppose we'd better get this sauce done. What was I saying about no privacy?"

As Sheldon beat a hasty retreat, Fletcher continued to chop tomatoes, and Fenris returned to onion duty. "We will finish this conversation later," the elf promised without looking up.

"Yes, we will," Fletcher avowed, also concentrating on his task, but he knew the other man was smiling, as was he.

~o~O~o~

"Bartrand! Hold up a minute!" Varric grabbed his brother by the arm, stopping him.

"What is it? We've got _real_ work to do here. Are you gonna help out, or are you too busy holding the humans' hands?"

"Just put a sock in it, Brother, and _listen_ ," said Varric tetchily. "You need to lay off Hawke and the other humans. You're expected to be a leader. A real leader wouldn't piss off half of his workers before the damned expedition has begun!"

"I got work to do!" barked Bartrand. "I don't have time for the humans and their delicate sensibilities! You know as well as I do that they wouldn't get half the work of dwarves done. I _can't_ employ them in the tunnels. They'd hold the whole thing up!"

"I _know_ that, Brother, but just cut down on the rancorous bastard act! Okay, it's not an act, but you know some of this Orzammar crowd would cut your balls off for want of a sovereign, don't you? You may find yourself in need of allies before this expedition's through."

"I didn't arrange this expedition to make friends, Varric. I arranged it to make coin, and lots of it. I don't need these people to like me, I just need 'em to do what I say and to make me rich, so spare me the lovey-dovey crap. Now sod off if you've got nothing else to say."

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Bartrand," Varric retorted. "And I _do_ have something else to say. If you know what's good for you, don't insult Hawke or the elf again. Neither of 'em needs protecting by me, but if you're not careful, you'll push them too far." He stood toe-to-toe with his brother and stared him down. "And I won't have you disgracing our house by dying from a sword or a staff up your ass, because that's what you're headed for."

"Don't tell me what's good for our house, _little_ brother. You've been hanging around with those humans for too long, and you've lost sight of what's important."

"No, Brother," Varric answered. "I've _discovered_ what's important. I hope you and your gold will be very happy together when you're an old man, because that's all you'll have."

"Yeah, I hope so. Now piss off." Bartrand turned on his heel and charged up one of the tunnels leading off the chamber, leaving Varric staring after him, shaking his head. Turning away, Varric felt a slight vibration beneath his feet and wondered for a second if someone had annoyed Hawke again. Instead of subsiding, however, as Hawke's spell had, the vibration became a rumbling. At the far end of the chamber, the humans stopped what they were doing and Hawke and Fenris leapt to their feet.

"What's that, Varric?" Anders called to the dwarf, who gave an exaggerated shrug and turned back in the direction of the tunnel, just in time to see a huge cloud of dust coming from it as a thunderous _boom_ shook the tunnel, reverberating through the entire chamber.

"Bartrand?" Varric cried, running to the tunnel. "Bartrand!"

"Varric! He's trapped!" shouted one of the dwarven workers from the tunnel, which was blocked by a pile of rubble and numerous small boulders.

"Brother! Can you hear me?" Varric called out, coughing as dust filled his mouth.

"We're here, Varric," Bartrand answered from the other side of the rubble, though his voice was barely audible. "Two of 'em got caught. I don't think they're gonna make it!"

"Fuck!" muttered Varric, and he ran to the mouth of the tunnel. "Hawke! Blondie!" he yelled, although the mages were already running to him, along with Fenris and the rest of the humans.

Fletcher and Anders arrived first and, once apprised of the situation, Fletcher wasted no time. "Form a line, two deep," he ordered everyone. "Humans and the taller dwarves at the front. Start from the top of the pile and pass the boulders down the line. Fenris, you're at the rear, there'll be a lot of casting going on. Quickly!"

He, Anders, Sebastian and the tallest humans made up the front of the line. Working together, they made a hole in the top of the pile of rocks. "How bad, Bartrand?" Fletcher shouted.

"We've got some injuries, here, but two of the men are _under_ the rocks," the dwarf told him quickly. "It's Vonim and Reijyr. I can see one of their legs sticking out, damn it!"

"What about the men with you? Are they all right?"

"They got the wind knocked out of 'em, and I think we got a couple of broken bones. But Vonim and Reijyr... hurry it up!" he barked, panic in his voice.

"Right, double quick!" Fletcher commanded the men on his side of the collapse. The able men on Bartrand's side assisted, pushing against the heavier boulders to loosen them. After what seemed an age, Anders and Fletcher were finally able to climb over the rocks to tend to the injured men on the other side, leaving the rest of the workers to clear the remaining boulders.

As they completed their healing, the two trapped workers were pulled out of the rubble. "Somebody fetch us some lyrium potions!" Anders yelled. From the rear of the line, Fenris nodded and ran to the far side of the chamber to find Fletcher's supplies.

"I think we can save Vonim," Anders spluttered through the heavy cloud of dust, making a quick determination of the dwarves' conditions, "but I don't think there's much hope for Reijyr."

"Can you manage, Anders? We _have_ to try," Fletcher urged, leaning over Reijyr.

"Yes, I'll let you know if I need any help. Everyone stand back! I need to restart his heart."

A blinding flash and an arc of lighting lit up the tunnel, followed by another, as Anders attempted to shock Vonim's heart into beating. "Got him!" Anders called out. "Where's that lyrium? How's Reijyr?"

"His throat's crushed," Fletcher answered, his voice shrill with panic. "It's collapsing faster than I can heal it! Come on! Come on, Reijyr! Stay with me!"

"Lyrium!" one of the humans called out, and four bottles were passed up the line to Hawke, who in turn passed two to Anders. Anders drank one of them and started to mend Vonim's broken bones. "Drink, Hawke! How's he doing?"

Fletcher downed one of the lyrium potions and wiped dust and sweat from his brow. "His skull and windpipe are crushed, multiple fractures, can't make him breathe, I don't know what to deal with first!"

"Is he bleeding?"

"No, not that I can see!"

"Breathing first," Anders directed. "Just concentrate on that. I know you're doing your best, Hawke. Keep going! I'll be with you soon!"

Fletcher suspected it was hopeless, but he appreciated Anders's confidence and direction, and he continued relentlessly plugging away at the catastrophically-injured Reijyr.

A gasp was heard from Anders's location, and Anders called for water as Vonim came to. "What the hell?" shouted the confused dwarf. "Get your sodding hands off of me, Mage!"

"Lie the fuck down!" growled one of the other dwarves. "He just saved your life. You'd better do what he says."

"Anders! I need some help!" Fletcher called, his voice shaking with the strain of casting.

"Keep an eye on Vonim and give him a few sips of water," Anders directed one of the dwarves, shoving a borrowed waterskin into his hand. The dwarf immediately knelt down next to Vonim and did as Anders ordered.

Arriving next to Fletcher and Reijyr, Anders conducted his own examination of the stricken dwarf while Fletcher continued casting.

"Hawke, I don't think we can do anything for him," Anders said softly. You need to stop."

"No! I just saw his eye flicker!"

"It's just a reflex. You know that."

"We can't just give up on him! Are you going to help or not?"

"All right, Hawke, he's your patient." Anders rolled up his sleeves and continued to work, knowing it was hopeless.

"His heart's stopped," Fletcher told him breathlessly. "Can you shock him?"

"All right, then," Anders agreed, his tone soothing, knowing that the less-experienced healer was panicking. As the cloud of dust began to clear, those further down the line could see the outline of the two mages bent over Reijyr, and they shielded their eyes as Anders sent electricity into the dwarf's moribund heart.

"You want to stop, Hawke?" Anders asked when his spell proved unsuccessful.

Fletcher continued casting, his brow creasing with concentration as sweat trickled down his temples. "No, there must be something more we can do!"

Anders placed a hand on Fletcher's arm and sighed. "Hawke, you've done a great job of healing his fractures. But the man's dead. There's nothing more we can do for him. Come on, I think you know that."

"But..." Fletcher paused, his posture sagging as he finally admitted to himself that the dwarf was gone.

"It's time to stop," said Anders. "You've done your best. Sadly, sometimes it's not enough."

"Shit," Fletcher whispered, and he slumped against the wall, exhausted. "Shit!"

Anders moved next to Fletcher and sat against the wall beside him as Sebastian, who was standing nearby, said a few words for the fallen dwarf.

"Andraste, guide this man's friends in the coming days. Though they are stout of heart and body, lend them your strength." He stopped short of commending Reijyr to the Maker, knowing that the dwarves had their own way of honouring their dead. None of the dwarves reacted to his words which, to Sebastian, was a good thing.

"Here, Hawke, drink this," Anders offered, passing him the remaining lyrium potion.

"No, I don't want it." Fletcher swatted Anders's hand away, his eyes fixed on the expedition leader.

"How did this happen, Bartrand?" he accused, his voice quaking with frustration and anger. "This is one of the very tunnels you and your men were supposed to shore up! Would you care to explain how it collapsed?"

"What?" Torbal, and a few other dwarves stepped forward. "You told us this tunnel was safe, Bartrand!" spat Torbal, while the other dwarves crossed their arms, their demeanours hostile.

"This mage thinks I'm some kind of sodding miracle worker!" Bartrand defended as the small gang of dwarves moved closer to him. "You expected us to get two days' work done in one night! Well, no, we _didn't_ have time! Did you expect us to work through the night and all of the next day?"

"No! I expected you to manage your men and work in shifts! I offered to help you that day, _and_ when we first arrived in here earlier, and you told us to sod off!" Fletcher blustered, spittle flying from his mouth, as his depleted mana and the loss of his patient snapped his nerves. "And, if the tunnel wasn't finished, you never should have brought any men up here in the first place! Did this man have any family?" he demanded, pointing at Reijyr. When no one answered, his face reddened and he tried to push himself up, but was stopped by Anders. "Don't any of you _know?_ What is this, a dwarven thing? What's wrong with you all?"

"He's got no mana," Anders explained.

"No, don't defend me, Anders! It's clear to me that gold and riches mean more to these men than their bloody lives! What the hell is wrong with you all?" he repeated. "Are you all mad?"

Mindful of the effort Fletcher had made to save their friend, a few able-bodied dwarves ignored his slur and stepped forward to pick up Reijyr's body. "Everyone out of this tunnel, now!" Torbal commanded with a black look at Bartrand. "You as well, humans." The sturdy dwarf assisted Anders in helping the weakened Fletcher to his feet, and eventually, the tunnel was cleared of personnel.

Fenris, who had heard the exchange from outside the tunnel, waited until Anders and Torbal had propped Fletcher against a wall before they went back to check on the injured men. "See if you can get him to drink this," Anders told Fenris, passing him a lyrium potion.

Fenris quietly walked up to Fletcher, who had been given some space by everyone on Anders's orders. Fenris sat upon the floor a few feet away from him, not knowing whether his company would be welcome or not, but he would offer it anyway. Knowing the kind of man Fletcher was, he suspected the mage would blame himself for the dwarf's death, and wanted to offer his counsel should Fletcher need it, even though Fenris didn't know what he could possibly say. And if Fletcher wanted to be silent, that was also fine, as Fenris himself felt a need to be next to him.

Although aware of Fenris's presence, Fletcher didn't speak to him for a while, and the elf waited patiently.

"Well, so much for not alienating the dwarves," Fletcher eventually mumbled.

"I don't think you did."

"I more or less called them a load of greedy bastards while one of their men lay dead at my feet."

"A dead man you tried to save," consoled the elf. "A dwarf would be the first to speak up were they to take offence at something."

"I suppose that's true," mumbled Fletcher with a half-hearted shrug.

"You fought valiantly to save his life. You should not censure yourself for an occurrence that was out of your control."

"He approved of the chalk," Fletcher said quietly, as if that explained his overwrought emotions.

"Yes, he did. Remember, were it not for your efforts in preparing for the expedition, many more would have perished. Perhaps not now, but at a later time. You should be proud of yourself. _I_ am proud of you."

Fletcher turned his head and looked dully at Fenris, who smiled encouragingly and passed Fletcher the lyrium potion. "Drink this. Regain your strength. Do not punish yourself."

Fletcher sighed and uncorked the bottle, staring at the luminescent blue liquid within. "It's just hard, you know? I have all of these so-called powers and I still couldn't save him." With another sigh, he drank the potion and placed the bottle on the ground.

"You are but a man, Fletcher." Fenris rose and placed a hand on the mage's shoulder. "I will continue preparing the vegetables. I will even take full onion duty," he joked as Fletcher forced a grim smile. "Life must go on," Fenris added quietly, and turned away.

"I'll... just give me a few minutes. I'll be with you soon," said Fletcher, and Fenris turned back and nodded. "You--you called me Fletcher."

"I did." Fenris held his gaze for a moment before he walked away. Fletcher joined him shortly after.

~o~O~o~

With the vegetables chopped and the plums stoned, the ingredients were put into a huge pot over a fire. Fletcher had no idea how the sauce should be prepared, so he just threw the lot in and hoped for the best. While he and Fenris took turns to stir the sauce, Sebastian walked up to them.

"The dwarves are going to inter Reijyr here," he informed them. "They found a small cavity at the end of one of the tunnels large enough to receive him. I thought I'd let you know in case you wanted to pay your respects."

"Oh, yes, of course." Fletcher and Fenris rose, and Fletcher doused the fire with some water.

Led by Sebastian, they made their way down one of the safe tunnels where they found a crowd gathered around the small hollow where Reijyr's body had already been covered with stones, brought from adjoining chambers and tunnels. The dwarves had wasted no time, and two of the dwarven stonemasons had hewed rough cuboid blocks out of rocks with their axes, while another prepared a mixture of stucco from lime and sand--brought through from one of the carts--and water.

Slowly and carefully, the opening of the cavity was bricked up by the stonemasons amid respectful silence. To his complete shock, Fletcher, who had battled to save Reijyr's life, was invited to lay the last brick. He didn't feel worthy of such an honour but didn't want to cause offence by refusing. When the small tomb was finally sealed up, Thirin, the next oldest dwarf after Reijyr, stood before it and folded his hands over his belly.

"Embrace the Stone, Brother. You enrich It by returning home."

Thirin walked away, followed by the rest of the dwarves. The humans, unsure of what they should do, also followed. "What happens now?" Fletcher asked Varric.

"Well, if it's anything like my granddaddy's funeral, everyone has an almighty booze-up to honour the fallen."

To Fletcher's dismay, the booze-up turned into a full-blown party with singing, drinking contests and wrestling challenges. After having a quiet drink to Reijyr, he stepped out.

Fenris, who had watched Fletcher leave, allowed him some time alone before going after him. He found him sitting in a recess off the main chamber, next to the egress from the Deep Roads. Fletcher pushed himself to his feet as the elf entered, a book under his arm.

"I know, I know, I'm breaking my own rule by not telling my partner where I was. I was just planning on having a ten-minute sulk. I was going to come back out in a bit."

"Are you all right?" asked Fenris.

Fletcher shrugged. "Yeah. I know I'm being rude."

"No one has said that. They are all too busy _honouring_ their comrade, and doing so with great relish, it has to be said," the elf remarked with a small smile.

"What have you got there? Fancy a reading lesson?" Fletcher asked with a glance at Fenris's book.

Fenris took the book from under his arm and looked at it. "Not exactly. I know you feel... disquieted by the dwarf's death. I cannot claim to know how you feel, nor do I have the words. I thought that perhaps this would serve as a distraction." He passed the book to Fletcher, who turned it over and read the cover.

"Medicine in the Dark Ages?" he asked, an excited gleam in his eyes.

"Your sister said you would enjoy something like that. If it is not suitable..."

"No! No... it's just the kind of thing I like! You--you bought this for me?"

"I originally purchased it as a naming day gift, but I thought perhaps you might appreciate receiving it now." Fenris took a deep breath and stepped closer, placing his hand on the book. "Bethany also said I should write something inside. I did, with a little assistance from her, of course."

His smile threatening to split his face, Fletcher opened the front cover. There, in the top-left corner, Fenris had written in his very best handwriting, _From Fenris._

A lump came to Fletcher's throat and he closed the book, swallowing hard. "This--this is wonderful. Thank you."

"You are certain?"

"I'm certain." Fletcher closed the gap between the two of them, only the book separating them. "And _you're_ wonderful, Fen." Fletcher bent slightly and placed a soft kiss on the elf's cheek.

As he drew back, Fenris kept his hands on the book and gently removed it from Fletcher's grasp. The mage, slightly confused, watched as Fenris carefully placed it on the ground before straightening up.

"I have attempted to convince myself that you are a bad person," Fenris quietly confessed. "That you are immoral, corrupt, weak. I have tried so hard to distance myself from you, but when I do I feel an ache that can only be assuaged when I am in your company. You have passed every ridiculous test I have set you. You have shown, time and time again, that there is nothing but goodness in you, and what happened earlier is only the latest example."

Fenris moved closer to the stunned Fletcher and dipped his head momentarily before looking up to meet Fletcher's eyes. "I can stay away from you no longer. I do not _want_ to stay away from you. I have missed you. Will you still have me?"

"W--will I still...? Are you _crazy_?" Fletcher laughed as Fenris smiled shyly and placed his hands on the mage's arms.

"That sounds encouraging." Fenris also laughed and, before he knew it, he was pulled into Fletcher's arms, his words stolen away by a deep, tender kiss.

Joy rose up inside of Fletcher as Fenris's arms wrapped around his back and he felt the elf lean into him. He was a blood mage. Fenris, who had more reason to distrust and shun blood mages than anyone, _knew_ that.

Fenris _accepted_ him. Maybe he even loved him.

As they broke the kiss, both of them laughing softly, Fenris was once again pulled against Fletcher as the mage enveloped him in a hug.

"I've missed you, too, Fen," he whispered against the elf's ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Through most of the Middle Ages it was widely believed in Britain and America that tomatoes were poisonous. A barber-surgeon named John Gerard published a popular book in 1597 that echoed this belief, despite having conducted no research and having no evidence to back up his claim. It wasn't until the early 19th century that Britain and America joined the rest of the world and started to eat, and grow, tomatoes.


	51. Discord & Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His name was Oghren. The first day I met him he told me he was a fighter, a farter and a fucker. He wasn't lying. Except for the fucking bit. I can't say I was witness to that, which is a blessing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say a very sincere thank-you to two very special friends of mine, Carrie and Mary, for helping me through a rough time recently. You both already know how I feel about you, but I just wanted to say it again.
> 
> And another thank-you to Mary for your (two) super-fast betas!

When Fletcher and Fenris emerged from their hiding place, the drunken celebration of Reijyr's life was in full swing. A curious mood settled over Fletcher as they joined the others: he was elated that he and Fenris were, at least for now, together again, but part of him also felt deflated. He'd never attended a dwarven funeral before and watched in astonishment as the dwarves sang, laughed and bantered while they remembered their fallen friend. Something he found particularly distasteful was that Bartrand, who Fletcher felt was ultimately responsible for Reijyr's death, was drinking harder and singing louder than almost anyone else.

All the human funerals Fletcher had ever attended had been sombre, mournful affairs and it was strange for him to see such merriment. It did make him wonder if the dwarves had the right idea, but he found he was unable to share the dwarves' mirth. Understanding this, Fenris found a relatively quiet corner for them to sit in while they watched the proceedings.

Fletcher also suspected that one kiss would not immediately solve everything between him and Fenris, but for the time being, he let it replay in his mind, not knowing when the next would be forthcoming.

Sensing that Fletcher was distracted, Fenris tapped the book he'd gifted Fletcher with and smiled at the mage. "Will you read to me?" he asked. "I would be interested to hear what holds such fascination for you within this book."

"Oh, really? You'd be interested in this?" Fletcher asked, surprised, and the elf nodded. Fletcher sat up and opened the book. "Um, okay then. Do you remember when I was treating your foot and I told you that, in my grandparents' day, the standard treatment would have been for your foot to be cut off?"

"I do," Fenris replied, chuckling quietly at the memory.

"Well, this book is full of things like that--old-fashioned 'remedies' that most of the time did more harm than good. Many of them were practised by charlatans who preyed on the gullible and the desperate, and most of them charged a small fortune for their services. I'm amazed that some of them got away with it for so long."

"It sounds fascinating. Please proceed," said the elf, pleased at Fletcher's enthusiasm.

Grinning, Fletcher flicked through several pages before his eyes lit up. "Ah! I was hoping this would be in here. Wait 'til you hear this, you'll probably think I'm making it up. Only a couple of ages ago, it was believed that headaches were caused by evil spirits that resided in a person's head. There were few options available, most of which were herbal remedies that were meant to poison the spirit. Looking at some of the ingredients, I'm amazed they didn't poison the patient instead. When, unsurprisingly, the herbal remedies didn't work, there was only one treatment left." Fletcher paused and laughed, shaking his head. "A hole was drilled into the patient's skull, thereby providing a means of escape for the 'spirit'."

"What?" Fenris leaned closer and frowned at the book. "You're having me on."

"I'm not! Look." Fletcher pointed at some of the illustrations, showing a human skull with several small holes on the crown. Fenris gawked at the picture and looked at Fletcher in disbelief.

"Seems rather a final cure for a headache," opined the elf. "I would imagine the patient would no longer be in a position to complain of discomfort, as they would be quite dead."

Fletcher shook his head and pointed at the illustration again. "Believe it or not, some survived the procedure, which was known as trepanning. This drawing is of a skull that was found with eleven holes in it. This person underwent the procedure eleven times before they died. It doesn't say whether or not the eleventh time actually killed them."

Fenris couldn't help but laugh derisively at this. "Let me guess. After the first procedure, the patient complained of even _more_ intense headaches, presumably because they had a hole in their head, and the physician recommended they undergo the procedure again?"

"Precisely," Fletcher agreed.

"But what if the patient did not survive the first, or subsequent procedures?" asked the elf. "How would the physician explain that?"

"Easy," Fletcher answered. "Don't forget the 'evil spirit'. If a patient died, the physician would declare that the spirit in question was a _particularly_ evil one that had overpowered the patient. If the patient survived and, as you guessed, continued to suffer from headaches..."

"Then another spirit had taken residence?" Fenris guessed.

"You're getting the hang of this." Fletcher chuckled, leafing through the book. "You'd make a fine quack doctor with a mind like that. Ah, here's another one, a cure for toothache. It was believed that toothache was caused by worms that lived inside the tooth, and the only way to lure them out was to hold a burning candle next to the mouth, where they would fall into a waiting glass of water, and drown."

"But would the patient not see these 'worms' when they left the mouth?" Fenris queried.

Fletcher rolled his eyes, feigning impatience. "No, of _course_ not! The worms were _invisible_."

Fenris dipped his head reverentially. "But of course. I am naught but a naif in the face of your learned dictum."

"Thank you," replied Fletcher, dipping his head in return. "And I _totally_ know what you're going on about. Honestly, I do."

They laughed together, and Fletcher felt his spirits lift when Fenris asked for another story.

"Let's see... back in the Steel Age, every disease or affliction one could name was attributed to an imbalance of the _humours_ of the body."

"Humours?"

"Blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile," Fletcher explained as Fenris wrinkled his nose. "Anything, from arthritis to insanity, could be explained by an excess or dearth of the four humours. For example, epileptic fits were supposedly caused by an excess of phlegm, which blocked the airways. The body would struggle to rid itself of the phlegm, hence the convulsions. There was a problem with this, however. The physicians of the day argued over what constituted a humour. Some believed that the four humours were blood, sweat, urine and vomit. Other insisted they were blood, urine, faeces and tears. All agreed that blood was a humour, though, and so the treatment of choice was bloodletting."

"And did that involve leeches, by any chance?" asked Fenris.

"Those who could afford it were bled by leeches, yes. Anyone lower than minor nobility had to make do with a knife. Nobody realised the importance of sterilisation in those days, so, if they were lucky, they'd get a new or at least a clean knife. Peasants probably had to settle for a rusty or dirty blade. As you can imagine, many of the poor sods contracted nasty infections, which were treated by...?" He looked at the elf expectantly.

" _More_ bloodletting?"

"That's right. The infection and resulting fever were blamed on an overheating of the blood, and so more of it had to be removed from the body. If the patient's money had run out, they'd be chucked in an icy lake to cool down the blood."

"I cannot imagine many of the patients survived these 'procedures'," Fenris noted with a shake of his head.

"I know. I'm amazed that anyone lived long enough to actually write this," replied Fletcher, closing the book. "I'll read you some more, later, if you like. Looks like the food's nearly ready," he said with a glance across at Sheldon and Thirin, who had taken over the cooking in Fletcher's absence.

Sure enough, Thirin loudly announced that the meal of nug and sauce was ready. The workers brought their plates and a line quickly formed next to the spit. Varric, Torbal, Sebastian and Anders, who had been playing cards, joined the queue, standing next to their partners: Anders had teamed up with Varric, and Torbal with Sebastian. After bringing their own plates, Fenris and Fletcher stood at the end of the queue.

"That book's one of the best presents I've ever had," Fletcher whispered to the elf, discreetly holding his hand. "Thank you." Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, he placed a quick kiss on the elf's temple. Fenris fidgeted a little, also glancing around, but could not hide his smile, or the blush in his cheeks.

"Whaddya call _this_?" the jarring voice of Bartrand bellowed from the head of the line.

"Nug sauce, human style," Thirin answered with a rasping laugh.

"What, full of fucking lumps?" barked Bartrand.

Irritated, Fletcher stepped out of line and shouted, "It's full of lumps because you didn't give Thirin enough time to show me how to make it. Now get a move on. We're all hungry back here."

"Yeah, hurry it up, Bartrand!" Torbal piped up. "And I happen to _like_ it lumpy."

"So do I," growled Rasel, one of the dwarves injured in the collapse, though he seemed to say it mainly for the sake of disagreeing with Bartrand.

"Me too," Vonim, the dwarf Anders had saved, shouted up the line. "So pull your finger out of your ass, _Expedition_ _Leader_. I wanna have another drink to my _partner_ , the one who _died_ because of you!"

"If you lazy sods hadn't gotten drunk and fallen asleep, that tunnel would have been safe!" Bartrand bit back, pointing an accusing finger, and several humans jumped out of line as the _shink_ of unsheathed weapons was heard.

"You fell asleep as well, you bastard!" Vonim accused and charged forward, twirling his glinting battle-axe in his hands.

With speed that belied his advancing years, Thirin leapt in between Bartrand and Vonim, brandishing his daggers. "Sauce is gettin' cold," he snarled. "Knock it off!"

"Outta my way, Thirin!" shouted Vonim as Torbal also inserted himself between the protagonists. "That nug-fucker insulted my house by insinuating that I'm a feckless drunkard!"

"We're _all_ feckless drunkards!" Torbal exclaimed with a laugh.

"I don't need you two defending me," Bartrand grunted, unsheathing his own axe.

" _Defending_ you?" Thirin scoffed. "I couldn't give a crap what he does to you. But I came here to earn coin, and at the moment, you're the best one to lead us to it. What he does to you when we get _out_ of here is his own damn business."

"I gotta have order," barked Bartrand, pushing past Thirin and Torbal. "Make way while I teach this upstart a lesson. Varric, Vonim just dishonoured House Tethras. Come and stand at your brother's side."

"Get outta here," drawled Varric, helping himself to some roast nug. "He didn't dishonour _anyone's_ house. Now, I'm sure ol' Reijyr and the Paragons have had a good laugh at us all. Like Thirin said, the sauce is getting cold, and lumpier by the minute."

Several of the other dwarves started to become agitated as their bellies rumbled, while the humans looked on, bewildered. "This ain't over, Bartrand!" threatened Vonim, reluctantly stepping back into line.

"Here!" Thirin shoved a plate of nug into Bartrand's hands. "Take this and sod off. Looks like your brother's not gonna help you today."

"Figures," growled Bartrand with a filthy look at Varric before he snatched the plate and stalked away, muttering to himself.

"Well, this expedition isn't going to be dangerous at _all_ , is it?" Anders remarked aridly, while Fletcher sighed.

Once everyone had filled their plates, most sat around in small groups, while a few--mostly the Orzammar dwarves and Bartrand--sat alone. Fenris and Fletcher joined Varric, Sebastian, Anders and Torbal. Fletcher carefully watched for reactions when the dwarves sampled his nug sauce.

A few grimaces were observed but, to Fletcher's relief, no one threw the sauce back at him, or shoved it anywhere unpleasant, as Thirin had warned might happen.

"Hey, Human! Good job with the sauce!" shouted Gaar, one of the surface dwarves. "Lotsa nice chewy clots in it, just like my momma used to make!"

"Yeah, they make it too sodding smooth nowadays," said his partner, Durdat.

"Clots?" exclaimed Aston, one of the human workers, eyeing his spoonful in horror. "As in blood clots? There's _blood_ in this?"

"It's actually quite nice," Fletcher commented, smacking his lips as sauce dribbled down his chin. "Just leave the clots on the side if you don't like them."

"I thought they were bloody raisins or something!" Anders spluttered, spitting out his mouthful.

"Hey, Blondie, don't let your clots go to waste!" Varric joked, holding out his plate. "Send 'em over here!"

"You may have mine as well, Varric," offered Sebastian, before Torbal thrust his plate under the archer's chin.

"Hands off, Tethras! Partners, remember?" teased the dwarf.

"My humble apologies, _Partner_ ," Sebastian said with a laugh, and spooned the dark red lumps onto Torbal's plate, before clearing his throat and pushing himself to his feet. "Um, if I might have everyone's attention?" Sebastian called out in a clear voice, and the expedition workers glanced up. "Now that we're all a little more relaxed, I thought I'd take the opportunity to introduce myself. My name is Sebastian Vael, and I hail from the principality of Starkhaven." He bowed to the group.

"The _Chantry_ boy, huh?" snorted Rasel, and some jeers rose up, but Sebastian was undaunted.

"That is correct, Ser Dwarf," he replied with a smile. "Our beliefs may differ, but I am certain we can all coexist peacefully, and I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you all." He bowed again and sat down, amid a few jibes.

"That was very brave of you," Fletcher whispered, his eyes moving to Fenris as the elf stood up in support of his friend.

"I am Fenris. As you can see, I am an elf, but do not let your perceptions of _other_ elves you may have encountered fool you." Mocking laughter sounded around the group, mainly from the dwarves, but Fenris waited, his expression unchanged, until near-quiet descended. "I carry a sword and be in no doubt that I know how to use it. I also have... _other_ abilities," he added enigmatically and, for a split second, his markings flickered. Noticing that most of the workers' mouths had gaped open, and that the laughter had subsided, he continued. "Treat my friends with respect, and you will never discover what those abilities are. Treat them with scorn, however, and I will be pleased to educate you. Enjoy your food." He bowed and sat upon the ground, where Fletcher and Varric's sniggers rose above the absolute silence that followed Fenris's introduction.

"Retaliation is not always necessary," Fenris said to Fletcher, who grinned widely at him.

Torbal shuffled closer to the elf and extended his hand. "Glad to know you, _Fenris_ ," he said, pronouncing the elf's name correctly. "I can assure you that _I_ will treat you and your friends with _nothing_ but respect," he joked as Fenris clasped his hand. The corpulent dwarf then puffed as he pushed himself to his feet.

"The name's Torbal, of House Barakar," he announced, slightly out of breath.

"Yeah, we all know who _you_ are, fat ass!" shouted Thirin.

"Shut the hell up," Torbal retorted with a grin. "It takes a lot of effort to haul a carcass like mine up, so you're gonna bloody well listen. Any interruptions, and I start from the top. I'm here all night."

Torbal proceeded to tell the group most of his life story and, following Sebastian's example, many others did the same. Bartrand didn't stand up, nor did some of the dwarves, but all of the humans did except one, who Fletcher had been told was mute and kept to himself, but was a good worker nonetheless. After making their introductions, some of the humans drifted over to Fletcher's group and dined with them. Fletcher and Anders knew a few of them, as they'd previously resided in Darktown. By the time the meal was finished, the mood among the entire group was more relaxed and jovial.

That didn't last for long, however. After a few more drinks were had for Reijyr, the plates and mugs were cleared away and washed up by Fletcher and a few of the other humans--who were quite happy to do domestic chores provided they were paid their fair share--and work on the collapsed tunnel was re-started. This time, though, some of the dwarves questioned Bartrand, and a few others openly defied his orders. It wasn't until Thirin, the oldest dwarf who seemed to command respect from most of his brothers, stepped in, that the dwarves settled down and resumed work. Thirin then berated Bartrand for losing the respect of his workers and a blazing row followed, which was eventually broken up by Varric.

"You told me _you_ knew a dwarf once, Anders," Fletcher said to his fellow mage as they placed wards at the entry points of the chamber in readiness for the night ahead. "What was he like?"

"Just like this lot," Anders replied with a shrug. "His name was Oghren. The first day I met him, he told me he was a fighter, a farter and a fucker. He wasn't lying. Except for the fucking bit. I can't say I was witness to that, which is a blessing. He did manage to produce a son, though... somehow," he added with an exaggerated shudder.

"Any tips for getting along with dwarves?" asked Fletcher, noticing that Anders seemed a little distracted.

"They're a pretty resilient bunch. You can call them every name under the sun, but whatever you do, don't insult their ancestors, the Paragons, and _Maker_ , don't badmouth their family or their house. Funny thing with dwarves. They'll take all kinds of insults from other races, but _between_ dwarves, the most innocuous comment can be taken as a slight against their house. As you saw earlier, that never goes down well." Anders turned towards Fletcher, but focused on the wall. "Dwarves aren't a bad bunch, though. They're not pretty, and they don't smell too sweet, but once you befriend one, they'll fight your corner to the bitter end. One can't have too many dwarven friends, I say. They're all right."

Fletcher nodded, and they completed their casting. "How are you feeling about being down here, Anders?" he asked as they took a slow walk back to the main group.

"I'm fine at the moment because we're not very far in. I can't sense any darkspawn, so everything's peachy. Once I do, though--and I _will_ at some point--well, I did warn you. There may be some nightmares. Thanks for warning them about that, by the way."

"I said this to Fenris and I'll say the same to you. If anyone has any smart comments to make, then I'll put them straight. I'm sure most of the dwarves are aware that Grey Wardens have nightmares, anyway."

Anders frowned slightly and then gave Fletcher a peculiar look. "Right, thanks," he mumbled before moving away from Fletcher.

" _Now_ what's the matter?" Fletcher demanded, his irritation at Anders's erratic responses clear in his voice.

Anders halted. "What do you mean?"

Fletcher caught up and stood in front of him. "This is getting tiresome, Anders. You've been off with me for a while, now. Earlier, when we were in the tunnel, I felt like we were working together, you know? I really appreciated the support you gave me and how you kept your head. But now, you're like a different person. Why are you being so distant? What have I done?"

Anders's breath caught and Fletcher glimpsed a fleeting sadness in his eyes. "Nothing. You--you haven't done anything wrong. I'm sorry. Just... take no notice of me."

As Anders turned away, Fletcher touched his arm, aware that Fenris was watching them from a short distance away. "Tell me what's wrong, please. I feel like I've done something to upset you. If it's not that, what is it?"

"I'm just being stupid," Anders answered lightly, but Fletcher shook his head, not fooled at all. Anders sighed and tightened his ponytail, looking at the ground. "I've been behaving like an idiot," he admitted. "It's not your fault, I just worry about you. I'm going to back off a bit, give you some space. I can see that things between you and Fenris are getting better. You're a grown man and you have your own mind. You don't need me telling you that you're making a mistake." Seeing Fletcher's frown, he held his hand up. "It's none of my business. I just want you to know that I'll always be here for you if you need me."

Fletcher groaned in exasperation, both annoyed and saddened. "I _know_ you are, Anders. I just wish you could be happy for me. Things _are_ going well between Fenris and me, and it would be nice to know that we're not going to be kicking each other's arses over it."

"Like I said, Hawke, I'm not saying anything else," Anders replied with a shrug.

"You still managed to mention the fact I was _making a mistake_ while you were busy telling me you're not going _say anything else_ , though, didn't you?" accused Fletcher.

The look of sadness came into Anders's eyes again, temporarily rendering Fletcher speechless, as he was at a complete loss. "You're right, Hawke. I don't want us to fight. I'm going to check the wards."

"They don't _need_ checking! We've only just set them!"

"I just like to make sure," Anders mumbled, his shoulders slumping as he walked to the nearest tunnel entrance.

Fletcher watched him for a moment and then shook his head, turning away. "I give up," he muttered under his breath before walking across to join Fenris.

"Everything all right?" asked the elf, looking up from Fletcher's farmyard animal book, his eyes flitting over to Anders for a second.

Fletcher sat heavily on the ground and started to rifle through his pack. "Fine. How are you getting on with your book?"

When Fenris didn't answer immediately, Fletcher glanced up to see that Fenris was now staring at Anders, who was standing at the far end of the chamber, alone. "Is he talking to himself?" Fenris asked, not trusting his own eyes.

Fletcher sighed softly and returned his attention to his pack, removing several small phials, bottles and wrapped items. "Mm. I think he's talking to Justice. He does that, sometimes. You didn't answer my question. How's the book?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Well, see for yourself," Fenris said, inching a little closer. As Fletcher looked through the book, his smile grew wider and wider with every page. Fenris had copied the names of each animal in a spidery hand, using a small stick of charcoal. "I hope you do not mind me writing in the book," the elf said, slightly nervously. "I wanted to surprise you."

"Mind?" Fletcher's eyes moved to Fenris's, and the delighted look on the mage's face set Fenris's mind at ease. "This is just... I'm so proud of you, Fen. What did I tell you? I knew you'd find this easy. You've taken to it like a duck to water."

Fenris returned Fletcher's smile, his expression a combination of embarrassment and pride. Both men's stomachs tightened as their eyes lingered on the other but, aware that they were surrounded by many others, they settled for discreetly holding hands.

"Ducks quack, by the way," Fletcher informed him.

"Forget it!" Fenris laughed, snatching his hand away. "For the last time, I am _not_ going to cluck, quack or say 'cock-a-doodle-doo' for your entertainment! I am not a bloody jester!"

"One day you will," mumbled Fletcher.

"I will _not_."

Fletcher nodded silently, and Fenris's smile changed to a mock-scowl. Fletcher sniggered and removed the last few items from his pack.

"What have you there?" Fenris enquired.

"Oh, just something I'm working on, something new. I've been meaning to work on it for a while, now, but I haven't had time. I _have_ done a lot of research on it, though, and I think I might be onto something."

Intrigued, Fenris craned his neck for a better look at the array of ingredients. "What is it? A potion? A weapon coating?"

"More a lotion than a potion, really," said Fletcher. "I have the base already made." He passed Fenris a small jar and invited him to inspect the contents. Fenris opened it and smeared a little of the ointment onto his hand, massaging it in and nodding his approval. "I just need to work on the active ingredients," Fletcher finished.

"What will it be used for?"

"It's a secret."

Pretending to ignore the fact Fenris had moved even closer, Fletcher busied himself with his creation, and had to quell his laughter, knowing very well that Fenris would eventually wrest the information out of him.

"You can tell _me_ , can't you?" Fenris coaxed in a sultry whisper that made Fletcher's insides quiver. "I _am_ your confidant, after all, not to mention, your partner."

"Don't think you can beguile _me_ , Elf, with your sexy voice," teased Fletcher, and Fenris snorted as laughter rushed out of him.

"Just an intimation?" asked the elf.

Fletcher firmly shook his head and began to crush a small, orange, precious stone in his pestle and mortar.

"What is that?"

"Secret."

Fenris huffed and pushed to his feet. "Keep your secrets, then, Mage," he joked. "I am going to train." He picked up his sword and moved a few feet away from Fletcher, where he began some basic defensive stances. Fletcher did his best to concentrate on his work, but after a while, he was unable to take his eyes off the fluid, graceful movements of the elf as he switched from stance to stance with consummate ease.

"Stop that," Fletcher remonstrated. "You're putting me off."

"That is hardly _my_ fault," said the elf, raising his sword above his head and holding it, with one hand, in a perfect horizontal line, his other arm held out to his side for balance. "Most mages, in my experience, pride themselves on their powers of concentration."

"Yes, but _most mages_ don't have a scandalously handsome elf contorting and stretching his body in front of them while swishing a massive sword through the air! I'm only a man, Fenris, just like you said."

This time, Fenris's concentration broke as he bent slightly at the waist, his slender body shaking with quiet laughter, and he lowered his sword. "Tell me your secret, then, and I will desist."

Fletcher gave a dramatic sigh, and considered asking Fenris to continue with his training, but didn't want to appear too lecherous. "Oh, all right, then."

Fenris immediately ceased his movements and placed his sword on the ground. He then went and sat next to Fletcher, where he watched the mage with a triumphant smile.

"I'll tell you, but don't get your hopes up. I don't even know if this will work." Seeing that he had the elf's full attention, he went on. "I'm going to try to make something that will help you when Anders and I are casting."

"Help me? How?" asked Fenris, fascinated.

"Anders and I can make all kinds of creams, ointments and so on. Some of them are barrier creams, which protect the skin from moisture, for example, or heat or cold. You know what I mean, you used to make your own ointment for your foot." Fenris nodded, his brow wrinkling a little. "Well, I want to make a barrier cream that will repel magic, or at least its effects."

"Is that even _possible_?" Fenris asked.

"I don't know, but I'm going to try," Fletcher replied. "On paper, it should be easy, but it's a very complicated formula, with dozens of ingredients. And the more ingredients, the more chance of one of those ingredients reacting badly with another. It won't be made overnight, I can tell you. It could take months, even years, but if it _is_ possible, I'll get it eventually."

"You could make an absolute fortune," Fenris exclaimed in a whisper. "You could write a paper, become famous."

Fletcher looked confused for a moment. "But I'm not making it for anyone else. I'm making it for _you_. If it happens to benefit anyone else, then they can have the recipe."

Fenris lowered his head, warmth spreading through his belly. "I should have expected that answer," he murmured, raising his head, a gentle smile lighting up his face.

Fletcher briefly smiled back at him, but then turned his attention back to his task, because Fenris's smile had a very distracting effect on him, and Fletcher's desire to grab Fenris's face and devour his mouth would have to be delayed. He glanced up at the other workers as they pottered about and sighed inwardly, wondering if he and Fenris would _ever_ have any privacy.

"I'm working on something else as well, which should hopefully be easier than the Mystical Magic Repelling Cream." He grinned, producing a small pot of pale blue balm. "This is a variation on a cooling balm, which is used to soothe burns," he explained. "I'm working on a version that's resistant to water. Hopefully that will be of use to you as well."

Fenris shuffled closer to Fletcher so that their legs were touching, and cocked his head, examining the pot. "In what way?"

"It would mean you could bathe in warm water. It'll get bloody cold in here the further in we go, and you can't be bathing in cold water, you'll catch your death. The only problem I have is in deciding whether to craft a water-resistant version, or one that will leave a lasting effect on your skin." Fletcher paused as a small hand snaked along his arm and up to his shoulder, coming to rest against his face, where Fenris spread his fingers and caressed Fletcher's cheek.

"You are the kindest man I have ever known," Fenris whispered softly. "I cannot find the words." He lowered his eyes and smiled broadly.

"Oh, don't thank me, Fen," Fletcher whispered back, his heart swelling at Fenris's smile. "I love a little project. Perhaps you'd care to assist me?"

The elf nodded and slowly withdrew his hand, clasping both of them in his lap. "Of course. What should I do?"

"Nothing, really, I'd just need to borrow your arm now and again to try out my concoctions. I won't use anything that would hurt you, and I'll always ask. I would never do anything without your permission. You know that, don't you?"

"I know that, Fletcher," he reassured softly, and both men looked up as yet another squabble between two of the dwarves broke out. They watched until the disagreement had been resolved. "You cannot concentrate here," said the elf, and he picked up Fletcher's pack, holding it open. "Place your ingredients in here. We will find you somewhere more peaceful."

Fletcher complied and re-filled his pack, and the two men stood up. "Where did you have in mind?" Fletcher asked.

"Where I gave you the book," Fenris decided, walking ahead. "It is large enough for you to work in, and you should not be disturbed."

"You just want to get me on my own again, don't you?" asked Fletcher from behind.

"Well, that goes without saying," was the elf's quiet reply as he continued on, leaving Fletcher slack-jawed and speechless. He giggled like a naughty child and scampered after the elf, and they reached the mouth of the small recess together.

"After you," Fletcher invited the elf.

"No. After _you_. I insist."

Fletcher slowly entered the tiny chamber, watching Fenris suspiciously. "Don't get ogling my bottom, Elf."

"Don't flatter yourself, Mage," smiled Fenris, and Fletcher laughed as he sat upon the ground, Fenris joining him. Fletcher placed his arm around Fenris's shoulders and they sat back against the wall, just looking around for a while.

"We could sleep in here, you know," Fletcher suggested casually.

"Could we?"

"Oh, I didn't mean--" Fletcher hastily removed his arm from around Fenris's shoulders. "I meant... I wasn't suggesting anything, you know."

"Weren't you?" Fenris asked without accusation.

"No, really, I just thought, well, things have been a bit rough between us lately, and it would be nice for me to be able to put my arm around you or kiss you without worrying about how many people are watching us."

Fenris took Fletcher's arm and placed it over his shoulder again. "I do not want you to think that I am ashamed of being seen with you. It's not that. I just..."

"I know. You don't like drawing attention to yourself. I understand." He kissed the elf's cheek and smiled at him.

"You are the first person in my life who _has_ understood me," said the elf quietly. "The first who has even tried. It could not have been easy for you."

"It was worth every second," whispered Fletcher, nuzzling his nose into Fenris's hair. "I love you, you know."

Fletcher saw the elf's eyes close and felt his body tighten against him as Fenris held his breath. He also felt Fenris's hand fold around his and hold onto to it for dear life, but the elf didn't speak. For several minutes, they sat in silence, and Fletcher wondered if anyone had ever told Fenris that he was loved, and how his confession would make him feel.

"Why don't you go and finish your training, I'll get cracking on my crafting, and, when we're finished, we'll bring the bedrolls up here and make ourselves cosy?" Fletcher suggested.

Fenris released his hand, nodded and slowly stood up, facing Fletcher but not quite looking at him. "Yes, I would like that. And, when we do, I would like us to... talk. About our future. If you are willing?"

"Of course, Fen." Fletcher nodded quickly, and his voice was light, but his stomach lurched as he wondered what Fenris meant by that.

The elf also nodded and moved to the entrance. "I will return later." His eyes moved to Fletcher's, and a hint of a smile appeared, before he turned and left.

Fletcher began to unpack his ingredients again, considering Fenris's words. Not so long ago, he would have worried that he'd shown his feelings too soon, but he didn't believe that was the case now. Fenris must know how he felt about him. It seemed more likely that Fenris didn't quite know how to respond, and Fletcher told himself he mustn't pressure the elf to reciprocate his feelings, particularly as Fletcher was almost certain Fenris _did_ reciprocate them _._

A little later, after saying goodnight to Varric and Co., Fletcher and Fenris took their bedrolls and blankets down to their sleeping place. Fletcher had created a small fire outside for warmth, and they made themselves comfortable. When lying down, they would both fit quite snugly into the small recess.

For now, though, they sat against the wall with their legs stretched out. After a little banter and discussion of the day's events, Fenris grew quiet and his expression turned serious.

"Do you want to talk?" Fletcher asked.

Fenris sighed and clasped his hands together in a gesture that Fletcher was starting to recognise--Fenris did it when feeling awkward or nervous. Although apprehensive of what the elf was going to say, Fletcher relaxed his own posture, wanting Fenris to feel at ease.

"I would never presume to _demand_ anything of you," the elf began uncertainly, and Fletcher nodded. "However, there is something I must ask. I... appreciate that with your status as a blood mage," he gave Fletcher an almost apologetic look, "well, you are unlike others of your kind, in that you do not embrace or take pride in that status." Fenris paused, then, and Fletcher waited for him to continue. The elf drew a deep breath and looked directly into Fletcher's eyes. "I must ask that you _never_ use blood magic again."

"Fenris, I have no intention--"

"Please forgive me, but I _must_ say this, make myself clear," the elf interrupted tautly, and Fletcher could tell by his hand-wringing that he was very nervous indeed. "I could not bear it... if I were to witness such a thing from you, it would be too much. I apologise. I know that you have already assured me of this, but this is of the utmost importance to me. I hope you understand." Fenris hung his head, bracing himself for an angry reaction. Instead, Fletcher sighed and touched Fenris's face, gently pushing his head up.

"Fen, if I needed another reason not to use it again, which I don't, then that would be it. I would never subject you to that. And now, you've made it clear to me what I stand to lose should I break my promise to you. You and I have been through too much to be together, and I am _not_ going to lose you." Fletcher brought his face closer to Fenris's and waited until the elf looked into his eyes. "Fenris, I will _never_ use blood magic again. I give you my word."

Fenris closed his eyes and exhaled, slowly nodding his head. "I'm sorry."

"Shh. You needed to ask, and you've asked. This is a partnership, Fen, which both of us will have to work at, and that means _talking_. The bad news is, although it's been a rough ride getting here, it doesn't get any easier."

Fenris glanced up, and, seeing that Fletcher was smiling, he snorted quietly and leaned against the mage, resting his hand on Fletcher's stomach. "It was worth every second," he said, echoing Fletcher's words from earlier.

"It was, wasn't it?" Fletcher pulled Fenris close and kissed the tip of his nose as he stroked his hair. "This is just the beginning for us, Fen. All of the crap is out of the way, now, and this is where we start being _happy_."

He felt Fenris slump a little, and held his breath, waiting for the elf's next question.

"Is there nothing that can be done? About your... _contract_?"

"Nothing," Fletcher answered quietly.

"Then we must make the most of every moment we have together," said the elf breathlessly, wrapping his arms around Fletcher and pressing his body against the mage's, passionately kissing Fletcher's neck.

Shocked and slightly uncomfortable at Fenris's sudden and uncharacteristic fervour, Fletcher gently pushed the elf away, stroking his arms, suspecting that Fenris was not ready for what he was offering. "We will, Fen, but let's take things slowly. We'll know when the time is right, okay?"

He felt Fenris's tight grip on him loosen, and they sat quietly for a while.

"No doubt you are right," the elf said, uncertainty in his voice. "You usually are."

"Now _that_ doesn't sound like stubborn old Fenris," Fletcher said lightly, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach.

"I am working on our partnership," Fenris replied, smiling awkwardly.

"I'm not always right," Fletcher admitted, "but when I get things right, I get things right. You're just about the best thing that's ever happened to me, Fen."

"As are you, Fletcher."

"What, _I'm_ the best thing that's ever happened to me?"

"Fletcher?"

"Yes?" He sniggered.

"Shut up and kiss me."

"All right. For the sake of working on our partnership, I'm willing to ignore your bossiness and--" Fletcher closed his eyes and surrendered himself as Fenris captured his lips, and they gently pulled apart, noses still touching. They leaned back a little, finding comfortable positions.

"Now, go to sleep. You need your rest," directed Fenris.

"Ah, I see how this _partnership_ is going to work. You tell me what to do, and I do it," Fletcher said with a smile, resting his head on the elf's shoulder.

"That's about it, yes."

Fletcher yawned and closed his eyes, nuzzling Fenris's neck. "I think I can live with that. Goodnight, love."

Fenris laughed softly and kissed the top of the mage's head. "Goodnight, Fletcher."

Fletcher stayed awake for a while after Fenris had fallen asleep, considering that when Fenris was a slave, he would have had to cater to Danarius's every whim, which would explain why the otherwise-shy elf sometimes displayed flirtatious or sexual behaviour. Fletcher wanted Fenris more than anything but, when the time came, it would be because Fenris also _wanted_ it, not because he felt it was expected of him.

"I love you, Fen. Things are going to be different for you from now on, I promise." Fletcher vowed as he pulled the blankets up around their shoulders and held Fenris tightly until he, too, fell asleep.


	52. Out in the Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why do you think the bloody screen's up?" a furious Anders shouted, his voice trembling. "I didn't want anyone coming behind it! That's what screens are for!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank-you to both Mary and Carrie for their input into this chapter, and a special thank you to Mary for beta-ing two chapters in 24 hours, and for doing her usual excellent job. I'd be lost without her!

After scouting parties had been sent down the various tunnels leading off the main chamber, it was determined that the collapsed tunnel was the most direct route to the depths, and so the expedition workers put all of their efforts into making it safe. The tunnel was wider than any of the others, which allowed easy transportation of provisions, though its mouth wasn't large enough to accommodate the carts, which had to be unloaded and left behind. After a mile or so in, the tunnel widened considerably and led to a veritable network of chambers and other tunnels.

It took ten days for the tunnel to be made safe and for all of the produce and equipment to be transported to the new site. After a few heated discussions with Bartrand, Fletcher finally convinced him to allow the non-dwarves to pitch in. Although the humans tired more easily than the hardy dwarves--which led to a lot of banter--they did their share, and by the time the group had settled in, a few new friendships had formed.

Something Fletcher was grateful for was that there hadn't been time for much infighting, even among the dwarves. A few slanging matches had been had, but there had been no slurs on houses, nor the challenges or death threats that invariably followed.

Another thing he was glad of was that the dwarves seemed to have acquired a respect for Fenris, not only because of the elf's veiled threat to the group when Sebastian was heckled, but because Fenris worked as hard and long as any dwarf, and had impressed them all with his strength, something they hadn't expected to see in an elf.

By now, it was well-known that Fletcher and Fenris were a couple. While travelling through, and camping in, the tunnel, the two of them had enjoyed little to no privacy, and did not flaunt their relationship in front of the others, but the looks and brief touches they exchanged did not go unnoticed. This also led to some needling from a few of the dwarves, but it was generally good-natured. A handful of them, though--notably the Orzammar dwarves and Bartrand--gave the couple a wide berth. The exceptions to this were Varric, of course, and Thirin and Torbal, who, having befriended Fletcher and Fenris, didn't seem to have a problem with their tastes. The humans also didn't react much, as same-sex relationships were much more common among humans and elves than among dwarves, or at least were more socially acceptable.

Anders had kept his word to Fletcher and had stayed out of his fellow mage's affairs. Anders's newfound politeness and aloofness proved rather disconcerting to Fletcher, however: it just didn't seem in Anders's nature to keep such a firm lid on his emotions. Although Anders had interacted normally within his own small group, he hadn't made any attempt to befriend any of the other workers. He'd grown his beard out, as had Sebastian, and Torbal had jokingly offered to plait their beards once they were long enough. Fletcher had remained clean-shaven for Fenris's sake, even though opportunities for a quick kiss had been few and far between, and by the time camp was set up in the new chamber, Fletcher was just about ready to throw the elf over his shoulder and run away with him.

Bathing and washing had been difficult and awkward while working in the tunnel, as well as embarrassing for some. All of the dwarves, and a few of the humans, had quite happily strolled around in the nude and washed in front of the group, while the others were slightly more reserved. Of the rest of the group, Fenris, Anders and the mute human--Sutton--would not allow _anyone_ to see them undressed and a makeshift screen was set up for them. While Fletcher, Sebastian and the rest of the humans didn't mind going topless, they covered themselves while washing their lower regions. After ten days of quick, furtive washing, most of them were desperate for a good bath. Once camp was set up, this was left for Anders and Fletcher to arrange.

Only two tubs had been brought through from the first chamber, so the mages were kept busy creating and heating water, as it was simply not practical to wait for the large amounts of water needed to boil. A time limit was imposed, and soon, most of the workers had bathed. Fenris and Sutton had insisted on bathing alone, without a neighbour in the adjoining tub, and did so behind a screen; Fenris had requested that Fletcher stand guard on the other side of the screen while he took a cold bath.

Last of all, the mages took their own baths. Creating and heating large amounts of water was a significant drain on their mana, so they treated themselves to a longer soak than the others had been allowed. Realising just how much they depended on the mages, most of the other workers didn't complain about that, although Bartrand naturally had something to say, not that they cared. Anders didn't seem to mind Fletcher seeing him naked, but he placed the screen next to his tub so that none of the others could see him.

Fenris, who'd stayed away from the spell-casting before and after taking his own bath, found a quiet spot to sit in, and took out _Hector, the Lazy Dog_ , the other book Fletcher had gifted him with. He'd been studying it in secret, hoping to surprise Fletcher by reading it to him once he'd learned it. After reading for a few minutes, his concentration was broken when he heard Fletcher's voice; the bathing mages were talking, and Fenris glanced up.

From where he was seated, he could see half of one of the bathtubs, partially obscured by the screen, as well as a soap-covered leg, which was bent at the knee. Fenris knew it must be Fletcher's; the leg in question was far too dark-haired and chunky to belong to Anders. Although the elf hadn't seen Anders naked, he _had_ seen him in just a shirt and leggings, and the possessed mage was surprisingly thin, even fragile-looking, beneath his long coat.

Fenris's eyes quickly darted around the chamber. No one else was close by, nor was anyone paying attention to what he, or the mages, were doing. His eyes wandered back to the bathtub, and his stomach knotted as Fletcher's hands moved up and down his leg, distributing the soap evenly. Fenris's eyes fell to his book and he gulped, feeling hot. He suspected that Fletcher wouldn't mind Fenris seeing him naked but, if Fletcher was not aware of his scrutiny, then it was wrong.

Still, Fenris could not help looking up again from his book.

In the tunnel, when Fletcher had walked around wearing nothing on top, Fenris had found himself watching the mage when he was certain no one else could tell. At first, he'd compared Fletcher with Danarius, the only other man Fenris had seen unclothed. The two could not have been more different: Danarius was old, lean but flabby, and his skin was mottled and covered in scars, old and new, from self-inflicted wounds. Fletcher, on the other hand, was solidly built, and looked as though he'd once been quite muscular as his shoulders were wider than his hips, and his torso tapered downwards in a vague V-shape. The only evidence of occasional overindulgence was his slightly-protruding belly, but he was not fat as he'd once claimed. His skin was pale, almost milky, and when splashed with hot water it flushed pink for a time. It was also very clear, with not a scar in sight. His arms were quite hairy, and his chest less so, but still a fine sprinkling of dark hair covered his front, a line of which ran below the waistband of his leggings.

Fletcher was so different: so pure, so good-looking, as opposed to the ugly, grubby magister. Soon, Fenris had stopped thinking of Danarius at all, and had found the image of Fletcher's body hard to eradicate from his mind. That image had tortured him at night when, sharing a blanket with Fletcher, he'd been unable to touch him because they'd been surrounded by the others. For the first time in his life he'd felt a deep, burning longing that demanded to be sated. Now that he and Fletcher were free to choose where they slept that night, that longing and frustration had only increased. He simply didn't feel he could ask for what he wanted, especially as Fletcher wanted them to wait before moving onto the physical side of their relationship.

Fenris had never, in his memory, willingly engaged in sex. In fact, during, and after the act, he'd always concentrated on something else: he'd recite one of the child slaves' nursery rhymes in his head, or Danarius's guest list for the following night's dinner. He'd done everything he could _not_ to be engaged in the act, at least not in mind or spirit; his body was not something he'd had any control over.

Now, though, _the act_ was the only thing he could think about. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

The splashing of water was heard as Fletcher pushed himself out of the tub, and Fenris's eyes once again fell to his book, though the words blurred as his focus wavered. With another furtive glance around, he slowly looked up in time to catch sight of a fully-naked Fletcher, who faced towards Fenris as he towelled himself. Fenris's heart started to hammer and heat washed over him as he tried to look away but found he couldn't. He wanted this man like he'd never wanted anything before in his life.

There was only one thing to be done. He would have to be quick. He scrambled to his feet, his pack held strategically over his middle, and slipped out of the chamber, seeking solitude.

Finding a quiet, dark place, he placed the pack down. Desperately and clumsily he unlaced the ties of his breeches, taking himself in hand, his strokes slow at first as his ears strained to detect any nearby noise or activity. Then he thought of Fletcher again, of his milky skin, his broad shoulders and meaty thighs, the dark hair that dusted his body and the thought of his weight on top of him... no longer able to contain himself, Fenris roughly grasped his cock, his pace increasing to a frantic one, and noiselessly brought himself to release. After a moment to catch his breath and steady his legs, he fumbled through his pack for a cloth, cleaned himself off and re-entered the chamber as quietly as he'd left.

Fletcher, who'd slipped on a fresh robe and was busy towelling his hair next to where Fenris had left his book, grinned as he spotted the elf, who'd seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

"Fen! There you are! Call of nature?" he asked casually, ruffling his damp hair with his hand.

Fenris mumbled something about relieving himself and sat upon the ground, feeling his cheeks flush anew as he moved the book out of sight.

"What have you got there?" asked Fletcher, though he already knew.

"It's a secret."

Laughing, Fletcher sat next to the elf and stretched his arms above his head. "Ah… revenge, eh? I really enjoyed that bath. I feel all sleepy now. How was yours?"

"Cold," answered the elf, "but I feel better for having taken it."

"Well, I'm hoping to get to work on that balm. We should have a bit more time, now that everything's been moved in here."

"Do not rush yourself. I've been taking cold baths for almost four years, now. I'm accustomed to them."

"But it's getting colder, Fen, can you feel it?" Fletcher pulled his fur jacket over his shoulders. "It'll keep getting colder as well. Most of the tunnels leading off this chamber go downwards. Here, take this." He rummaged through his pack and gave Fenris a pot of balm. "Use this before you bathe, at least until I can come up with something that will allow you to bathe in warm water. It's a warming balm and it'll put even more of a glow in those cheeks of yours." Fletcher kissed Fenris's hot cheek, and the elf smiled, his eyes darting around.

"Thank you," he said as he took the pot from Fletcher, tilting his head slightly as he admired Fletcher's freshly-washed hair, which had formed into tiny ringlets.

"Are you aware that you blush when I kiss you?" Fletcher quietly teased.

"That is impossible," refuted Fenris with a shake of his head. "Elves do _not_ blush."

"You elves don't do a fat lot, do you?"

"Apparently not." Fenris laughed and, feeling warm and relaxed, once again glanced around before planting a soft kiss on the mage's lips.

"Thank _you_ ," Fletcher whispered. "That'll keep me going for a while. And you're _definitely_ blushing now."

"I am _not_ ," claimed the elf, his burning cheeks telling otherwise.

Fletcher shuffled closer and clasped the elf's hand, looking into his eyes. "I love it when you smile like that, you know, and when your face flushes. You're so handsome. I'm a very lucky mage."

Now completely at ease in Fletcher's company, Fenris leaned back against the wall and stroked Fletcher's hand as they grinned at each other. "And I am a very lucky elf."

"Hawke! Get over here! Quick!" Torbal shouted from across the chamber.

"Bastards," muttered Fletcher, pushing himself up. "Load of sodding bastards!"

"Popularity is such a curse," Fenris commented with a chuckle.

Squinting for a better look, Fletcher could see that Torbal was standing next to Thirin, who was seated, clutching his chest.

"Shit. Stay here, Fen. I might need to cast." Fletcher jogged across to the two dwarves and crouched next to Thirin.

"Can't… breathe. No sodding air in h-here," gasped the elderly dwarf, fanning his face with his hand.

Fletcher loosened the ties at the top of Thirin's shirt as a small crowd gathered. "Would someone fetch Anders, please?" he called out, his confidence in his own abilities having taken a battering after losing Reijyr.

"I'll go," Sebastian volunteered, quickly heading to the bathtubs, where Anders was getting dressed behind the screen.

"Have you had any problems with your breathing before, Thirin?" asked Fletcher.

Thirin shook his head and gulped. "The air's so stale down here. I can't… can't take a deep breath."

Fletcher glanced up at Torbal, who nodded and took off as fast as his chubby legs would carry him.

Fletcher clasped Thirin's hand. "We're going to make you some oxygen, Thirin. Don't panic. You'll be fine. I know you're frightened, but nothing bad's going to happen to you, I promise. Just keep taking those breaths, nice and slow." Fletcher's soft voice and assurances settled Thirin a little, and he sat next to the dwarf, stroking his back while Torbal hurriedly prepared the salt mixture and Sebastian approached Anders's location.

"Get out!" Anders cried, and Sebastian leaped back, having unthinkingly stepped behind the screen.

"Anders, I'm sorry… Maker! What _is_ that?"

"Why do you think the bloody screen's up?" a furious Anders shouted, his voice trembling. "I didn't want anyone coming behind it! That's what screens are for!"

"F-forgive me, Anders," a shaken Sebastian blurted out, averting his eyes. "You're-you're needed. One of the dwarves has been taken ill."

"Just give me a minute, all right?" Anders snapped. "Where's Hawke?"

"He's there, but has asked for you. I… I will leave, now."

Sebastian slowly walked back to join Fletcher, and stared back at the screen, his face flushed scarlet.

"Templars," Fletcher said quietly. "I'm sorry, Sebastian. I should have warned you."

Sebastian's eyes widened and he squatted down next to Fletcher, his voice soft. "The Templars did _that_ to him? I find that hard to believe."

"Did what?" Varric asked from behind Fletcher.

"Shh, he's coming," warned Fletcher, and he stood up, Sebastian taking his place at Thirin's side as Anders approached.

"Anders, mate, Thirin's a bit short of breath. Torbal needs your help charging one of the oxygen generators. He's over there." Fletcher pointed at Torbal, and Anders warily eyed the small group before nodding curtly and walking away.

Despite prodding from Sebastian and Varric, Fletcher refused to elaborate further on what Sebastian had seen, as he was annoyed by Sebastian's off-hand dismissal of his words.

With Anders's help, the oxygen generator was prepared and soon, Thirin was breathing easier.

"We'd better get some more of these ready, just in case," Fletcher said to Torbal, who nodded his agreement. "We won't charge them until they're needed, though. No point in wasting the charge." He then returned to Thirin's side. "Any better?"

"Aye, Hawke, you're a good lad. Your friend, too." Thirin turned around and gave Anders a thumbs-up, and Anders nodded, solemnly returning the gesture.

"Still rather eat your own crap than have anything to do with magic?" Fletcher asked the dwarf with a grin.

"I happen to like the taste of my own crap, Human," the dwarf answered with a glint in his eye. "It tastes better than that lumpy slop you served us a while back."

"That's the closest I've ever had to a compliment from a dwarf," Fletcher replied. "I'll take it." Thirin chortled and shook Fletcher's hand. Fletcher then slapped his shoulder and walked away. "Anders," he said, jerking his head.

Anders stared balefully at Sebastian before following Fletcher to a quiet corner, where the mages sat down.

"What did he say to you?" Fenris demanded of Sebastian, having arrived next to him.

The Chantry brother didn't answer immediately, and slowly walked away to where Anders and Fletcher couldn't see him, followed by Fenris and Varric. Sebastian drew a deep breath and shook his head. "He has… a _brand_ on his chest," he whispered. "It must have been horrifically painful. I can't even imagine…"

"A brand? What kind of brand?" Fenris asked, frowning deeply.

Sebastian shook his head again and closed his eyes for a second. "The kind that would be used on an animal." He opened his eyes and looked in the direction Anders and Fletcher had gone. "Hawke claimed that the Templars were responsible, but I don't--"

"Well, _that_ explains a lot," Varric spat angrily. "Those bastards! No wonder the poor sod hates them so much!"

"You don't understand, Varric," Sebastian replied. "The Templars are a dedicated order, Maker-fearing, righteous and upstanding. They exist only to protect us from the evils of magic."

"Choirboy, sometimes your naivety astounds me," Varric answered wearily. "Just how evil do those two kids seem to you?"

"I wasn't necessarily referring to Hawke or Anders," protested Sebastian, but even as he spoke, he remembered that Hawke was a blood mage. He then thought back to how strenuously both mages had fought to save Vonim and Reijyr's lives, and he sighed, feeling conflicted.

"And as for those Templars," Varric went on, "think about it. They have complete power over the mages in their care. Power corrupts, Choirboy. Some of them are bound to go wrong."

"If a templar _was_ indeed responsible for this, I must bring it to the attention of the grand cleric." Sebastian sighed, not knowing what to think.

"I don't think that'll do any good, seems to me it happened in Ferelden," said Varric. "Blondie told me and Hawke that they locked him up for a year, in solitary, when he tried to escape. He shut up pretty damn quick when I asked him how it had been. I don't know the whole story, but I'm pretty sure Hawke does."

"A _year_ in solitary?" Sebastian exclaimed. "That would _never_ be sanctioned in Kirkwall, I'm certain of it!"

"Are you sure?" Varric asked. "You spend a lot of time in the chantry, but how often do you, or the grand cleric, visit that Gallows place? Do you really know what goes on in there? Does anyone? I'm not one to get involved or take sides, but I hear stories."

"From Anders, you mean?"

"From lots of people."

Shaking his head again, Sebastian moved to where he could see the mages. Fletcher was seated close to Anders, who had his head in his hands. Fletcher seemed to be doing most of the talking.

"No matter where it happened, if a templar did… that, he or she _must_ be brought to justice," Sebastian said quietly, turning to Varric. "On our return to the surface, I will speak to Elthina, and I will bring her to the Gallows. If abuses are being committed, we will root out the perpetrators."

Varric sighed, again struck by Sebastian's naivety, but he smiled and slapped the archer's arm. "Good luck with that. But you should speak to Blondie first, at least get a mage's perspective before you get the Chantry's."

Sebastian nodded, appearing troubled. "Perhaps when he is calmer. I will leave him be for now. Excuse me," he mumbled, going for a walk around the chamber, leaving Varric and Fenris alone.

The elf also excused himself and returned to his and Fletcher's spot, crossing his legs as he sat upon the ground. Picking up his book, he caught sight of his arms and ran a finger along one of his lyrium scars. In a way, he was branded, just as Anders was, and his scars were the very reason he'd refused to bathe with anyone else: to avoid the questions, the stares, the pitying glances.

Fletcher caught the elf's eye as he looked over at them, and Fletcher nodded at him, letting him know that everything was fine. Fenris nodded back, but his eyes were on Anders. The droop of Anders's shoulders--his eyes cast to the ground, and his hands squeezed so tightly together they had turned white--were so familiar to Fenris, and he wondered if Fletcher had been right when he'd asserted that he and Anders had more in common than they would admit. What had Anders endured? Were his claims about the Templars' brutality true? Had Fenris misjudged him as he'd once misjudged Fletcher?

Seeing that some of the workers were seeking out their sleeping places for the night, Fenris decided he'd better find a spot for him and Fletcher. Stowing his book away, he stood up and gave the mages their privacy.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher found Fenris a while later. The elf had set up their bedrolls just inside one of the smaller tunnels, after first checking with some of the dwarves that it was safe. Although dark, a faint glow from the fires in the main chamber illuminated the tunnel, providing just enough light to see by.

"How is he?" Fenris asked as Fletcher sat upon his bedroll with a sigh.

"He's talking with Sebastian and Varric. He felt bad about going off at Sebastian like that, but Sebastian approached him first."

Fenris nodded and joined Fletcher on the ground, noting that the mage appeared tired and tense. "Fletcher… what is _wrong_ with Anders?"

Fletcher grasped the back of his neck, roughly massaging himself. "He's very mixed up, that's what. He… well, some of the templars at Kinloch Hold in Ferelden gave him a hard time."

"Sebastian informed us of the mark on his chest," said Fenris.

"Ah. Well then, you can see what I mean." Fletcher winced as he tried to tackle a hard knot in his neck, and Fenris got to his knees, moving behind Fletcher.

"May I?" asked the elf, placing his hands on Fletcher's shoulders.

"Oh, that would be _wonderful_. Thank you, Fen."

Without speaking, Fenris moved his hands to the nape of Fletcher's neck and his thumbs pressed down, moving in small circles. Fletcher's head fell back and he moaned softly, a blissful smile forming on his lips as some of the tension left him. "Oh, Fen, that's just… you're so… have you done this before?" Fenris felt the mage tense beneath his hands, then, and Fletcher turned his head back a little. "Did you used to do this for… you know?"

"I did," answered the elf calmly, and he heard Fletcher take a deep breath. "But I _want_ to do this for _you_. Be at ease."

Fletcher exhaled, reached for one of the elf's hands and brought it to his mouth, kissing it, before he released it and allowed Fenris to continue. "The templars really had it in for Anders," he told the elf. "He made them look like fools, constantly escaping from the Tower. After his sixth escape, some of the templars decided they'd had enough. They couldn't make him Tranquil as he was a harrowed mage, so they locked him up and did what they wanted with him. For a whole year. Most of it was psychological, to break his spirit and such. They branded him to show he was the _property_ of the templars."

Fenris's hands stilled, and Fletcher looked back at him, his gaze intense.

"How did he escape again?" Fenris asked, not meeting his eyes.

"There was a disaster of some kind at the Tower, during which most of the other mages and templars were killed. He was lucky to get away. He's had it hard, Fen. I know I don't always understand him, but… well, maybe I should cut him some slack. Sometimes I forget what he's been through."

Fletcher faced ahead, and Fenris resumed his massage as they shared a thoughtful silence.

"This is a nice little spot you've found," said Fletcher after a while, and Fenris sensed he wanted to move on from the subject of Anders for the time being. Although Fenris was disturbed by what he'd heard about Anders, Fletcher was his priority. Fenris snaked his arms around Fletcher's neck and rested his chin on top of the mage's head.

"You have a great deal on your mind, don't you?" asked the elf. "You are always worrying over someone. I would worry over _you_ if you weren't worried about _something."_

"Well, look at us, understanding each other and everything!" Fletcher chuckled, and he clasped Fenris's hands tightly, his eyes closing as he leaned back. "Aw, Fen… you can stay there forever if you like. This is lovely."

"I would gladly oblige, but my knees are starting to ache."

"Selfish git." Fletcher tutted and, hearing a soft snigger from behind him, released Fenris's hands. The elf moved to Fletcher's side, sitting next to him but facing in the opposite direction.

"Alone at last, eh?" Fletcher grinned, reaching for Fenris's hair and twisting a lock around his finger. "You owe me ten days' worth of kisses, mister."

"I believe you used one of your quota earlier," Fenris teased, his eyes shining with mirth.

Fletcher shook his head and grabbed Fenris around the waist, pulling him close. "You can forget that. Come here." With a smile, Fletcher lowered his lips to Fenris's, and they shared a delicious, languorous kiss. A few times, Fenris went to pull away, but Fletcher wouldn't relent, nipping at the chuckling elf's mouth whichever way he turned. After a while, Fenris had to stop in order to breathe, and barely managed to draw a breath before Fletcher was upon him again. Eventually, breathless and dizzy, they pulled apart, both laughing.

"You are either trying to suffocate me, or _eat_ me," Fenris scolded him with unconvincing sternness. "I cannot decide which is worse."

"I didn't hear you complaining a minute ago, Elf," Fletcher rebuked him with a feeble-looking scowl, moving closer to Fenris, who leaned backwards, having to brace his hands behind him.

"You hardly gave me the chance, Mage."

Fletcher swivelled his hips, bringing himself alongside Fenris, and playfully pushed him onto his back, using minimal force. Fenris began to laugh as Fletcher leaned over him, nudging the elf's nose with his own. "I'm giving you the chance now, Elf," he whispered. "Would you like to make a complaint?"

"Will you listen if I do?"

"Hm? What did you say?" Fletcher very slowly brushed his lips against the elf's, and Fenris sighed, his stomach in a tight ball as a tiny shudder travelled through him. Fletcher released his lips and gazed down at him, bringing his hand up to stroke Fenris's cheek. "You know something, Fen? I don't think I've ever been as happy as I am right now."

Fenris gave him a beautiful smile, his huge green eyes heavy-lidded and serene. "Nor have I," he replied softly, a slight hitch in his voice, and he cleared his throat. "Now, you had better fulfil the rest of your quota, or I really _will_ complain."

~o~O~o~

After Fletcher had made a sizeable dent in his kissing quota, a swollen-lipped Fenris went in search of tea, while Fletcher built a small fire in the tunnel. When Fenris returned, Fletcher noticed that the elf, who had been insouciant and mellow when he'd left, had reverted to his more natural state of slight hesitancy and watchfulness, and Fletcher kept an eye on him, but didn't mention that he'd noticed the change in Fenris's demeanour.

Handing Fletcher his tea, Fenris set his own mug down, distractedly poked the fire and paced a little in the small space before picking up one of his books, not knowing which.

"Everything all right, love?" Fletcher asked lightly. "Tired?"

A disgruntled huff came from the elf, and Fletcher, keeping his smile in place, shuffled over and patted the bedroll next to him. Fenris paused for a moment before giving Fletcher a wide-eyed look and cautiously sitting down next to him, putting the book down.

"Something… has been troubling me," the elf said in a quiet, uncertain voice.

"You've hidden that well," Fletcher observed, leaning back on his hands. "You didn't seem too troubled before you went to fetch the tea." He winked at Fenris, who rolled his eyes and sighed. "Well, unless you've changed your mind about me and have decided to take up with Bartrand, I'm way too happy to let anything else bother me."

"Please, do not make light of this," Fenris said querulously. "I have done something I should not, and I have kept it from you. I am _trying_ to tell you." Fenris frowned heavily and stared ahead. Fletcher, certain that whatever it was couldn't be as grave as Fenris believed, leaned forward and touched Fenris's arm, stroking it.

"Tell me, then. Whatever it is, let's get it out in the open."

Fenris cringed at Fletcher's choice of words, feeling horrible for ruining their evening, and he groaned, looking down at his hands as he toyed with them. "When… when you… _bathed_ earlier, I… caught sight of you." He shook his head quickly, as if dismissing his own words. "No, that is not entirely true. I… _watched_ you. Deliberately."

Fenris tensed, every one of his senses heightened, waiting for a disapproving sigh, for Fletcher's hand to withdraw from his arm or, possibly worse, a half-hearted, disappointed assurance from Fletcher that he didn't mind.

"I know."

"You--you _know?"_ Fenris's head snapped to his left, where a calm, relaxed Fletcher looked back at him, nodding slowly. "But, how? You could not see me, surely?"

"That hair of yours is pretty conspicuous, even when the rest of you is hidden in the shadows," said Fletcher with a mild smile.

"Then why did you not _say_ something? Why did you not look at me, make it known that you had seen me?" demanded the elf.

Fletcher sighed. "Judging from the way you're reacting now, if I'd _looked_ at you, your head probably would have exploded. It really wasn't a problem."

Fenris stared at the mage, his mouth half-open. "It wasn't?"

Fletcher, who had a good idea why Fenris had disappeared after watching him bathe, shook his head and slipped his arm through Fenris's. "This is all new to you, isn't it?" he asked kindly.

"New? _What_ is new?"

"Having sexual feelings for someone?"

The elf's eyes moved away from Fletcher and his posture tightened. "I… I'm…"

"It's perfectly normal, you know," Fletcher reassured him.

"Normal? Surreptitiously watching another taking a bath is _normal_?"

"Why not?" Fletcher smiled, taking one of the elf's hands. "It wasn't as if you were watching me with any sinister motive in mind. We care about each other, don't we? What's wrong with you taking pleasure in looking at my body? I was actually pretty flattered, you know, not to mention… well, excited."

An incredulous laugh rushed out of the elf's mouth, which abruptly halted as Fletcher's words sunk in, and he realised what Fletcher meant by Fenris _taking pleasure_. Fletcher _knew_ and, what was more, he didn't seem to care.

"I'll be taking another bath in the morning, you know," Fletcher confided, warmth in his voice.

"W--what? Why would you tell me that?" spluttered the elf, his mouth forming an almost-perfect circle.

"Well," Fletcher slipped his arm out of Fenris's and put it around the elf's shoulders, "I just thought I'd let you know. Do with that information what you will."

"It almost sounds as though you _want_ me to watch you again," Fenris replied quietly, a very strange sensation taking hold of him.

"I didn't necessarily mean that," Fletcher teased, his smile showing in his voice. "All I'm saying is, if you're around when I'm taking a bath tomorrow, and you feel weary and need to sit down, and if your eyes _happen_ to wander in my direction, then I won't be able to do much about it, will I? I'll be in the tub."

A shy laugh bubbled up through Fenris's chest, and he glanced at Fletcher, his mood brightening as a warm flutter filled his belly. "I… don't understand how you are not offended, why you seem to be... encouraging me?"

"It's simple, Fen. You're experiencing some unfamiliar feelings, and you're not sure how to deal with them, or how to feel about them. I think you should explore those feelings. But you should explore them on your own, without any influence from me. That way, you'll feel completely safe and in control. And maybe, when you feel ready, we can explore them… together?"

Sitting very close, they both smiled but didn't speak for a little while. Eventually, Fenris hung his head and laughed quietly. "I…" He nodded, and laughed again.

Beaming, Fletcher stroked Fenris's shoulder and rested his head against the elf's. "Maybe I'll see you at bath time, then, if you're not too busy?"

"Maybe," whispered the elf, and he closed his eyes, his entire body tingling with anticipation. He then drew a very deep breath and moved away from Fletcher slightly, reaching for the book that lay at his side.

"Hector, the Lazy Dog?" Fletcher asked. "We haven't started that yet, have we?"

" _We_ haven't, but _I_ have," Fenris announced proudly, opening the book at the first page.

Fletcher gasped dramatically, his hands flying to his mouth, and Fenris failed miserably at affecting a scowl, a reluctant smile breaking through as he shook his head.

"What a shock!" Fletcher exclaimed, and moved the book over so it sat on both of their laps.

"Your acting is _quite_ atrocious," Fenris stated.

"I have no idea what you mean," sniffed the mage. "Now, let's see what you've learned. I need to know if I still have a job as your teacher or not."

He pulled the elf closer, and felt an arm wrap around his back. With Fenris's dour mood successfully banished, Fletcher kissed the elf's hair and waited for him to begin.


	53. Augurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're a black mark on our house, Bartrand. Give Blondie the damn maps or I'll tie you up and leave you to the deepstalkers."
> 
> "Here are your sodding maps." Bartrand slapped them into Anders's hand. "You're making a mistake, Varric. A big mistake. All of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt thanks, as always, to Mary for her invaluable beta skills. Bitches unite! :D
> 
> By now, some of you may have guessed that I'm not sticking to canon in the Deep Roads section of the story. Just so you know: there will be no lyrium idol, and therefore no lyrium sword. There will be alternate story lines to compensate for this. Also, there will be no mention of Bodahn or Sandal; I can see why they were necessary ingame, but they're not necessary to this story, and I just can't see Fletcher having servants of any kind, especially as he's with Fenris.
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 18/12/2015

Fenris awoke alone the following morning. Fletcher's bedroll was cold and the fire at the rear of the tunnel was guttering. Fenris pulled his blanket around his shoulders and pushed himself up, bracing his hands against his back and pushing his hips forward. The hard stone floor did his back no favours, though he'd had an adequate amount of sleep, as he always seemed to when Fletcher was with him.

He padded over to the entrance of the tunnel and looked around. The hour was obviously quite early as several loud snores assailed his ears: most of the workers were still asleep. His eyes moved to a small fire at the far end of the cavern, where Anders and Fletcher were seated, talking. He paused, uncertain whether he should disturb them, but just as he was about to turn back, Fletcher spotted him and beckoned him over.

As Fenris approached, Fletcher poured some tea for him and handed him the mug as he sat down.

"Anders couldn't sleep," Fletcher explained, and Anders glanced up at Fenris briefly before looking at the ground. "We've had a talk." Fletcher pushed himself back a little so that Fenris and Anders could see each other clearly, and he went on, speaking to both of them. "Anders, you're my friend, and Fenris, you're the man I love. I want both of you in my life, and I don't want to feel guilty about that. The two of you might never be best friends, but we're all stuck down here together and I think we'd all feel better if we were civil to each other. Anders has agreed to make more of an effort."

Fenris didn't know how to feel about Anders. The only thing he was certain of was that he didn't trust him. Then again, he hadn't trusted Fletcher at first, and now Fletcher was the man he trusted more than anyone else. Fenris _had_ felt a fleeting kinship with Anders, however, when he'd heard his claims of being abused by the templars, and was curious to learn more. That wasn't likely to happen, though, unless he was more amenable toward the abomination.

Additionally, there was Fletcher to consider. He had enough to worry about, with the safety and care of the expedition workers – which Bartrand clearly had no interest in – as well as Bartrand himself. Fletcher didn't need any more strife.

Furthermore, Fletcher had just told Anders that Fenris was the man he loved. He'd said it openly and casually, maybe not realising the significance his words held for Fenris. Or maybe he did? Hadn't Fenris caught a hint of a smile from Fletcher when he'd said it?

"Anders." Fenris leaned forward, holding his hand out. Anders, who had been staring at the fire, blinked and looked at Fenris's hand for a moment. Fletcher's expression remained impassive as Anders reached across and shook it.

"Anders has been telling me about his family," Fletcher said to the elf before turning back to his fellow mage. "Why don't you tell Fenris?"

"I'm not sure Fenris would be interested," Anders mumbled, examining his boots.

"If you tell me, I will listen," Fenris said, catching Fletcher's grin from the corner of his eye.

Anders sat up straight and sighed, looking uncertainly at Fletcher, who nodded and smiled his encouragement. "Well, it's not very interesting," Anders began, and, seeing that Fenris and Fletcher were waiting for him to continue, he sighed again.

"I was twelve when the templars came for me. I'd kept my abilities secret from my family. They were very superstitious and feared magic. They always said they were relieved my brother and I had not been mages."

Fenris frowned and sat forward, clasping his hands together. "But... that sounds like…"

"Dalton?" Fletcher asked, and Fenris nodded.

"Quite a few mages in the Tower came from families which despised magic," Anders resumed. "My situation wasn't uncommon. Not all of us were as lucky as Hawke." He looked nervously at Fletcher. "That wasn't a dig, by the way."

"I know," Fletcher answered with a nod.

"My own parents reported me to the templars," Anders said quickly, noting Fenris's heavy frown. "We had a quarrel one night, over something stupid. I became angry and couldn't control…" He held up his hands and stared at them. "My hands started crackling with energy. Mother and Father almost fell over themselves as they ran out of the room. They wouldn't talk to me – they wouldn't even _look_ at me. The following day, I was taken away."

The three men sat in silence for a few minutes as some of the expedition workers began to stir. Fletcher scowled and rolled his eyes as a loud fart and a curse came from Bartrand's bedroll, before returning his attention to Anders and Fenris.

"Tell him about your brother," Fletcher prompted.

A faraway look came into Anders's eyes, followed by a glimmer of sadness. "He… he didn't care about my magic. He sat up with me that night, just as Hawke did last night. When the templars came, he was so calm. He told me not to worry, and that I'd see him again. He _promised_. He seemed so certain," he said wistfully, hanging his head and drawing a long breath. "I… never did see him again."

"Does he live?" Fenris asked.

"I don't know," Anders replied softly, and shook his head, lowering his voice. "I mean… I hope so. You know, it's ironic," he said, looking up at Fenris, "you may well have passed through my village at some point. It's not far from Minrathous."

Fenris tilted his head, looking confused. "From where do you hail?"

"Tallo, in the Anderfels."

"I have heard of it," Fenris said, raising his eyebrows. "It is a fishing village on the shore of the Colean Sea, is it not?"

"That's right."

"Then, you were named for the place of your birth?" asked Fenris, genuinely interested. They all looked up, then, as Sebastian rose from his bedroll and nodded to them in greeting.

"Do you need some water, Sebastian?" Fletcher called to him, knowing he used water in a cleansing ritual before prayer.

"My drinking water will suffice, Hawke, but thank you." Sebastian doffed a small bow before crouching down and uncorking his water skin, taking a drink.

Sebastian first purified his hands with water, and stripped to the waist before splashing water over his chest to symbolically cleanse his heart; he then poured the rest of the water over his head to cleanse his mind. Slicking his hair off his face, he dropped to one knee, and Anders continued, but spoke quietly while Sebastian prayed a short distance away.

"Anders isn't my real name," he told a surprised Fenris. "It was given to me by the templars. I never told them my real name, and no matter what they did to me, I didn't crack. My name was the one thing those bastards couldn't take from me."

Fletcher's eyes moved between the two men, pleased that they were having a civil conversation, even if the content was heavy.

"Fenris is also not my given name," the elf confided. "It, too, was a 'gift', from my former master. I do not know what my real name is…was."

"Do you know what your real name is, Anders?" Fletcher asked.

Anders's eyes moved to the fire, and he didn't answer immediately. "Yes, I do," he said quietly, "but I'd prefer to keep it to myself. It's the only part of me that's truly mine, if you can understand that."

Fletcher nodded, his eyes moving to Bartrand, who had started to noisily rouse the other workers. "How long were you held against your will in the Tower?" he asked. By now, both Anders and Fenris knew what he was trying to do – highlight the similarities between the two of them – but they went along with it. "Actually, I need to speak to Bartrand," Fletcher said with a sigh, and pushed to his feet. "You two carry on without me. I'll be back shortly."

He walked away, hoping they wouldn't suddenly find excuses for not talking to each other. As he neared Bartrand, he glanced back, and smiled as Fenris appeared to be speaking while Anders nodded. They leaned away from each other, and their postures were awkward, but they were talking, at least.

"What do _you_ want, Cream Puff?" Bartrand asked gruffly.

Fletcher, happy that Fenris and Anders were talking, and feeling mischievous, refused to rise to Bartrand's bait. "Well, hello there, Ducky!" he chirped in his most effeminate-sounding voice and, ignoring Bartrand's furious glare, placed his hands on his hips and grinned. "You know, 'Cream Puff' is Fenris's pet name for me," he lied, and bit back his laugh as Bartrand's face dropped. "It warms the cockles of my heart to hear that name spoken in those… dulcet tones of yours. I never knew you felt that way, Bartrand. Unfortunately for you, I'm taken. Such a shame."

"Yeah, laugh it up, Mage," Bartrand growled, backing away a few steps, not taking his eyes off Fletcher.

"I thought we could discuss the scouting of the tunnels today?" Fletcher asked.

"I don't need _you_ to remind me of that."

"Are you sure? Because I heard you'd planned to spend most of today setting up a still," Fletcher commented lightly, and raised an eyebrow as Bartrand frowned. "I also noticed a third bathtub has been brought through from the first chamber, plus several sacks of corn meal and sugar. Oh, yeast, as well. Maybe I've got it wrong, though. _Have_ I got it wrong?"

"Look! It only takes two men to set up a still," Bartrand sniped, vexed that the mage was on to him.

"There are nine tunnels leading off this chamber and it'll take at least all of today to scout them out. We need everyone, and we need them _sober_."

Bartrand grunted, folding his arms. "We can spare two of 'em. When the men come back, they'll wanna relax. We're running out of booze and we need to get some made. You gonna be the one to tell 'em they can't have a drink after a day's hard work?"

"I wouldn't begrudge them a break, but the last time you and your men had a drink, you all fell asleep, remember? And I don't need to remind you how disastrous that was to poor Reijyr. _No one_ is having a drink, _or_ setting up a still, _until_ those tunnels are scouted out."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" shouted Bartrand, drawing the attention of some of the workers. " _I'm_ the leader of this expedition, not you!"

"You're not fit to lead this expedition," Fletcher whispered harshly. "You couldn't give a shit about the safety of your workers, or about their morale, for that matter."

"These men aren't concerned with fucking morale!" Bartrand laughed, throwing his hands into the air. "If you humans want to sing campfire songs and _bond_ , be my guest. The rest of us wanna make some money! Go ahead, Mage, tell 'em all how _rich_ your morale will make them!"

"I'll do that," Fletcher declared, and walked away from Bartrand, clearing his throat. "Good morning, everyone!" he said loudly to the expedition workers, all of whom were now awake. "After breakfast, we're going to start scouting out these tunnels. We'll all have bacon and eggs today, yes? Give us plenty of ballast." He patted his belly and grinned.

A drowsy cheer rose up from the workers, who were growing pretty sick of porridge every morning.

"I understand some of you plan to set up a still today. As soon as the tunnels have been scouted, you can get right on that."

"Hey!" shouted Angrim, the dwarf unfortunate enough to have been partnered with Bartrand. "We were gonna do that _before_ we set out! Bartrand _told_ us to do it!"

"There's been a change of plan," said Fletcher amid a few discontented groans. "The thing is, I have no idea how to make a still and, I suspect, neither do the rest of my human friends. We need you dwarves to disabuse us of our ignorance in the art of making grog, and the best time to do that would be when all the hard work is out of the way. There simply isn't time now. What do you say?" he asked with his most charming smile.

Some of the dwarves frowned and blinked as they repeated Fletcher's words in their heads, trying to make sense of what he'd said.

"Later?" Angrim asked.

"Later," agreed Fletcher, not giving him a chance to argue. "Now, I'm going to get the bacon started. Anyone care to give me a hand?"

A few humans volunteered and, to Fletcher's delight, so did a couple of dwarves, though they probably did so to expedite breakfast, and consequently the scouting of the tunnels and the making of the grog. "That's how you manage people," he said in a quiet aside to Bartrand.

"Well, _thanks_ for the psychology lesson," Bartrand spat sarcastically. "How about I give you a heads-up on the psychology of dwarves? You keep 'em away from their booze and their gold for long, and they'll turn on you. I have twenty-seven people to watch over, and I'm trying to keep them all happy. You need to get that into your head, Human."

"Keep them happy? You could have fooled me," Fletcher scoffed, "and it's twenty- _six_ , now, in case you'd forgotten. I'm going to make sure twenty-six people _leave_ here. Get that into _your_ head, Dwarf."

Bartrand threw his arms up again and stomped away. "Angrim!" he barked. "Get over here. You're scouting with me, quick as we can."

"Actually, I think I'll join you both," Fletcher interrupted, not relishing the prospect of spending any time with the belligerent dwarf, but wanting to keep an eye on him. "This is _not_ going to be a rush job. We'll leave after breakfast." With that, Fletcher went to assist the others to prepare the morning meal, feeling Bartrand's eyes drilling holes into his back.

~o~O~o~

Over breakfast, Fletcher encouraged Anders to tell the group – which now consisted of the two mages, Fenris, Varric, Sebastian, Torbal and Thirin – of his escape attempts from the Tower in Ferelden. Several of the human workers and a few dwarves sat nearby, and also listened. Although Anders told his story confidently and with enthusiasm, when he reached his fifth escape attempt he appeared eager to change the subject, and asked Fenris how he escaped from Danarius.

Fenris answered succinctly, leaving some details out, and didn't mention the Fog Warriors at all, but related the salient details.

"You're obviously better at escaping than I am," Anders commented through a mouthful of toast. "You escaped once, and stayed escaped."

Fenris shook his head and replied quietly, "No. It was nothing but serendipity that allowed me to escape. Had I been re-captured, I doubt I would have made another attempt." He felt Fletcher's hand on his back. "I applaud your tenacity," he said to Anders.

Anders also shook his head and began to gesticulate animatedly. "You must _never_ give up. My incarceration was an affront to decency and civilisation, as was yours. Planning my escapes and actually going through with them were the only things that gave my life any purpose at the time. All the other mages at the Tower convinced themselves they were happy with the way things were, but that was because they weren't brave enough to take a stand. Sometimes one person has to step forward and take risks to change things. And now, in the Free Marches, I have a chance to do the same. Things are happening here and the first step has already been taken. That fire at the Tower in Starkhaven was no accident. Someone decided they'd had enough of the status quo, and they took a stand."

"Are you saying that fire was started deliberately?" Sebastian asked, dismayed. "I hear many lives were lost."

"Yes, but several mages also escaped," Anders argued, and a few glances were exchanged among the group. " _That_ is what will be remembered."

"How do you know this, Anders?" Fletcher asked.

"I visited the Gallows and spoke to some of the mages that had been captured. That day at the coast, remember?"

"You went to the Gallows on your own?" asked Fletcher in surprise.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?" Anders asked, and Fletcher stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. "That blood mage, what was his name?"

"Decimus," Fletcher supplied.

"Right. _He_ started the fire. I know he turned out to be a lunatic, but he took a stand. He has to be admired for that, if nothing else. It can't end there."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group, before Sebastian laid down his plate and sat forward. " _Admired_? Anders, how can you-"

"Blondie," Varric interjected, clapping Anders's shoulder, "you've made your _own_ stand, and a lot of people admire _you_ for that. The elf said so, didn't he? You're a free man. Why not kick back a little, smell the roses? You deserve it. Don't get mixed up with people like that."

"Haven't you been listening to me, Varric?" Anders demanded, and Fletcher fidgeted, fearing the temporary truce was about to turn into a justice-and-freedom-for-mages rant. "Decimus's methods were questionable, but he did what nobody else dared to in order to secure the freedom of his brothers and sisters," he stated, prodding his thigh with his finger. "The other mages that were too cowardly to stand up with him ended up dead, or are still locked up in Starkhaven."

"Are you saying those mages _deserved_ to die?" Sebastian asked indignantly.

"No, of course not! All I'm saying is, those who sit around and do nothing must be prepared to face the consequences of their inaction."

Anders stopped abruptly as Fletcher grabbed his arm hard, digging his fingers in. "Well, I think we should get ourselves ready. We have a lot of tunnels to scout," he announced, forcing a lightness he didn't feel into his voice as he tried to pull Anders up.

Anders shrugged Fletcher's hand off and, taking his plate, stood up without assistance. "Changing the subject won't alter the fact that things are _happening_ in Kirkwall. The arrival of those Starkhaven mages at the Gallows is the best thing that could have happened. _They_ won't take their situation lying down, and neither will I."

"Anders, you don't _have_ a situation!" Fletcher protested, but Anders was already walking away.

"That is a _very_ troubled man," Fenris stated quietly with a grave glance at Fletcher.

"No shit," muttered Varric, pushing to his feet.

~o~O~o~

"Who put _you_ in charge, Human?" Rasel heckled as Fletcher tried to place the workers into groups after breakfast. "Last time I looked, Bartrand was in charge!"

"Nobody _needed_ to put him in charge," Varric answered, receiving a grateful look from Fletcher. "He's an investor, as am I. He was just telling me how excited he is about getting the still set up, and wants us to set off as quickly as possible. Now, are you all gonna stand around here arguing, or are we gonna get to work? Hawke wants his booze as much as the rest of you!"

"Shut up then, Varric, and let the human speak!" One of the dwarves called from the back.

"Thank you," said Fletcher, doing his best not to laugh, and also doing his best to avoid the decidedly frosty look Bartrand was giving him and Varric. "Bartrand, Angrim and I will be together..."

"With me," Fenris piped up, his insistent tone of voice not to be argued with.

"Fine," Fletcher replied with a small smile. "Um, I know you've all made friends and formed your own little groups, but I want at least one human and one dwarf in each group. That way, us unsophisticated humans might actually learn something," he cajoled, and a small laugh rose up around the group. "You just might not end up with your first choice of friends, that's all."

"You get to take your _boyfriend_ , though, don't you?" accused Bartrand.

"Well, _I_ wouldn't argue with him, would you?" Fletcher joked.

"I invite you to try," Fenris sneered, and Bartrand's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

After a few more mini-debates, the workers drifted into groups.

"I'm with Blondie," Varric insisted, moving to the mage's side. "There's your dwarf and human."

"I meant _proper_ dwarves, Varric," teased Fletcher. "Not soft surfacers like you."

"At least we'll have fun, Hawke," Varric said. "Can't say I'd be in your shoes, with Bartrand and Broody for company."

Fletcher folded his arms, an impish glint in his eye. "Well, we can't have you having _too_ much fun, can we? You won't be able to concentrate properly. I'll send Rasel and Sutton to join you."

"Sutton? Is that the one who doesn't speak?" Anders whined.

"Yes, but don't worry. You'll be too busy fending off Rasel's complaints to notice," answered Fletcher, ignoring his friends' scowls as he took off to find their unwelcome companions.

Finally, the workers set off. Sebastian had remained with his partner, Torbal, and they'd teamed up with Thirin and Alum, one of the human workers. Not all of the tunnels would be scouted in one go, but Fletcher had insisted on at least four people in each group, with one person staying close to the entrance so they could raise the alarm in case of trouble. Angrim volunteered for this task in Fletcher's group, not fancying accompanying the simpering mage and elf, and not having a great deal of love for Bartrand, either.

While he stayed behind, Bartrand walked well ahead of Fenris and Fletcher, occasionally prodding at the ceiling of the tunnel with a large stick, holding his torch in his other hand.

"It's quite dusty in here, isn't it?" Fletcher murmured quietly to the elf as they walked along. "Think I'll need rather a long bath when we get back."

Fenris's mouth curved upward slightly and the blush that Fletcher loved to see crept into his cheeks. "That would be advisable," he counselled, keeping his eyes dead ahead, a quiet, staccato snort escaping through his nose.

"And afterwards, I'm going to get to work on those balms of yours," Fletcher went on. "I was discussing them with Anders, actually. He has some good ideas for the Mystical Magic Repelling Balm, you know."

Fenris nodded, his smile fading slightly. "If I can be of assistance, please let me know."

"I wanted to say I appreciate you making an effort with Anders," Fletcher said, touching the elf's arm. "I know he's… well, troubled, as you said. But he needs people, friends, around him to keep him grounded. I've argued with him several times in the past and I'm sure I will again, but I _won't_ walk away from him. I think he needs me, even though he might not know it, if that makes sense."

"It does," said the elf. "You are a man of honour, Fletcher, and that you would stay at his side does you credit. Just…" Fenris paused and came to a halt.

"Just what?" asked Fletcher, sensing his hesitancy. "Say what you think. Partners and confidants, remember?"

"Keep up, you two!" Bartrand shouted from up ahead. "We ain't got time for sweet nothings!"

Ignoring him, Fenris frowned and lowered his voice. "Just… promise me you will not involve yourself too heavily in his affairs. He hints at sedition and subversion, a path that can only end poorly for him, and I would not see you walk the same path. While I suspect he has endured much, his assertion that _all_ mages must be liberated is both indiscriminate and irresponsible. Some mages _should_ be contained. Surely even you can see that?"

Fletcher clasped his chin and looked at Fenris thoughtfully.

"All sections of society contain undesirable elements," the elf elaborated. "There are humans, dwarves and elves who should not live among others, because they are criminals, or are immoral or insane. To declare that one section of society should be liberated simply because of who they are is erroneous... dangerous, even. Anders would have all mages freed _because_ they are mages, irrespective of their misdemeanours or unsavoury proclivities. In fact, _you_ insisted the blood mages at the Coast be relinquished to the templars because they were criminals. It was then I began to see the differences between you and Anders. _You_ are prepared to judge a situation on its merits, while he is not."

Fletcher considered Fenris's words, nodding slowly. "I can't argue with that."

Fenris exhaled softly and cleared his throat. "I know you and Anders will be working together at the clinic after the expedition, and I am glad of that, as you will be more contented if you are able to care for people. All I ask is that you… keep yourself separate from him, keep his interests apart from your own. If… that makes sense?"

"It does." Fletcher smiled, stroking Fenris's arm. "Thanks for looking out for me. What you say makes a lot of sense, and I'll remember it."

"See that you do," joked the elf, relieved that Fletcher had not taken issue with his concerns.

"Bartrand!"

Fletcher and Fenris's heads snapped in the direction of the tunnel entrance. "Where's that coming from? Is that Anders?" Fletcher asked.

"Bartrand! Where is he, Ang-oh, bloody hell, I can't remember your name. Where's Bartrand? Is he in here?"

Fletcher and Fenris quickly walked back to the tunnel entrance, where an irate-looking Anders was badgering Angrim, with an out-of-breath Varric arriving behind him.

"Where's that no-good brother of mine?" the dwarf demanded.

"He's further up the tunnel," Fletcher answered. "What's this about?"

"Come over here," Anders ordered someone Fletcher couldn't see. "And wipe that bloody smirk off your face!"

Fletcher's look of bemusement quickly transformed into a glower as the mystery person stepped forward.

"I _told_ you I had something up my sleeve, didn't I, Hawke?" Isabela laughed. "Why, hello, Fenris," she greeted the elf in a flirtatious tone. Fenris shook his head without answering.

"I don't believe this!" Fletcher exclaimed, covering his face with his hands.

"I'd like you all to meet _Sutton_ ," Anders blurted. "Now we know why he- _she_ always wore a hood and never spoke! It's lucky Varric noticed she had big tits for a man!"

"Now, come on, Blondie. I didn't actually say _that_. I believe the term I used was 'love pillows'."

"Never mind which term you used!" Anders snapped, pushing past the rest of them. "Where _is_ that bastard?"

"He _knew_ about this?" demanded Fletcher.

"Well, I should think so," said Isabela as Anders charged up the tunnel. "I had to pay the twister ten bloody sovereigns to participate in this so-called expedition." She brushed dust off her shirt and breeches.

Fletcher stared at her morosely for a minute before he turned and followed Anders up the tunnel.

"Do you have _no_ concept of your workers' safety?" he heard Anders shouting from up ahead. "Haven't you heard about the broodmothers? There was a _reason_ I insisted on no women on the expedition! What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Of course he knows about the broodmothers!" Fletcher said as he joined them. "He's a bloody dwarf, isn't he? Don't they all know?"

"The broodmothers are a sodding myth!" Bartrand growled.

"Oh? Then I must have imagined it when I killed one of the fuckers at Drake's Fall!" Anders yelled. "And you _knew_ about them? That makes it even worse!"

"Both of us told you, _no women_ , Bartrand," Fletcher said angrily as Varric and Fenris caught up and stood at his side. "You really do care more about money than your workers, don't you?"

"Do you _mind_?" Isabela called from behind them, and they all turned around to see the pirate standing with her hands on her hips. "Believe it or not, I _am_ a grown woman and I can make my own decisions. While I would love nothing more than to see five strong men fighting over me, I really have to-"

"She's going back up to the surface, right now!" Anders ordered Bartrand.

" _She_ is going nowhere!" Isabela argued. "Unless, that is, you tie me up and throw me over your shoulder which, in principle, I'd have no problem with, but this isn't really the time. Let's get this straight--I paid good money to be down here, and down here's where I'm _staying_. I'm glad this is all out, to be honest. It was becoming a chore having to constantly fart and scratch my non-existent balls to look like a bloke. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to unstrap my boobs. They bloody hurt, you know, not to mention itch, but I expect you mages will have a cream for that. Care to give me a hand, Fenris?"

The elf blanched, and Fletcher walked up to Isabela, stopping in front of her. "Just so there's no confusion, Fenris is with me."

The pirate snapped her fingers in mock annoyance. "Beat me to the punch, eh? You lucky sod." She looked Fenris and Fletcher up and down and frowned slightly. "How do you overcome the height difference?" she pondered. "I expect you have a position for that, though... you'll have to fill me in," she said with a wink.

"Don't you have boobs to unstrap?" Fletcher asked in irritation.

"Oh, yes, all right. I'll do that and then I'll go and keep poor Rasel company. Remember him? We _do_ have work to do when you lot have finished your pettifoggery." With that, she tossed her hair over her shoulders, turned and sauntered out of the tunnel, massaging her crushed breasts.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, Bartrand," Fletcher bristled.

"I don't need to explain _nothing_ to you, Mage!" he bit back. "I'm the sodding leader of this expedition, and I've had it with you and your queer friends throwing your weight about!"

"No, you're not," Varric said in a hard tone. "We wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for Hawke, and it genuinely frightens me to think you, alone, are responsible for our safety. Give Blondie his maps back. From now on, he and Hawke are leading the expedition. You're out, Bartrand."

"You forget your place, _little_ brother," snarled Bartrand. "You're getting in a twist because of some tart being in on the expedition? What do you care?"

"I couldn't give a rat's ass about her coming along! Like she said, she's a big girl…in more ways than one," Varric quipped and, noticing that the others weren't smiling, he moved on. "Hawke and Blondie are my friends, and you've disrespected them, and the elf, every opportunity you get. If it weren't for them, we'd have lost a hell of a lot more than just Reijyr." Varric stepped in front of his brother and stared him down. "You're a black mark on our house, Bartrand. Give Blondie the damn maps or I'll tie you up and leave you to the deepstalkers."

Bartrand's eyes moved over the three irate men and the elf, who had said nothing but was staring daggers at him. He slowly reached into a pocket and produced the Deep Roads maps Anders had provided him with. "Here are your sodding maps." He slapped them into Anders's hand. "You're making a mistake, Varric. A big mistake. All of you," he threatened in a calm voice.

"Quit your bellyaching," Varric ordered his brother with a disgusted expression. "I suggest we all check on the Rivaini and then get back to work. You can stay here and pout if you like," he said to Bartrand, and the four men turned and headed back for the main chamber, with Bartrand watching them.

"A very big mistake," he muttered to himself. "The last one you'll ever make, _Brother."_


	54. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You stated that 'there is nothing like a good romance story'... and that sounds _nothing_ like a good romance story."
> 
> "There's a bit of romance in there… Hawke asks you at one point if you need a hankie to spit into. That's romantic, isn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for being a miracle-worker beta and for making sense of my mess of a chapter!
> 
> NSFW content in this chapter.
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 18/12/2015

After the first six tunnels had been explored, the two new expedition leaders sat on the floor of the main chamber, studying the warden maps, while Torbal prepared the oxygen apparatus. Thirin was already using his and, after a few of the other workers had complained of shortness of breath, Fletcher didn't want to take any chances.

"You honestly expect me to wear _this_ thing?" Isabela complained, flouncing over to Fletcher and Anders, who looked up from their maps. "I look bloody ridiculous!"

Fletcher bit his bottom lip to restrain his smile. Isabela's apparatus didn't quite fit properly, as her ample, now-unstrapped boobs prevented it from being properly secured to her chest. The small water tank sat under her chin, forcing her to walk with her nose in the air.

"We didn't count on any women coming along, did we?" Fletcher replied, his voice a semitone higher than usual. "I'm afraid you'll just have to make do."

Giving an exaggerated pout, she attempted to fold her arms but, finding no room for them, placed her hands on her hips instead. "I'm going to need some help securing the straps, then. I can't reach around the back of me. If I try, I'll have someone's eye out."

Instantly, half a dozen of the human workers surged forward, and then stopped dead as she held a hand out. "Fenris, will _you_ help me, please?" she asked sweetly.

The elf, who was standing behind Fletcher, looked mildly alarmed and slowly retreated further back, like a dog seeking refuge behind its master's legs in the face of a threat.

She laughed and shook her head. "Look, I _know_ you and Hawke are an item. All's fair in love and war, as they say, and he beat me fair and square. By the looks of it, I was never even in the running." She glanced at the other humans, who had followed her around like imprinted ducklings since discovering her true identity. "You're the only one I trust not to have wandering hands, Fenris. Contrary to popular belief, wandering hands are not _always_ desirable. Help a girl out, won't you?" She batted her eyelashes.

"Very well." Fenris walked stiffly to the pirate, and stood behind her while he wrestled with the straps.

"Thank you, Fenris. Nice to see there's a _gentleman_ among you," she said with a pointed look at the human workers, who averted their gazes and dispersed, some of them grumbling. "So, how are things going between you and Hawke?" she whispered, getting straight to the point. "I'll bet you don't get much privacy in here, do you? I've seen you both sneaking off now and again. How do you manage to stay so quiet?"

She heard a sigh from behind her and the straps were pulled tight, causing her to lose her footing slightly. "Maker! I can see who the dominant one is in this relationship! Or maybe I'm wrong? You never can tell. Sometimes it's the one you least expect." Getting no reply, she persisted, heedless of the tautness of the straps in the elf's hands. "So, am I right? I'm betting _you're_ in charge. Hawke may be bigger than you physically, but I can tell how strong you are. Well, _am_ I right or not?" Met with silence again, she turned around, causing Fenris to lose his grip on the straps. They unravelled, hanging down at her sides.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asked the irritated-looking elf.

"You are like a child," he accused. "Relentlessly asking questions with no pause for breath! Why do you need to know these things? Of what consequence are they to you?"

"I _need_ to know these things because I need to get inside the heads of my characters!" she answered as though Fenris should know. "It hasn't been easy writing about you two without asking questions. In fact, I've had to make a lot of it up."

Fenris's frown disappeared and he looked at her warily. "Characters? What do you mean by--"

"Of course! The dwarf isn't the only one who writes stories, you know! There's nothing like a good romance story. I had a feeling about you two even before Hawke told me in that wonderfully possessive way that you were with _him_. Hm. Maybe _he's_ the one in charge?" she mused, her eyes wandering up to the ceiling of the chamber. "He was quite forceful in the way he told me. No matter. In my story you take it in turns."

"Take… _what_ in turns?" Fenris asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

Isabela leaned closer to the elf, who took a step back. "Come on, you're a grown man. You're not playing Wicked Grace, that's for sure."

Fenris gulped and moved behind her again, his hands fumbling with the straps, which seemed to have acquired a will of their own all of a sudden.

"Would you like to know the title?" she asked.

"You're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"'Tunnels and Shafts: Love in the Deep Roads'," she declared with pride in her voice, and she could swear the straps shuddered in Fenris's hands. "What do you think? I'm also considering 'Plundering the Deepest Roads of All', but that might be too subtle. Well?"

"You stated that 'there is nothing like a good romance story'," said the elf as the straps tightened along with his voice, "And that sounds _nothing_ like a good romance story."

"There's a _bit_ of romance in there… Hawke asks you at one point if you need a hankie to spit into. That's romantic, isn't it? Well, considerate, at least. Not everyone would ask you that. Ow!" she exclaimed as the straps were yanked, hard, and she staggered back. "Well," she said, turning around. "Now I _know_ who the dominant one is. Thanks for answering that so decisively," she added with a saucy smile.

"Are we done?" demanded the peeved elf.

"You've certainly done me up properly. I can hardly breathe!" She looked down at her comically top-heavy shadow.

"Good," he muttered, stalking back over to Fletcher.

"Everything all right?" Fletcher asked as the elf approached, glancing up briefly.

"Fine," was his clipped reply.

Fletcher looked across to the Rivaini, who was wearing a fat smile, and guessed his almost daily Soothing Session of Fenris's Jangled Nerves would take place early today. He really didn't mind, though. Very few things gave him more pleasure than inveigling a smile from Fenris when a curmudgeonly mood had taken him, and Fletcher had the perfect remedy in mind.

"So, we're agreed, then?" he asked Anders and Varric. "We'll send the dwarves down tunnels seven, eight and nine, while the rest of us prepare lunch and get started on the laundry."

"Actually, Hawke, Bartrand has already taken off down tunnel seven," Varric informed him, his disapproval obvious.

"That's fine," said Fletcher with a shrug. "Keeps him out of trouble. I don't suppose he told anyone who he'd taken with him?"

"Nope, although his cronies aren't around," Varric replied, referring to the handful of hardened dwarves who'd had little to do with the humans, and had only taken directions from Bartrand. "They're still convinced we're holding the entire thing up."

"They can think what they like." Fletcher folded the maps up and gave them to Anders for safe-keeping. "Torbal?" he called, and the rotund dwarf walked over. "After you've finished with the oxygen apparatus, we're putting you in charge of the scouting of tunnels eight and nine, sparing two dwarves to make the still, of course."

"You got it, Hawke." Torbal placed his finger and thumb in his mouth and let out a loud, high-pitched whistle, getting everyone's attention. "Thirin, you've done your share of tunnelin' for today. Grab a man and get to work on the still. The rest of you, come with me." He waved his hand, and the remaining dwarves followed him to the last two tunnels, taking their breathing apparatus with them.

"Does anyone need a bath?" Fletcher asked the rest of the group. "Most of us are covered in dust and I daresay the dwarves will need one when they return." The majority of the humans nodded or answered in the affirmative. "Right, Anders and I will get started, then. I know _I_ could use a bath--I'm filthy," he said, casting a sly glance at Fenris, who shifted from foot to foot, a blush rising up from his neck in spite of his stony expression. "Who wants to cook?"

"Sebastian and I will cook," Isabela piped up. "Seeing as nobody has thought to properly introduce us, it'll give us a chance to become better acquainted."

Sebastian pushed himself up and approached the pirate. "I would be delighted, madam," he said with a small bow. "After you." He gestured towards the cooking equipment and followed her, unaware that Fletcher was biting the back of his hand to stifle his laughter.

"Uh… does he _know_ the Rivaini?" Varric asked Fletcher. "I mean, _really_ know her?"

The mage sniggered. "Nope."

"She will eat him alive," Fenris noted sourly, rolling his eyes at Fletcher's amusement.

Fletcher, Anders and Varric stood up. "We'll start the laundry after the baths," Fletcher announced, "but you can all wash your own smalls. I'm not _that_ bloody community-spirited."

"Why don't we get the evening meal prepared as well as helping Sebastian and Isabela?" offered Sheldon.

"Good idea. We're having nug, aren't we?"

"Leave 'em to me, Hawke," said Thirin, cracking his knuckles. "Soon as I've got the still going, I'll prepare 'em."

"Thanks." Fletcher smiled as the relaxed workers took off to undertake their tasks.

Varric slapped Fletcher's arm and grinned up at him. "I shoulda put you in charge of this thing from the start. Look at them all. One of them's even whistling!"

"I just hope Bartrand won't cause any grief," Fletcher replied thoughtfully.

"Bartrand's full of piss and vinegar. I can handle him, don't you worry," Varric reassured him, noticing Fenris fold his arms and stare ahead. "Uh… looks like the elf wants to talk to you. Think I'll hit the tub first, while everyone's working. Hey, Blondie!" he called, and Anders walked to the bathtubs with him.

Fletcher walked to Fenris's side. "Are you all right?"

"Are you aware that… that _woman_ is writing a story about us?" he asked tersely.

"Really?"

"A _bawdy_ one."

"Ah."

" _Ah_?" Fenris turned to fully face Fletcher, his arms still folded. "Is that all you have to say? Do you not care?"

"Well… not really," Fletcher answered cautiously, deciding it was best not to tell Fenris that Varric had also written a lewd story about them, having been warned by Bethany before they'd set out for the expedition.

"So it does not bother you in the slightest that we are being used, _ridiculed_ in this way?"

Sensing a need to tread carefully, Fletcher took a deep breath. "But it's not really us, is it? Isabela's just tacked our names onto two of her characters. It's fiction, nothing to do with real life."

"I am _aware_ of the definition of 'fiction'." Fenris turned away from Fletcher, who sighed, suspecting that Fenris's mood would not be remedied by a bath after all.

"I don't know why you're letting it bother you, Fen. I'm quite flattered, actually, that anyone would make us the subject of their story."

"You _would_ be."

Fletcher swallowed down a lump of irritation and sighed again. "What's the _matter_ , Fenris? What's really bothering you?"

"Have I not just told you?" answered the elf impatiently, turning to face him again. "Is it not enough that the entire expedition knows of us? Have you not heard the whistles, the catcalls? Have you not seen the glances as we emerge from our sleeping place at the start of each day? They are watching us, constantly, and I suspect I know what they are thinking as well."

"Who _cares_ what they think?" Fletcher asked, taken aback. "Where has this come from all of a sudden? It never seemed to bother you before."

"Just because I do not _speak_ of something, does not mean it is not on my mind."

Fletcher's mouth fell open and he stared at the elf in disbelief. "Well, I'm not a mind-reader, am I? I thought we'd agreed to talk about things? Why didn't you tell me this was bothering you? And why _is_ it bothering you, anyway?"

"I do not expect you to understand," Fenris said, his voice low and rough. "Clearly, I am in the wrong, as you appear completely unfazed by this, so there is no need for further discussion." He began to walk away.

Anger, fast and sharp, surged up through Fletcher's chest. "Are you ashamed of me? Of being seen with me? Is that what it is?" he demanded, fairly certain that wasn't really the case, but there was a part of him that was hurt by Fenris's behaviour.

Fenris halted, his arms held stiffly at his sides. "I knew you would not understand."

"Then _make_ me understand! Talk to me!"

Fenris shook his head and quickened his pace, walking up to the human workers who were preparing supper for later.

"What the bloody hell just happened?" Fletcher muttered, bewildered and humiliated. He stood for a few minutes trying to make sense of their conversation. Things like this had happened before: something had been on Fenris's mind but he'd felt unable to share it with Fletcher because it was painful for him to speak about, and so he'd lashed out. Did he hope Fletcher would drop the subject, or that Fletcher wouldn't want to talk to him? Did he want to be left alone or was he, in fact, desperate to share his feelings?

Isabela's rude story seemed to have been the trigger this time. Or was it the lack of privacy? Fenris had spent a large portion of his life alone, and for such a private man, being surrounded by so many other people must be disturbing. Fletcher glanced at the elf, who had taken himself off, alone, to prepare vegetables.

He wanted to be alone, then, Fletcher realised. An idea formed in his mind as he remembered the reports of the six tunnels that had been scouted so far. One of them had been deemed completely safe, and was also detailed extensively on Anders's map. He'd wait for the reports from tunnels seven, eight and nine and would see if his idea could be put into place.

In the meantime, he'd begin work on the simplest of the balms he planned to make for Fenris. At least that way he'd have an excuse to start up a conversation with the elf when he was ready. Also, Fletcher found the monotonous action of pounding herbs soothing and distracting. Although he suspected he knew the reason for Fenris's fractiousness, some of the elf's words had stung him. He went and sat at the mouth of tunnel two – the tunnel he and Anders had agreed warranted further investigation – and took out his crafting materials.

~o~O~o~

When the tunnel scouts returned, and, following the mid-day meal, Fletcher called the dwarves together to report on their findings.

"How was tunnel seven, Bartrand?"

"No good," answered Bartrand dismissively. "There was a collapse."

"It collapsed while you were there? Was anyone hurt?"

"No," Bartrand and his cronies replied, almost in unison, which struck Fletcher as being strange since some of those dwarves had never so much as looked at him, let alone spoken to him. What Fletcher found really peculiar, however, was that there was not a speck of dust on any of them. He nodded slowly, considering the possibility he was being lied to. "Okay, then... Torbal? How about eight and nine?"

"Nine's a bust, Hawke. Rained dust and pebbles on us, so I got us out of there quick," said the dust-covered dwarf. "Eight's safe, but it goes on for ages. Might be worth a look, though."

"It's a shame about tunnel seven," Anders said, looking at the warden maps, "as that one goes quite far in. Tunnel eight goes for about two miles before it splits and branches off. After that, it's like a maze."

"I think we should split up," Fletcher suggested. "One group takes tunnel two, and the other, tunnel eight."

Anders nodded, shuffling through the maps. "Yes. I recommend we allow a few days to travel through the tunnels, maybe a week to explore, and then I'd say we should all report back here in two weeks?"

"Any objections to that?" Fletcher asked the group. When there were none, he called Anders away to speak in private. "Who do we put in each group? There are going to be arguments, aren't there? And who takes the maps? I think you and I should split up so there's a healer in each group."

"You can have the maps, Hawke," Anders replied. "I've looked over them so often I know these tunnels like the back of my hand. I'll take tunnel eight. That's the one that goes down the deepest. If we run into any darkspawn, I'll be able to steer the group away from them, hopefully."

While Anders and Fletcher made plans, Bartrand had taken several of the dwarves, with the exception of Varric, Torbal, Vonim and Thirin, aside. They were still huddled together when the mages returned.

"We're taking tunnel eight," Bartrand barked at Fletcher. "Everyone get ready."

"Wait," Fletcher said, annoyed that Bartrand had taken it upon himself to choose a tunnel, but then the thought occurred to him that if Bartrand took the dwarves, Fletcher would be able to take almost all of his friends with him. "There are only eleven of you. You need two more so there's an equal split. Anders and Varric will go with you, as they're partners. That way, you'll also have a healer."

" _Partners_ were your idea, Human," growled Rasel, "and we don't need no freaking mages."

"Bunch of fucking assclowns," Vonim scoffed. "Where d'you think _I'd_ be if it weren't for the mages?" He clapped Anders's shoulder and glared at Bartrand. "They did a damn fine job of _almost_ saving my partner, as well, but I guess he was too far gone, _Bartrand_. You morons wanna wind up dead? Be my guest."

Another dwarf, Gaar, stepped forward and pointed at Vonim. "We can't have humans heading up a Deep Roads expedition! It ain't right! You gonna be the one to write home and tell 'em two _mages_ led us to glory and riches? I wouldn't be able to show my face in Orzammar again! It ain't gonna happen!" He then faced Fletcher. "You're all right, Hawke, but you shouldn't have been down here in the first place. None of you humans should."

"How's that _leadership_ thing going, Nancy Boy?" Bartrand sneered at Fletcher, and some of the dwarves laughed. Fletcher, who did not possess a huge ego, didn't offer a retort. Fenris, however – whose nerves were already stretched thin - had other ideas.

"Take your gaggle of fools, then, and lead them to their doom." The elf unsheathed his sword and stalked up to Bartrand, placing the tip of the sword at the dwarf's throat. "And if you malign him again, I shall hasten your introduction to your Stone. Begone!"

Bartrand, clearly unnerved, swatted the sword away and stepped back, rubbing his throat. "Get ready," he ordered the other dwarves, his voice wavering slightly. "Take a month's worth of food, just in case we run into trouble. Wouldn't want it said I don't think of people's safety."

"Sodding idiots." Thirin grunted as the group of rebellious dwarves followed Bartrand. "They're all gonna die. And don't think you're having any of our booze!" he shouted after them, receiving a few obscene gestures in return.

"How do _you_ feel about this, Varric?" Fletcher asked the dwarf, his eyes on Fenris as the elf sheathed his sword and glared at Bartrand's back.

"Ha! Good riddance, I say. This way, I won't be woken up every morning by that asshole's grating voice. I've seen as much of Bartrand as I care to during this expedition."

Fletcher nodded absently and looked down at his friend. "There _was_ no collapse in tunnel seven, was there?"

"That's what I thought. If I know my brother, he's found something down there he doesn't want us to see, but I say he's welcome to it. I just know we'll find something ten times better." He slapped Fletcher's arm. "What's the plan then, Hawke?"

Fletcher gathered the remaining workers and he and Anders formulated a plan. His own, personal plan of splitting the group had almost worked perfectly. The new group was slightly larger than he'd wanted, but he hoped Fenris would appreciate there being fewer people around, even if Isabela was among them. The next part of his personal plan was to find somewhere he and Fenris could spend private time, or where Fenris could be alone, if that was what he wanted. Fletcher had anticipated some problems due to lack of privacy, and should have known Fenris might be the first to show signs of disquiet. He secretly vowed to make Fenris's comfort, and _not_ finding treasure or riches, his top priority for the moment.

~o~O~o~

Bartrand's group had taken off before the evening meal, leaving plenty of nug to go around. Sadly, the grog in the bathtub was not yet fit to drink. Even Vonim, a hardened drinker, had declared it too rough, and he and Thirin had added a few more ingredients. After Fletcher asked the group's opinion, it was decided they'd depart the following day after their laundry had dried. Hopefully by then the booze would be drinkable and they'd be able to have a toast to the next leg of their journey.

While Varric, Anders, Sebastian and Torbal started their nightly card game – this time joined by Isabela and Vonim – Fletcher, feeling weary, decided to have an early night. He placed his bedroll a way inside tunnel two, but did not take Fenris's, leaving the elf to decide where he slept. Fenris had taken himself over to the far side of the chamber after supper, during which he'd hardly said a word, and was seemingly engrossed in a book.

Fletcher removed his boots but kept his robe on, and lay down, covering himself with a blanket. Unlike some, whose troubles or problems kept them awake at night, Fletcher's worries exhausted and drained him, and he fell asleep almost as soon as he'd closed his eyes.

He awoke sometime later and listened: all was quiet, and he guessed that everyone else had turned in. He then became aware of quiet breathing from behind him, and turned onto his back. There, behind him, was Fenris, seated against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest, and his head bowed. Fletcher squinted, unsure if the elf's eyes were open or closed. Fenris certainly wasn't dressed for bed--he was wearing his full guard armour, minus his gauntlets, and had not brought his bedroll in.

"I am _not_ ashamed of being seen with you," Fenris uttered quietly without looking up.

Fletcher exhaled and pushed up onto his elbows, watching Fenris for a moment, and how the shadows cast by the flickering fire danced over him. "How long have you been here?" he asked softly.

"I don't know." Fenris moved his head up and rested it against the wall, looking at the opposite wall. "You were snoring when I entered. I did not want to disturb you."

Fletcher brought himself into a sitting position and crossed his legs. "Do you need to talk?"

Fenris hung his head again and sighed. He knew an apology wouldn't cut it. How many times could he say 'sorry' before it became meaningless? No, he would have to explain himself fully, even though he had no idea if Fletcher would accept it this time.

"I understand what you have done," the elf began quietly. "You have decreased the size of the group. I would not be immodest enough to believe that you did that for my sake, but-"

"Of course I did it for you."

Fletcher heard the breath catch in Fenris's throat, and the elf looked up slightly, but not at Fletcher. "I see… in that case, I am grateful."

"Is that what was troubling you? Too many people? And I-I can have a word with Isabela, if you like. I know she can be a bit, well, boisterous, sometimes, and you're not used to that. And if you want, I'll try not to hang around you so much," he added with a nervous laugh. "If you need some space, just let me know. I won't be offended."

"Is… that what _you_ want?" Fenris asked uncertainly.

"No, it's not what I want. What I want is for _you_ to be happy."

Fenris closed his eyes and sighed heavily.

Fletcher shuffled a little closer to Fenris and cautiously took one of his hands. "I can't make you happy, though, unless you tell me what's making you _un_ happy. The _real_ reason, Fenris."

"The real reason?" Fenris asked, his eyes wide, knowing he owed it to Fletcher to be completely honest, as much as he feared that this time, Fletcher would finally tire of his neuroses and tell him he simply wasn't worth the bother.

Fletcher nodded, moving closer to the wall. "May I sit next to you?"

"Of course you may," whispered the elf.

Fletcher settled next to Fenris and mirrored his posture, keeping a hold of his hand. "Come on then. Out with it."

After a pause of several minutes, and after shaking his head a few times, Fenris drew a deep breath and turned a little closer to Fletcher. "I feel… pressure," he admitted, but Fletcher, unsure of his meaning, frowned and waited for clarification. "You…" Fenris took another deep breath. "You and I are becoming… closer, aren't we?" His eyes moved to Fletcher, who nodded and remained silent. "All I can think about is the first time we…" He scowled, angry at himself, and shook his head again.

Fletcher inhaled sharply and then released a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry. I never wanted to make you feel pressured. This is _my_ stupid fault, inviting you to watch me bathe! What was I thinking?"

"No." Fenris squeezed Fletcher's hand. "You are _not_ to blame. This _pressure_ is of my own making. You have been remarkably patient with me. I could not have asked for more from you."

"Look," Fletcher pushed himself up, "forget all of this bath nonsense. Let's take a step back. The last thing I want is for you to feel crowded or pressured or that you _have_ to do anything. You _don't_."

"I don't _want_ to take a step back," the elf confessed. "I have _seen_ you bathe, and I-I cannot just forget that. You are… a fine-looking man, Fletcher." The shy smile that Fletcher adored returned to Fenris's face, and the elf hung his head again. "It's just…"

"Are you afraid?" ventured Fletcher gently, stroking Fenris's hand with his thumb.

Fenris shook his head. "I do not fear your touch. I would welcome it, but I fear what an encounter between us would elicit," he said, his voice hushed. "If I were to re-live or remember something, I-I am afraid that… I would hurt you. When-when _that_ woman told me of the content of her story, I was reminded of what we have discussed recently and I felt… I just felt this immense pressure building inside my head." Releasing Fletcher's hand, he rubbed his temples. "I should not have taken it out on you. I should have discussed it with you, but we were surrounded by people. Had I taken you somewhere private, there would have been catcalls and…"

He swivelled round and fully faced Fletcher. "When we… become closer, I do not want anyone else to _know_ , to guess. It is not because I am not proud to be seen with you. It is because I believe such acts should remain private between two people. Perhaps you disagree."

"I don't, Fen. I agree with you completely, and now you've explained how you feel, I think it's even more important that we don't _plan_ anything. You'll just have it on your mind all the time. I thought… if we planned it, took it in stages, you might feel more comfortable with that, but I got it wrong. I'm sorry."

"Please, do not apologise," Fenris whispered, laying his head on Fletcher's shoulder. "You were correct in saying that you are not a mind-reader. You are doing your best in difficult circumstances… and with a _very_ difficult elf."

Detecting a hint of wry humour in Fenris's voice, Fletcher said seriously, "Glad to finally hear you admit that. I didn't want to be the one to say it."

"I would not have argued, _had_ you said it," replied the elf, glancing up at Fletcher, and they smiled at each other.

"Makes a change." Fletcher pulled him close.

"It does." The elf chuckled before drawing a sharp, deep breath and releasing it quickly. Fletcher recognised something other than a release of tension in that sigh. "We… are alone, now," Fenris said quietly, reaching up to stroke Fletcher's face. "Perhaps-"

"No, Fen. This is not something you should feel you need to get out of the way."

Slowly, Fenris lowered himself to the ground and lay on his back, his hands folded across his belly. "I… _want_ to… get it out of the way. Forgive my choice of words, but I must know if I am capable of… without-" He held a hand out to Fletcher, who reluctantly took it, but did not lie down. "If-if I attempt to hurt you, you would be able to overpower me, or escape."

"I would _never_ overpower you," Fletcher protested. "And I _know_ you wouldn't hurt me. I know, Fen."

"Please," Fenris implored. "I need to know if I am… I need to feel… _normal_. Just for once in my life. I would trust no other but you with this."

Fletcher groaned, feeling pulled in two different directions. He didn't want Fenris to rush into something he wasn't ready for, but how could he turn down a request like that? How could he refuse to help Fenris feel _normal?_

With a sigh, he laid down next to the elf and wrapped his arms around him. Fenris held on tightly and Fletcher could feel the tension in him.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked the elf, lightly kissing his forehead. " _Really_ sure?"

He felt Fenris's arms curl around him and the elf relaxed against him. "I am ready," he whispered against Fletcher's neck.

Fletcher closed his eyes and brought a hand up to stroke Fenris's hair. Fenris was always so conscious of being in control but, in this situation, Fletcher would also have to rein himself in. This would be the first time Fenris had experienced the sexual act in a loving way.

Fletcher would not take his own pleasure. This was about Fenris.

Fletcher gently rolled Fenris onto his back and brought his hands up to the elf's face, cradling him, and placed a feather-light kiss on his lips.

"What-what should we do?" Fenris asked hesitantly, his eyes half-closed as Fletcher's warm breath caressed his mouth.

" _We_ are not going to do anything, love." Fletcher moved his hand down and took one of Fenris's, slowly moving it to the elf's groin, where he let it rest, bringing his own hand back to Fenris's face. "You are."

"I… don't understand." Fenris's eyes closed as Fletcher's lips again brushed against his and he swallowed hard, his breathing shallow.

"I think you do," Fletcher whispered around another soft kiss.

"You-you want me…?"

"Yes."

Fletcher released Fenris's face and sat up, slowly pulling his robe above his waist and then over his head, discarding it to the side. He wore nothing but small clothes beneath and Fenris's mouth fell open, his breath coming out in short bursts as Fletcher reached for Fenris's cuirass and began to loosen the clasps.

"This is all I'm taking off," he reassured the elf, "just so you're comfortable." Fenris nodded quickly, relieved and grateful for Fletcher's understanding, and he began to assist the mage.

With Fenris's breastplate removed, Fletcher laid on his side and stroked Fenris's arm, gently pulling him down beside him. He once again took Fenris's hand and moved it to the elf's breeches. "You only have to say the word, Fen, and we'll stop. You're in charge, here, all right?" Fenris nodded again, wordlessly holding Fletcher's gaze.

Fletcher took Fenris's other hand and placed it against his own chest, and an almost pained expression came over the elf as he ran his fingers through the fine, dark hairs on Fletcher's chest.

"Kiss me, Fen," Fletcher tenderly entreated, his voice strained as he fought to stay in control. He pulled Fenris close, feeling the air rush out of the elf's lungs as they came together. Fenris's free hand roamed the expanse of warm flesh along Fletcher's back, down to his waist and grazing his buttocks, while Fletcher felt Fenris's other hand begin to move as it slipped beneath his breeches.

"That's it, my love," Fletcher whispered, gently kissing Fenris's nose, his thumbs stroking the elf's face before one of his hands were taken and moved to the waistband of Fenris's breeches.

"Please," beseeched the elf, nipping at Fletcher's mouth. This was the first time Fenris had taken pleasure with another and he was greedy for it, voraciously so, and Fletcher was pulled down for a hungry, demanding kiss, his hand being urgently pushed beneath Fenris's waistband.

Fletcher squeezed his eyes closed and steeled himself when his hand found Fenris's hardness. "Slowly, love," he cooed.

"No, please, I _need_ you," Fenris pleaded, desperation in his voice.

"All right, all right," said Fletcher softly, his hand circling Fenris's length and the elf shuddered, his hands gripping the soft flesh on Fletcher's back. "That's it, Fen, hold me," Fletcher breathed, all of his concentration on Fenris's pleasure as he found a rhythm, and he bit his lip hard, inhibiting a whimper, when Fenris's nails dug into him and warm fluid poured into his hand.

"It's all right." Fletcher panted, stroking the now-limp elf's hair, slowly removing his other hand from Fenris's breeches, feeling the elf push against him as one final spasm rocked Fenris's slender body. "It's all right," he repeated, peppering the elf with tiny, soft kisses as Fenris lay trembling and moaning beneath him.

One of Fenris's hands jerkily moved to Fletcher's own groin but Fletcher steered it away, laying it over the elf's chest and stroking it. "Shh," Fletcher intoned with a kiss to Fenris's forehead. Fenris mumbled something in protest, but was too drowsy to raise his hand with Fletcher's covering it.

After a moment, the elf's breathing slowed and he curled against Fletcher's chest, not daring to open his eyes for fear of losing the sensation, the moment, for fear of it all having been a dream. He felt large arms envelop him and buried his face in the warmth and softness of Fletcher's musky skin.

"How do you feel, Fen?" Fletcher asked, bringing him back from the edge of sleep, but the mage's voice did not jolt him; it was warm and deep and hummed in his ears, sending a fine tremor along his body.

"I… I feel…" Fenris's breath moistened Fletcher's chest and Fenris nuzzled into it, feeling his body lighten as sleep once again returned to claim him.

"I feel… normal," he slurred softly. " _Normal_. Th-thank you, Fletcher. _Thank_ you."

Warmth coursed through Fletcher's body and he once again kissed Fenris's forehead, closing his eyes with a huge, indolent smile on his face.

"Goodnight," he murmured, but Fenris was already asleep.


	55. End of the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. It's been a long time and I'm not sure what it is I can feel. I just… I need to get out of this tunnel. Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary, thank you sincerely for your beta. You've been missed.
> 
> Also, thank you to Wandering Lily, who was the unwitting inspiration for Isabela's sea shanty.
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 19/12/2015

When Fletcher reluctantly opened his eyes, the quiet chatter he could hear from the main chamber told him that the new, smaller group was up and about. He stretched out an arm, finding an empty space next to him. Then, upon hearing quiet movements to his left, he shifted beneath the blanket that had been placed over him, along with his robe.

Fenris, who was dressed and fully-armoured, was kneeling next to the fire, making two mugs of tea from a small cauldron of hot water. He was taking great care not to make any unnecessary noise and Fletcher smiled, knowing from the two mugs that Fenris was about to wake him anyway.

Cringing as the spoon slipped out of his fingers and clattered against one of the mugs, Fenris glanced anxiously at Fletcher, only to be greeted with a wave and a sleepy grin. Fenris nodded and quickly turned away, but not before Fletcher caught a glimpse of flushed cheeks and a toothy smile, which was quickly hidden as Fenris pressed his lips together.

Fletcher sat up, the lower part of his body still covered by the blanket and robe, and watched Fenris finish the tea, the elf's every movement precise and deliberate. Fenris then stood and carried the mugs over to him, placing one down next to Fletcher before kneeling in front of him.

"Tea," said the elf. "And… good morning."

"Good morning." Fletcher smiled and picked up his mug, blowing on its contents. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, trying to catch Fenris's eye, but the elf's hair hung over his face, not quite obscuring his mouth, which curved upwards slightly at the edges.

Fenris nodded and took a sip of his tea. "I slept as well as I usually do. I awoke several times, but when I did… _you_ were there." Again, he sipped his drink, the veins in his hands bulging as he gripped the mug tightly, and glanced at Fletcher briefly, the edges of his eyes crinkling.

"I'll _always_ be there," Fletcher promised softly, scrutinising the elf for any signs of anxiety, tension or regret and finding none, but that was no guarantee Fenris did not feel them, and Fletcher prepared himself for that eventuality.

"I need not ask if _you_ slept well," said Fenris, a smile in his voice as he set his mug down. "I don't believe you awoke once or changed position the entire night."

"I always sleep like that when I'm happy." The mage inched closer to Fenris. "Are _you_ happy? Was everything all right last night?"

Silently, Fenris shuffled closer. Raising his head, he gave Fletcher a look so full of admiration and longing that the mage's breath caught. When Fenris's hands caressed Fletcher's cheeks and he leaned into him, their lips meeting, a quiet moan left the mage's mouth, growing louder when Fenris pulled back, leaving Fletcher bereft and hungry for more.

"Well, that answers _that_." Fletcher chuckled, his own cheeks flushing.

Fenris's eyes moved to the mouth of the tunnel and he listened to the various voices that came from outside. "Last night… you made me feel…" He lowered his head, his eyes hooded, and his fingers stilled against Fletcher's cheeks.

"Normal?" ventured the mage softly.

Fenris rested his forehead against Fletcher's. "'Normal' is woefully insufficient. You… you made me feel… like a person. A living, breathing _person._ It-it was… wonderful." He moved back slightly and looked at the tunnel entrance again. "Perhaps when we are alone again, you will permit me to… return the favour?"

Heat surged through Fletcher's core and he swallowed hard, running his hands up and down Fenris's arms. "Uh, well, we'll be going through the tunnel today, so there won't be much opportunity for privacy… will you be all right with that, by the way?" He cringed as something stirred beneath his blanket. "When-when we get to the next chamber, though, I'll find us somewhere to go. I-I mean, not just for _that,_ but just to talk or to be alone, you know. Um…"

Fenris looked on in amusement, his head cocked to one side, as the mage stuttered his answer. "Shall I take that as a 'yes', then?" asked the elf mischievously, tickled by Fletcher's bumbling.

"Oh, yes, I…" Fletcher started to laugh, amazed that, as someone who used to be able to stroll into a brothel and ask quite plainly for what he wanted, he was now reduced to a gibbering fool by a quiet, unassuming elf. "I mean… well, that would be lovely. Nice. I mean… oh, bloody hell, what's _wrong_ with me?"

Fenris, also laughing, brought his hands to rest on Fletcher's shoulders as the mage pulled him close. "Nothing," he uttered quietly, kissing the top of Fletcher's head, his hands sliding down the mage's bare shoulder blades, feeling Fletcher's warm lips brush against his throat. "There is nothing wrong at all." Fenris then abruptly released Fletcher and stood up. "I-I think you should clothe yourself," he advised, snatching their mugs and hurrying over to the fire. "You will catch cold."

 _"Cold,_ eh?" Fletcher grinned, trying to glimpse Fenris's front, but the shrewd elf had his back to him. "Yes, good idea," he said, slipping his robe over his head. "Before we _both_ catch cold."

The elf gave no reply save a low chuckle, almost--but not completely--dismissed by the clearing of his throat.

~o~O~o~

When they emerged, breakfast had been started by Thirin and Sheldon, while Vonim and Torbal had already started on the grog, which had been deemed fit to drink by the dwarves.

"Isn't it a little early for that?" Fletcher laughed as an overflowing mug was thrust into his hand.

"You humans and your sodding etiquette!" Vonim scoffed. "You gotta have a bracer with breakfast! We're late by Orzammar standards! We've already wasted a couple of hours of good drinkin' time! Get it down you, Mage!" A further mug was passed to Fenris, who sniffed at the contents and frowned.

"After you," Fenris invited, an eyebrow twitching. "You _are_ our leader, after all."

With a sour look at the elf, Fletcher raised the mug to his mouth and screwed his eyes closed as he took a gulp of the cloudy, grey-brown liquid.

"Nyeargh!" He shuddered, the spray that burst from his mouth narrowly missing Fenris. "My-my throat feels like it's on fire!" he gasped, rubbing his windpipe, and then his eyes moved to Fenris, whose smug smile rapidly melted away. _"Your_ turn, Elf."

With a quiet sigh and a solemn nod, Fenris brought the mug to his lips, suddenly aware that several pairs of eyes were on him. As he took the noxious-smelling liquid into his mouth, his expression stayed impassive. Vonim, who'd expected Fenris to react as Fletcher had, laughed and nodded his approval, impressed by the elf's stoicism.

"Interesting flavour," Fenris calmly commented before knocking back the remainder of the mug's contents.

 _"Interesting?_ It tastes like bloody lava!" Fletcher croaked, his voice cracking.

"I rather like it," Fenris replied with a small smile, holding his mug out for a refill.

"The elf approves!" Vonim loudly announced, and a small queue formed next to the bathtub. The only others not partaking were Anders and Sebastian, who joined Fletcher and Fenris.

"At least have something to eat first!" Anders warned the workers, his advice falling on deaf ears. "Hawke, we have a lot to do today. We've got to get the equipment and food into the tunnel."

"Ah, let them have a bit of fun," Fletcher said with a wave of his hand. "I'd rather have relaxed workers than quarrelsome or tense ones. So long as a _few_ of us stay in control," he added with a sly look at Fenris, who was finishing his second mug. Wiping his mouth, Fenris smiled blearily at Fletcher, who grabbed the mug from him and pointed to where Thirin was frying sausages. "No more for you until you've lined your stomach. Eat."

"Fine, _Master of the Grog,"_ the elf grumbled with a surly glare but Fletcher, who by now knew the difference between Serious-surly Fenris and Pretend-surly Fenris, laughed after the elf as he stalked away.

"Not drinking, fellas?" Varric queried, walking over to them with Isabela.

"Have you actually _tasted_ it, Varric?" Fletcher asked. The dwarf answered by raising his mug to the mage before knocking the contents back. Fletcher shook his head. "You're all insane."

Isabela stepped forward, having brought two mugs with her. "Anders? Sebastian? Can I tempt you?"

Anders briefly looked up from his maps and quickly shook his head before turning away. Sebastian, however, was more courteous. "Alas, madam, I do not partake of alcoholic beverages," he said with a warm smile.

"Ah well," she said to Varric, "more for you and me, I suppose. And will you stop calling me bloody madam?" she scolded Sebastian. "I'm not an old maid yet, you know!"

"Forgive me. How _should_ I address you?" 

Her eyes lit up. "Now _there's_ an invitation. Call me whatever you like, handsome. I… could give you a few suggestions, if you'd like? Perhaps in private?"

"Careful, Sebastian," warned Fletcher. "She used to call _me_ handsome."

That was before I knew about you and Fenris." She laughed, glancing at the elf, who was busy filling two plates for him and Fletcher. "I wouldn't dare encroach on his territory… not unless you two feel like experimenting?" she added with a wink.

"We don't, but thanks all the same," Fletcher replied good-naturedly, while Anders shook his head and walked away, still engrossed in his maps. Fletcher caught a fleeting look of irritation in Isabela's eyes before her smirk returned and she sidled closer to Sebastian.

"Call me anything you like, Blue Eyes," she invited. "Peaches, Sweetcheeks, anything along those lines."

"How about 'Isabela'?" Sebastian suggested with a chortle.

"That'll do at a pinch, I suppose." She mock-pouted, shoving the mugs of grog into Fletcher's hands and crooking her arm. "How would you like to escort me over to breakfast?" Sebastian bowed, took her arm and they walked away, with Isabela shooting another wink over her shoulder at Fletcher.

"What am I supposed to do with these?" he complained, holding up the mugs.

"I will trade you one for a plate of food," offered Fenris, who had sneaked up behind Fletcher. Fletcher turned around, seeing that Pretend-surly Fenris now wore a crafty smile.

"Deal," answered the mage. "But you're not drinking it until you've eaten."

"Yes, _Father,"_ Fenris joked as they exchanged plate and mug, and Fletcher burst out laughing.

"Now, now, don't get having a domestic," Varric teased. "Guess I'd better get _myself_ some grub before there's none left. Later," he said with a nod, and walked off, alone. Fletcher watched him, feeling a sudden pang of sadness as it occurred to him that Varric was without his Sunshine, and he wondered how the dwarf was feeling about that.

"Fen, I'll be over in a bit," he told the elf. "I just need to speak to Varric for a minute."

Fenris returned to his and Fletcher's spot just outside tunnel two, while Fletcher moved to the dwarf's side and stood next to him as he piled his plate with bacon, bread and dried fruits.

"Don't tell me you've eaten that already, Hawke," said Varric, cocking an eyebrow when he noticed Fletcher's plate was still full.

"Oh, no, not really," Fletcher mumbled casually. "I was just thinking about Mother and Beth, wondering how they were getting on, you know."

Varric grinned up at his friend. "Feeling homesick?"

Fletcher shrugged. "I haven't really given it much thought. We've been so busy, but now things have settled down a bit, I have been thinking about them. How about you?"

Realising what Fletcher was doing, Varric chuckled to himself. "Well, sure, I've been thinking about Sunshine, but I won't get maudlin. Just remember why we're down here in the first place, to give her and your ma a better life. Imagine their faces when you buy them that mansion and those fancy clothes."

Fletcher smiled in response before his expression turned pensive. "Do you _really_ think there are fabulous riches to be had down here? Honestly?"

"Hard to say, Hawke. So far, all we've encountered are dusty chambers, but we're not far in yet. I guess if nothing turns up I could claim ownership of the caves and rent them out? What do you think?"

"You didn't have much luck doing that with Petrice's safehouse, did you?"

"Hey, we just had a little setback with that, that's all. Aveline said she'd hold off the Chantry until we return, so I'm still optimistic."

Fletcher smiled. "Varric, the property tycoon."

"Oh, I'm not greedy, Hawke, I'll settle for owning just half of Kirkwall. With you as my agent, of course."

"I'll certainly consider it, if we _don't_ all become stinking rich."

~o~O~o~

After a leisurely breakfast, and at Anders's insistence, Fletcher rallied the workers into action, although progress was slow as their wits had been somewhat dulled by the grog. Eventually, the group moved into the tunnel, each worker further slowed by the tools and provisions they carried. After a few hours of foot-slogging, the workers started to tire--as well as sober up--so Fletcher called a halt for a break.

Tea was brewed up, and the remainder of the booze, which most of the workers had filled their waterskins with, was imbibed. A lackadaisical mood settled over the group which, to Anders's irritation, Fletcher did nothing to discourage.

"We _need_ to get going, Hawke," he urged as he paced back and forth.

"Why? What's the hurry? Why are you so on edge?" Fletcher asked, taking him aside.

"I don't know, just a feeling. I'm… uncomfortable."

Fletcher glanced back at the group and lowered his voice. "Are you sensing darkspawn?"

Anders sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. It's been a long time and I'm not sure _what_ it is I can feel. I just… I need to get out of this tunnel. Please."

"All right, then." Fletcher laid a hand on Anders's shoulder and turned back to the group. "We've had long enough to rest! Let's get going!"

Amid a few groans, the workers got to their feet.

"This reminds me of the grog my boys used to brew up on the Siren's Call," Isabela said with a wistfulness Fletcher hadn't heard before as she drank the last of her booze.

"Ah… was your ship?" he asked from behind her.

"Yes, that was her." She sighed, wriggling as she struggled with her heavy pack. "We had some good times aboard the old girl."

"May I carry that for you?" Sebastian offered, reaching for her pack. She startled, sending it to the ground with a loud thump.

"What have you _got_ in there?" Fletcher asked, moving next to her.

"Oh, nothing!" she exclaimed with a nervous laugh, hastily grabbing the pack and hefting it over her shoulder. Fletcher caught sight of a large, square-shaped object bulging through it.

"Isabela, if you have anything unnecessary in there, you need to leave it behind," he said sternly. "We have enough stuff to carry as it is."

"It-it's a book," she stammered, her cheeks reddening. "A very old book of sea shanties. It's the only thing I managed to salvage from the shipwreck and I won't part with it. I'll manage," she said with determination.

"Fine. But if you're having trouble with it, let someone else carry it for a bit."

"Thanks for the offer," she replied, keeping a tight grip of the straps of the pack. "Well!" she chirped, eager to change the subject. "How about I sing you all a shanty, put a spring in our steps, eh?"

Receiving an enthusiastic response from the group, she glanced through her lashes at Sebastian. "Might want to cover your ears for _this_ one, my handsome Chantry lad."

"I'm sure it contains nothing I haven't heard before," he said with an easy grin.

"Is that so?" She winked at him and cleared her throat as the group got underway. "This is called 'Ode to sweet Fanny'."

"Ode to someone's sweet ass?" Torbal shouted up the tunnel.

"'Fanny' has quite a _different_ meaning where I come from," said Fletcher, wiggling his eyebrows, and some of the humans sniggered.

"No, you dolts! Not _that_ kind of fanny! It's a woman's name!" Isabela groaned, rolling her eyes. "Now pay attention!" She cleared her throat again.

"There once was a sailor named Jack 'Woody' Naylor  
And how did he come by his nickname, asks thee?  
I'll tell thee a story t'in parts be quite gory  
And serves as a warning to them's new to the sea.

Bein' on his last voyage, then home to the missus,  
Ol' Jack was a-wishin they'd about turn and flee  
'Cause his wifey awaitin' had him damn near to faintin'  
Bein' cold as a blizzard and cruel as the sea.

Too many long years he'd steered that ol' tugboat  
With her crow's nest unkempt and as sour as a pickle  
Her riggin' had slackened and had long headed southward  
An' her waters had dried to nary a trickle."

Some of the workers laughed and those whose hands were free, clapped along with Isabela's singing.

"…Ol' Jack knew he'd be needin' to please 'er  
Upon his return to the marital home  
With his heart in his boots, he sat on the poop  
An' took out his last ration o' sweet golden foam.

He chugged at the nectar 'til long after sundown  
And, loaded to the gills, he lurched to his feet  
He took a last stroll to the bow o' the vessel  
Where he met with a sight that he'd not soon forget.

For there was a maiden as fair as the mornin'  
Her hair was a curtain o' gleamin' spun silver  
Her futtocks were trim an' her bridge, pert and fulsome  
An' her fender was round and had Jack all-a-quiver.

Jack soon got the horn in the face o' this beauty  
An' asked her by what name she 'ferred to be called  
With a wink and a leer, she beckoned him near  
An' told him that _Fanny_ left no man blue-balled.

'I love thee, sweet Fanny!' ol' Jack did declare  
His trousers, amidships, pulled down to his knees  
With a tug of his pants, his beam at half-mast  
Ran aground, finding naught but the tangy sea breeze.

'You've no bloody hatch, wench!' Jack dourly exclaimed  
An' reached into his pocket, pullin' out his pen knife  
With which he did scuttle, and carved out a niche  
Then he took his young Fanny as a man would his wife."

"The dirty bastard!" Fletcher exclaimed, while Sebastian shook his head, but was smiling.

"…With the deed done, ol' Jack fell, groggy and spent  
His seamen all scattered, an officer's mess  
His satisfied slumber was gi'en the heave-ho  
When the Cap'n demanded that ol' Jack confess:

'What have ye done to our masthead?' cried he  
Then spotted that somethin' 'bout Jack was amiss  
Though angered, he called for the surgeon then warned,  
'After treatment, ol' Jack, ye'll be keel-hauled fer this!'

But the Cap'n took pity when apprised o' Jack's fate  
'Cause the poor man was splintered from bulkhead to balls  
So with medicine harsh, and a ruined half-mast  
Ol' Jack bore the unkindest cut of 'em all!"

Isabela laughed as several members of the group winced, but was glad to see that her ditty had been well-received. "Well?" she asked Sebastian, surprised he didn't look as outraged, or embarrassed, as she'd expected.

"Very amusing, Isabela. It might surprise you to learn that I know a few bawdy limericks myself. Would you care to hear one?"

"This oughta be good," Varric muttered to Fletcher.

The pirate halted and folded her arms, a cheeky grin on her face. _"Please."_

Sebastian cleared his throat.

"The sea captain's tender young bride  
Fell into the bay at low tide.  
One could tell by her squeals,  
That some of the eels  
Had discovered a good place to hide."

Silence and stunned stares accompanied the end of Sebastian's limerick, before a few quiet chuckles turned into guffaws. Soon, everyone was laughing, some in disbelief.

"Oh, Sebastian! Wherever did those eels hide?" Isabela asked saucily.

"Why, in her petticoats, of course," he answered, feigning innocence. "Where else?"

Varric walked up to Sebastian, extending his hand. "Very few things leave me speechless, but that was one of them. Put it there." Sebastian shook his hand and laughed. "Hey, Choirboy. Do you know the one about the elven sailor from the Dales? The one with the jar?"

"Aye, I heard that one on the way over here from Starkhaven. Although I couldn't possibly recite it in front of a lady."

"Do you _see_ any ladies here?" an indignant Isabela challenged, hands on hips.

For a moment, Sebastian looked about to relent, but shook his head. "I'm sorry, I can't. It wouldn't be proper."

"I'll tell it, then," Varric volunteered. "Hey, listen up, Broody! You might like this one!" Fenris, who was further up the tunnel, stopped and listened to the dwarf.

"There was an old cove from the Dales,  
An expert at pissing in gales;  
From the top gallant spar, he'd piss in a jar,  
Without ever wetting the sails.

"Whaddy'a think, Elf? You like that one?"

"And why would I, in particular, enjoy a tale about a man whose only talent was urinating into a jar?"

"Well, because he was an elf, Elf! And an elf with a special talent, at that!"

"I would rather _not_ be known for a 'talent' like that." Fenris rolled his eyes and continued on his way.

"How about an elf with a talent for rhymes, then?" Varric asked as Fenris's eyes narrowed slightly. "No? Ah, such a shame. I guess it was too much to ask." Varric sighed dramatically, hanging his head for good measure as he overtook the elf.

"One moment, Dwarf." Fenris's eyes moved to one side as he thought for a minute. He then faced Varric. "'I am a dog, and you are a flower. I raise my leg, and give you a shower'. Does that please you? Am I… 'talented', now?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed back to join Fletcher, who was doubled up with laughter.

"You asked for that!" Fletcher chortled. The stunned dwarf could only gawk and nod in agreement.

Now in high spirits, the group made good time through the tunnel. Following another, longer break for a meal, they reached the next chamber just as the sun would be setting up on the surface.

The new chamber was huge, with no fewer than fourteen tunnels running off it, as well as several small antechambers and recesses. "Hey, Fen," Fletcher whispered as they looked around. "We'll have to go exploring later on, find that little quiet place for us, yes?"

Fenris nodded and smiled up at Fletcher. "I will begin now, while you and Anders prepare the fires."

"Eager, aren't you?" Fletcher teased with a nudge to his arm.

"Actually," the elf whispered, "I need to 'water the flowers'. Quite urgently."

"Fair enough! Do you need a jar? You could impress Varric with your accuracy."

"If you persist in your wittering, Mage, there won't be a jar large enough," Fenris replied impatiently, fidgeting on the spot, and passed Fletcher his torch. "Excuse me."

Fletcher beamed as he watched the elf scurry away towards a small tunnel, overjoyed to see his sense of humour breaking through. "Don't go too far in!" he warned the elf. "We don't know if it's safe yet."

"That is no longer a consideration," Fenris called back, his voice strained as he halted at the tunnel entrance and fumbled with his breeches, frowning over his shoulder. "Shoo!"

"I'm going!" Fletcher walked away, laughing, hearing the hiss of water hitting rock, and a long, relieved groan from behind him.

~o~O~o~

Once the fires had been lit, and the equipment and provisions stored, the workers started to prepare supper and find their sleeping spots for the night. Fenris had found a small, L-shaped antechamber that he judged suitable for their purposes, offering adequate privacy for undressing, if not for returning of _favours._ While he moved his and Fletcher's belongings into it, Fletcher sought out Anders, who was reconnoitering the various exits from the chamber.

"How are you feeling now?" he quietly asked his fellow healer.

Anders considered his answer for a moment before sighing. "I still don't feel right, Hawke. I can't even explain it. I just… I feel like something bad's going to happen."

Alarmed, Fletcher steered Anders further away from the group. "How do you mean? Something bad? Like what?"

"I'm sorry, I just don't know." Anders looked up at the ceiling of the chamber, his posture slumping. "I feel… trapped. I keep getting urges to just run out of here up to the surface." He fidgeted and scratched the back of his neck. "Don't worry, though, it's a fleeting thing. I'm not going to crack up on you or anything," he added with a hollow laugh that Fletcher didn't return.

"Have you had feelings like this before? Could you be claustrophobic?"

Anders's gaze wandered to the main body of the group. "The only other time I felt like this was when I was in solitary," he whispered.

Fletcher nodded calmly, although his stomach dropped. "And what about Justice? Have you been communicating with him?"

Anders shook his head. "Justice has been unusually quiet since we came down here. It's a strange feeling, but I suppose nothing has happened to stir him."

"Are you going to be all right?"

"I might just be tired. You and I discussed the possibility that some of us might get the jitters when we're deep underground. According to the maps, we're about a mile below ground level. All that solid rock above us… not really the stuff of bedtime stories, is it?"

"No." Fletcher placed a hand on Anders's shoulder. "Do you and Varric sleep close together? Fenris and I were going to go over there," he pointed to where the elf was puttering outside the antechamber, "but we can sit with you tonight, if you'd like some company. Fenris won't mind."

"No, that won't be necessary, Hawke." Anders forced a smile. "Varric will be close by. Maybe… maybe I need an early night. Think I'll turn in after supper. I appreciate your concern, though. Do you want to give me a hand with the wards?"

"I will in a minute, Anders," replied Fletcher, looking at Varric, who, as usual, had found something else to do when the rest of the group was hard at work: he was polishing Bianca in a corner, discreetly observing the others. "I'm just going to have a word with Varric."

"You don't need to tell him to look after me," Anders said with a genuine smile.

"Who said anything about that? I'm going to consult with my fellow investor, that's all," replied Fletcher, also smiling as he walked over to the dwarf.

"How are things, Varric?" Fletcher asked, squatting down next to his friend.

"The Rivaini. Does she seem a little… skittish to you, Hawke?"

Fletcher frowned and looked around, locating Isabela, who was also avoiding doing any real work by entertaining the workers with tales of her life at sea. "Skittish? What do you mean?"

"I mean since she dropped her pack and said something about that book. I know her a little better than you do, Hawke, and that wasn't a normal reaction for her at all. She's as smooth as a mage's bottom when explaining her way out of things, and she was about as smooth as a _dwarf's_ hairy ass when asked about her book."

"What's that brain of yours up to now?"

"I wanna take a look at that book. I hear she's writing a story about a certain mage and a certain elf and I want to check out my competition. When she's asleep, I'll take a peek."

"And does that mean I'll get a peek at this story _you're_ writing about me, Fenris and Anders? The _love triangle?"_

Varric's eyes slowly met those of his young mage friend, and one edge of his mouth twitched. "Sunshine?"

"Sunshine."

"I'll have to have a little _talk_ with Sunshine when we get back."

"Don't change the subject, Dwarf. Are you going to let me read it or not?"

Varric sighed and idly rubbed his jaw. "Okay, but… I wouldn't advise letting the elf read it."

"Don't tell me you've put him and Anders together. _Please_ don't tell me that. Do you _know_ what he'd do to you if he found out?"

"Look. If you're not gonna like the contents, don't read it," teased the dwarf.

"Luckily for you, I promised Fenris I wouldn't keep any more secrets from him, so I guess I'll give it a miss." Fletcher pushed himself up as his knees were aching, and stretched his arms. "Will you do me a favour? Keep an eye on Anders for me. I think he's feeling a little twitchy down here. I'm going to watch him as well, but if you spot anything untoward, will you let me know?"

"Count on it, Hawke," promised Varric, also pushing up to his feet. "Well, I'd better do my share and help out with supper."

"Very generous of you, considering it's almost done." Fletcher shook his head, feigning disapproval, but couldn't help smiling.

"Didn't see _you_ helping out," Varric answered with a winsome grin as they walked over to the giant pot of stew that had been prepared.

 _"I'm_ seeing to everyone's well-being, which is just as important as cooking… and polishing Bianca, apparently. _Again."_

"Polishing Bianca is of vital import to our mission," claimed the dwarf. "You wanna be the one facing down one of those blackspawn thingies when Bianca decides to lock up because she hasn't been getting the proper attention? You want me to help out with the cooking at the expense of Bianca's upkeep? Fine. Your funeral, Mage."

"You're nothing but a knave and a cad, you know that?"

"Why, thank you, my friend," Varric replied with a sweeping bow, and they moved into line for their supper, still chuckling.

~o~O~o~

Full and sleepy after supper, most of the expedition workers settled down for the night, though a small group stayed up, sitting around the fire in the main chamber. Anders showed no sign of relaxing. In fact, he'd appeared to become more tense, but Varric assured the concerned Fletcher that he'd do his best to settle the other mage, and would stay awake until Anders fell asleep.

Fletcher and Fenris eventually bedded down in their little antechamber. After talking for a while, and a fair amount of petting--which Fenris called a halt to when Fletcher let out an involuntary moan loud enough to be heard outside--they wrapped arms and blankets around each other and drifted off to sleep.

"Hawke! _Hawke!_ Wake up! You too, Elf!"

"Uh? Whassat?" Fletcher blinked several times, rubbing his eyes to focus his vision, finding an agitated-looking Varric leaning over him. Fenris moved rather more quickly and was up on his feet, sword at the ready, before Fletcher managed to sit up.

"It's Blondie! There's something wrong with him!" Varric ran out of the chamber and, after pulling Fletcher up by his arm, Fenris--already clothed in shirt and leggings--quickly followed.

Woozy from the rush of blood to his head, Fletcher hurriedly threw his robe on and jogged to where Varric and Fenris were standing over Anders, who was shouting out in his sleep. A small crowd of awakened workers gathered round, making way for Fletcher as he arrived.

"I can't wake him!" Varric hissed, grabbing Anders by the shoulder and shaking him. "Blondie! Can you do anything, Hawke?"

"Leave him alone, you bastards!" Anders wailed as he thrashed around.

"Get rid of them, Varric," Fletcher muttered, crouching next to his stricken friend. "Fen, I'm going to cast. Move back, please."

Fenris paused for a moment before nodding and retreating to the antechamber, realising Fletcher and Anders would want some privacy, but he watched closely from a distance.

"Okay, everyone, nothing to see here," Varric announced confidently. "Kid's having a bad dream, that's all. Back to bed. Off you go." Slowly at first, the small crowd dispersed, hastened by Fletcher's stern, protective glance at them.

"Come forward," Fletcher whispered, placing his hands on Anders's brow and reciting a reverse sleep spell. Anders's eyelids twitched a few times and then flew open. He shot up into a sitting position, grabbing Fletcher roughly by the shoulders.

"Ruben!" he cried, pulling Fletcher against him and holding onto him for dear life. "I'm so, _so_ sorry! Please, don't ever leave me again! I won't let them hurt you, I swear!"

"Anders… it's me, _Hawke."_ Fletcher frowned in concern as Anders whimpered against his shoulder. "Shh. It's all right, you had a nightmare. You're _safe."_

Varric backed away and walked to Fenris's side, where they exchanged a glance before turning their attention back to the mages. Most of the other members of the group were also watching, but did so from their bedrolls. Sebastian, who had slept in the mouth of a tunnel, stood there but kept out of sight, not wanting to intrude.

"H-Hawke?" Anders pulled away, wiping his eyes, and caught his breath before his eyes widened again and he started to pant. "They're here!" he cried. Fletcher placed a finger to his own lips, stroking Anders's hair with his other hand.

"Who, Anders? The darkspawn?" he whispered.

Anders nodded quickly, taking several deep breaths.

"Where? How far?"

"I-I need to…" Still panting, Anders scrambled for his maps and glanced around the chamber, his eyes eventually settling on a wall facing in a south-westerly direction. "That way," he said, and closed his eyes. "Shit. I didn't think… so soon… I-I can't…"

"Anders," Fletcher said firmly, grabbing him by the arms. "How far?"

Anders gulped and attempted to focus on the maps. After a minute, he sighed and his head fell back. "We're all right, but they're heading in the direction of Bartrand's party. I don't know how far in they are, but the darkspawn will have reached the chamber they're heading for by morning."

"How many?"

"I don't know. I-I'm not a veteran warden… maybe twenty of them? But that's just a guess."

"Well done, Anders," Fletcher said, assisting him to his feet. "I need your help. Do you feel up to it?"

Anders quickly nodded and grabbed his staff. Fletcher then led him to where Varric and Fenris were standing.

"Darkspawn," Fletcher said quietly to the dwarf. "They're heading for Bartrand's party. We need to warn them, and fast."

"Oh, crap," Varric grumbled, slapping his forehead. "They already have a day's head start on us. Will we get to them in time?"

"We have until morning, according to Anders," Fletcher replied. "We won't be carrying any equipment and they'll hopefully have stopped once they reached the chamber on the map. With any luck, it'll take us no longer than four or five hours to reach them. It'll be tight, but we have to try."

"We'll need everyone who's able to fight," Anders added. "I'll do my best to protect them from the taint, but they must be warned about it. I won't force anyone to come."

"I will see to that," Fenris offered, heading for Sebastian's tunnel.

"I'll go and rustle up some dried food and stuff," said Varric, who moved away from the mages.

"I'm sorry about that, Hawke," Anders said with a weary sigh.

"Don't be silly. You warned me about this. I'm very grateful you're here. Don't apologise for potentially saving our lives, or the lives of Bartrand's party."

Anders nodded and hung his head. "I just hope we're in time. I know Bartrand's an arse, but I wouldn't wish the taint on anyone."

Fletcher patted Anders's back. "Are you all right now?"

"Yes," he mumbled, though the look in his eyes told Fletcher he was still troubled.

"Anders… I hope you don't mind me asking, but… who's Ruben?"

The colour drained from Anders's face and for a moment a look of panic gripped him. "No one," he answered briskly, clearing his throat. "I… I'd better get my clothes on." He walked away from Fletcher in a daze, while Fletcher was snapped out of his reverie by a nudge to his arm.

"Crewman Isabela reporting for duty, Cap'n!" the pirate, who had quickly dressed, cheerfully announced with a salute. "Ooh… can I be your first mate? Oh, go on. Please."

Fletcher shook his head and laughed in spite of himself. "I think Fenris will designate himself first mate, but you can be my best boy if you like, or best girl."

She grabbed Fletcher's arm and squeezed it. "I like the sound of that… Hawke's Best Girl. I still haven't entirely given up on you, you know. Even if you no longer have a beard. Did I ever tell you I like beards?"

"Sebastian has a beard, and so does Anders," he reminded her, and she grinned. "Do you know any more amusing sea shanties, Isabela? I have a feeling we're going to need to be cheered up before the night is out."

"I know plenty, don't you worry." She slipped her arm through Fletcher's and led him to the antechamber where he and Fenris had slept. "Need a hand putting your boots on?" she offered.

"No, but they need a hand over there." He pointed to where Fenris and Sebastian were speaking to some of the workers. "Sebastian's there, and _he_ has a beard."

"So he does! All right, then, off I go. I'll be back to check on you if you take too long," she promised, and turned around with a flourish, heading for the men.

"Whose bright idea was it to split the fucking group up? You idiot!" Fletcher berated himself, before shaking his head and going in search of his boots.

~o~O~o~

After a small team was assembled, Fletcher, along with Fenris, Anders, Varric, Sebastian, Isabela, Vonim--and two of the humans who had encountered darkspawn before, Bartley and Marston--set off down tunnel two, this time unimpeded by equipment. Thirin and Torbal were left in charge, having been assured by Anders that no darkspawn were headed in their direction.

They made fast progress and, after stopping for a five-minute toilet and drink break, Anders guessed that they were nearing the entrance. Fenris and Vonim scouted ahead, their weapons drawn, even though Anders had assured them they were in no immediate danger.

"What the fuck?" Vonim growled from up ahead. Fletcher's group halted for a split second before quickening their paces.

"Fletcher!" Fenris called and, as they rounded a corner in the tunnel, the group halted again, their mouths gaping open as one.

Their exit from the tunnel was completely blocked by countless boulders, which rose all the way up to the ceiling, a cloud of dust billowing outward.

"This can't be!" Varric cried, charging up to the collapse. "Blondie and I scouted this tunnel with two of the dwarves! They said it was completely safe!"

"Get back," Fletcher warned, but Vonim ignored him and carefully examined the pile.

"This happened recently," the dwarf determined, his expression grim. "I remember Bartrand discussing this tunnel. Said it was the safest of the lot. This _shouldn't_ have happened."

"Can we get around it? Through it?" Fletcher asked.

Vonim slowly shook his head. "These rocks have been packed together. If we try and move 'em, the whole lot could come down on our heads."

"What do you mean packed together?" Fenris demanded. "You almost make it sound deliberate."

"I'm not _almost_ anything, Elf," Vonim replied, his nostrils flaring. "If this collapse had occurred naturally, there would have been a lot more loose debris. These rocks have been _placed_ here, and the ceiling brought down on top of 'em."

"Are you saying this was done on purpose?" exclaimed Fletcher in horror.

"No doubt about it, son. Whoever did this, and you wouldn't need to be a genius to figure it out, didn't want us to leave this tunnel."

"Son of a bitch!" shouted Varric as the rest of the group stood in appalled silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isabela's sea shanty is my own (with a little refinement from Mary), but Sebastian/Varric/Fenris's limericks/rhymes came from utterpants.co.uk and coolfunnypoems.com (and were tweaked a little).


	56. By the Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Two queer nugs as our mascots. That just about sums up this whole sodding expedition, don't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you to beta extraordinaire Mary, for your speedy beta and for turning my ramblings into something readable. :-)
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 19/12/2015

"That bastard! I should have known he'd pull a stunt like this!" Varric covered his face with his hands, shook his head and turned away from the group, which was collectively staring, open-mouthed, at the collapse.

"But he's your _brother!_ Surely even _he_ wouldn't do a thing like that? Not to you?" Fletcher asked in disbelief, feeling his heart drop into his boots.

"I'm precisely the one he's done it to," Varric replied quietly, a slight waver in his voice as he turned back to his friend. "Damn, I'm sorry. All of you. I _never_ should have involved you all in our stupid rivalry! I never should have brought you down here!" 

Sebastian moved to his side, placing a consoling hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "Don't blame yourself, Varric. No one could have foreseen this."

Vonim stomped forward and waved a chunky finger. "Damn right! No one's to blame but that stone-humper Bartrand!"

"Agreed," said Fenris as he glowered at the pile of rocks. Then, seeing Fletcher's dejected posture, he decided action needed to be taken, and walked up to Anders, who was staring into space. "We have the maps, do we not?"

"Anders!" he barked when the mage didn't reply.

Anders jumped and blinked several times before fumbling through his pockets and producing the maps, which had started to tear under his constant handling, looking at them in a daze. 

With an impatient huff, Fenris snatched them from him and examined them. "We are here." He pointed to their current location and moved his finger along several paths leading from the main chamber from where they'd come. "What does this say?" he asked Anders, pointing at a blank section.

"Um… 'uncharted'," mumbled Anders with a quick glance at the map.

"'Uncharted'? How can that be? There is another section here," he pointed further up the map, "which seems to be attached to where we are. Why has no one documented the missing part?"

"I don't know, do I? I didn't draw the bloody thing!"

"Is there a blockage, a crevasse, or some other reason we cannot pass?"

"I _told_ you, I don't know!" Anders snapped as Fletcher moved beside the elf.

"What are you thinking, Fen?" he asked.

Fenris squatted down and placed the maps on the ground, fitting them together like pieces of a jigsaw. "The section we're in is linked to the other section by way of this tunnel," he said, pointing it out. "It ultimately leads to another Deep Roads entrance." He then glanced up at Anders. "At least I assume that is what this symbol denotes, as it matches the one at the place through which we entered?" Anders sighed and also crouched down, confirming Fenris's hypothesis with a nod. Fenris traced a route with his finger. "This appears to be our likeliest means of escape. What does this say? Where is this?" he asked Anders.

"That entrance is at the edge of the Planasene Forest, not far from Cumberland."

"Where's that? How long would it take us to get there?" Fletcher asked Anders, who shrugged dejectedly.

A sigh came from Varric. "At least six weeks above ground, Hawke, and probably longer down here. That is if we don't run into any _more_ problems along the way."

"So you do not _know_ what this is?" Fenris asked Anders again, pointing to the blank section of map.

"How many more times?" Anders exclaimed angrily. "I don't know! Do _you_? Why should _I_ know the answer to everything?"

"Gentlemen," Sebastian chided, "this is solving nothing. If that way is indeed our best chance, we should take it without delay. We're all shocked and not thinking straight. While we're quarrelling, we are still in this predicament, and going nowhere."

"All right, we'll go that way." Fletcher sighed, resigned, as he perused the map. "All other routes lead to dead ends or they're _also_ uncharted, anyway. We've got no choice--this is the only way that leads to the surface. We'll have to deal with the uncharted section of the map when we reach it. Are we all agreed?"

Slowly, the demoralised workers nodded or mumbled their assent.

"I hate to be the fly in the ointment," Isabela said, "but how much food do we have? We didn't plan to be here for six weeks, did we?"

"We have plenty," Fletcher answered immediately, avoiding Sheldon--the main cook's--concerned frown. "There'll be no more cooked breakfasts, though. We'll have to economise, but we _will_ manage."

Vonim grunted. "Let's get goin', then. We need to wake the others and make as much progress as we can. You humans up to it?" The human workers, now feeling more determined with the assurance that there was enough food, followed him as he disappeared around a bend. Gradually, Fletcher's friends went after them, leaving him alone with Fenris.

The elf quietly approached Fletcher, who was looking at the collapse and shaking his head. "Do we _really_ have sufficient food?"

Fletcher shook his head again. "Not nearly enough. Don't tell anyone," he said quickly, his head snapping round to face the elf, and then his shoulders slumped. "I know. I know you won't say anything. There's no point in causing a panic, is there? Maybe… maybe we'll think of something. I can make water, at least."

"As can I," Fenris told him with a straight face, "though I doubt anyone would drink it."

A tiny smile tugged at Fletcher's mouth, his breath rushing out in a hollow laugh. "That depends on how desperate we become." He eyed one of Fenris's leather-clad thighs and licked his lips, hoping to lighten the mood. "That's a prime piece of meat you have there." He gave one of the elf's buttocks a quick squeeze.

"Kindly desist from _groping_ me." Fenris deftly evaded Fletcher's grasp with a twist of his hips. "Must I keep one eye open when I sleep now, lest you decide to gnaw upon me?"

"Not only when you sleep," threatened Fletcher, snapping his teeth together in a biting motion.

"You are not without merit yourself." Fenris patted Fletcher's belly. "I claim this for my own. The fat should crackle quite nicely, plus any tallow by-product would be useful when lighting our torches."

Forgetting their situation for a moment, Fletcher crossed his arms and glared at Fenris. "Just try claiming my fatty belly with one leg, Elf. Or _none."_

"I have arms." Fenris folded them behind his back and bounced on his heels, an impish glint in his eyes.

"For now."

Losing the battle to subdue their smiles, both men laughed and Fletcher pulled Fenris against his chest, kissing the elf's forehead. "You make everything seem all right, Fen," he softly murmured.

"We _will_ manage." Fenris gazed up at him. "We are led by Fletcher Hawke."

"Right. What can possibly go wrong?"

Fenris laid a hand on Fletcher's back and steered him away from the collapse. "This is probably not the best time to mention this, but… it _is_ after midnight. Happy Naming Day."

Fletcher's eyes widened and he halted, as did Fenris. "It's today? Huh. I'd completely forgotten."

"I had not. Today is 13 Drakonis."

Fletcher forced a wan smile and draped his arm around Fenris's shoulders, sighing. "It hasn't gone well so far, has it?"

"On the contrary. This could be your finest Naming Day yet... the day on which your successful journey through the Deep Roads begins. The day on which you lead your friends to riches and glory."

"I appreciate your faith in me, Fen, but forgive me if I'm not as optimistic as you. Without enough food, we won't have the strength to carry all of our riches, if we ever find any."

"We will not starve," Fenris said confidently with a mild smile. "I have an idea. Worry no longer."

"Honestly? What?" Fletcher asked, the elf's confidence giving him hope.

"I will explain on the way." Fenris resumed his walk with Fletcher following.

"If this idea of yours doesn't work, may I still nibble your leg?" Fletcher asked hopefully. "I'll let you munch on my belly," he offered as recompense.

"Perhaps later," the elf said quietly, knowing flirting with Fletcher was usually guaranteed to raise a smile. Relieved to hear Fletcher's laughter, he grinned lopsidedly and began to explain his plan.

~o~O~o~

"We need to _what_?" Sheldon exclaimed once the group was back in the main chamber and they'd been apprised of Fenris's plan.

"We have to start breeding the nugs, as soon as possible," Fletcher reiterated.

"You _do_ know they're prolific breeders, don't you? And that they're sexually mature about a week after they're born?"

"That's what we're counting on. We have no fresh meat left besides the nugs, and the dried and salted meats are nearly gone."

Sheldon, with Thirin at his side, took Fletcher and Fenris away from the group. "I knew we didn't have enough food," said the human. "It's a good idea, but there's one problem--the nugs will also need to be fed."

"What do they eat?" asked Fenris.

"Anything," Thirin interposed. "We can feed 'em on leftovers, and just keep two pairs for breedin'. I haven't had nuglet for bloody ages," he said with a wistful sigh.

"Nuglet? You mean… baby nug?" asked Fletcher, his nose twitching.

"Aye. You don't even need to butcher 'em. You just hold 'em like this," he held his hands out as though grasping an ear of corn, "and tuck in. Delicious. The bones are nice and soft." He threw his head back and laughed when Fletcher gulped.

"Like this?" Fenris mimicked Thirin's hand movements and pretended to chomp down on invisible nug. His eyes moved to Fletcher's face and the mage's look of dismay made him chuckle softly. "At least this way my legs and your belly are safe."

"I don't think I _have_ an appetite for legs now, elf, nug or otherwise." Fletcher looked at a small group that had formed around the nugs, which were housed in a temporary pen made from broken-up crates.

"Hey, Hawke!" Isabela called to them. "We're taking bets on which nugs will cop off first. Care to take a punt?"

"In a minute," he called back, noticing that Varric had sneaked away from the group and was heading towards Isabela's pack, which was out of sight of the nug-watchers. "Fen, I'll see you in a bit. I'm going to see if Varric's all right."

"Of course." Fenris watched the mage go, before he felt a hand wrap around his arm and was being tugged towards the nugs by a grinning pirate.

"Hey," Fletcher whispered when he arrived at the dwarf's side.

Varric held a hand up. "Keep a lookout for me. I want to take a look at this friend fiction of the Rivaini's."

"Why don't you just ask her?"

"Nuh-uh. Us authors guard our creations jealously. She wouldn't let me within a mile of this thing. Now keep watch!"

"All right… keeping watch." Fletcher glanced around. At the far end of the chamber he could see Anders, who was adding salt to a large crater full of water. Sebastian was standing next to him, and they were talking quietly. Returning his attention to the main group, Fletcher turned his head back slightly. "Varric… are you all right? I mean with Bartrand."

"That bastard deserves everything he gets."

"But he's your brother. I know he's a shit, but I lost my own brother before I got the chance to-"

"Can we not do this now, Hawke?" Varric said sharply, making it clear his question was not a request.

Fletcher sighed, feeling concerned for his friend but not wanting to push him. "Sorry."

An exasperated groan was heard from behind him, followed by a pause. "Hawke, I'm sorry about your brother, truly I am. Just… not now, okay?"

"Have you found the book?" Fletcher asked, changing the subject.

"I've found _a_ book… but I'm darned if I'd write friend fiction in something like this. This thing must be worth a fortune! Take a look!"

With another glance around to ensure Isabela couldn't see them, Fletcher turned around, laying eyes on a large leather-bound book. Its cover was intricately detailed with red and blue mother-of-pearl inlays, and the edge of each page was trimmed with gold leaf. A huge, red gem was set in the centre of the cover. As Varric opened the book, a tiny cloud of dust billowed upward.

"If she's written in this lately, then I'm a son of a nug." Varric blew the dust away while Fletcher once again checked no one was watching. "What the hell? Hey, Hawke! What kind of language is this?"

Fletcher crouched down and cocked his head, frowning at the nonsensical words within the book. "Do the Rivaini have their own language?"

"Beats me, but _she_ didn't write this, that's for sure. I wonder who did? This looks old, Hawke. _Real_ old."

"I'll bet Fenris would know." Fletcher stood up.

"But he can't read, can he? Well, I know you're teaching him and all that, but I'm guessing he's not an expert just yet."

"No, but he _does_ know three languages, that I know of, anyway. He's encountered several races since his escape. We can try to read some of it to him, if we can pronounce it."

Varric also rose and pushed the book into Fletcher's hands. "Stay here. I'll go distract her and send the elf to you."

"All right, but be quick!" Fletcher intoned urgently. "I don't want to be caught snooping in a lady's pack!"

"You didn't, Hawke, I did. I'll take the rap if she finds out. Relax."

"He tells me to relax," Fletcher muttered to himself, waiting for what seemed like ages until Fenris started walking over to him.

"You wanted me?"

"Come here." Fletcher turned his back on the group and opened the book.

"What have you there?" Fenris asked, looking over the mage's shoulder.

"I need you to tell me if you know this language."

"What is it?"

"It's Isabela's. Varric wanted to take a peek because he thought it contained stories. But look." He flipped the cover closed. "She's pinched this from somewhere. She told me, before she sneaked into the expedition, that she needed to disappear for a while. She's in trouble of some kind, and I don't fancy meeting the owner of this book once we leave the Deep Roads. We need to know what it is."

"Wait…" Fenris's finger settled on a triangular symbol on the book's spine. "Open it," he said in a grave tone. "Read some of it to me."

Fletcher quickly glanced at the elf and, concerned by his expression, squinted to read the small script. "Um, it doesn't make any sense. Oh, here's a word I recognise... Arishok. Hey! Isn't that the name of the qunari leader in Kirkwall?"

"Indeed," Fenris said sourly. "Go on."

"Uh, well, 'Arishok' is repeated several times, as is… Ari-Ariqun?"

"And Arigena?"

"Yes…" Fletcher's face dropped and he closed the book, looking at Fenris. "You know what this is, don't you?"

"Arishok, Ariqun and Arigena comprise the Triumvirate, the three pillars of qunari society. This book may be of great significance to the qunari people. The pirate should _not_ have it in her possession. Even you and I are not worthy of handling it, if it is what I think it is."

Fletcher quickly bent down and carefully stowed the book in Isabela's pack before leading Fenris away from it. "And what do you think it is?"

"If I am not mistaken, it was penned by none other than Ashkaari Koslun."

"Koslun?" Fletcher's mind went back to his father's history lessons, his expression sobering. "You mean... the founder of the Qun philosophy?"

"You have heard the name. That is precisely who I mean."

Fletcher dropped his voice to a whisper. "Are you saying this is the qunari equivalent of the Chant of Light?"

"Possibly." Fenris's eyes moved to the nug-watching group. He frowned as a shrill squeal was heard, followed by a huge cheer. "If so, it is sacred to the qunari people."

"The qunari! Of all the bloody races, she had to steal _their_ holy book!" Fletcher clapped a hand over his eyes.

"Do not trouble yourself over it today. According to Varric, we have at least six weeks before we reach the surface. I will take a closer look at the book when the opportunity arises. If it is indeed the Tome of Koslun, it _must_ be returned to the Arishok. Do nothing for now--we must proceed with caution. It could be a forgery."

"And if it's not?"

"Then our duty is clear."

"But… they'll probably kill her, won't they?"

"Not necessarily, but her punishment will be severe. That will only happen if they _know_ who took it. She may not realise the Tome's importance. We may yet convince her of the error of her ways."

"Oh, Isabela…" Fletcher groaned, and Fenris tapped his arm, nodding over Fletcher's shoulder.

 _"There_ you are!" Isabela grabbed Fletcher's arm, causing him to startle. "What's the matter with you? You look all hot and bothered! Oh, wait. I didn't disturb anything, did I? I hope? Well, don't mind me! Just carry on and pretend I'm not here."

"What do you want?" Fenris asked impatiently.

"My horse came in!" She laughed, oblivious to the men's irritation. "We're betting on the next two now. Come on! And, oh! You _must_ see this. It's _so_ cute. You two will love it. Come on, then!"

Isabela placed herself between the two men and, linking arms with them, dragged them to the pen, where her 'horses' were merrily humping away, while the other nugs sniffed and played with each other.

"Just _look_ at those two." She pointed out a pair of nugs that were trying, without success, to mate.

"He's got the wrong hole," Fletcher observed, while Fenris tilted his head, taking a closer look.

"He has the wrong _sex._ He is attempting to mate with another male."

"They're for the pot, then," Thirin decided. "They're no good to us if they can't mate."

"No! No, it's a shame," protested Fletcher. _"Look_ at them, they're adorable!" The hapless male nugs had abandoned their attempts at mating, and were chasing each other around the pen.

"I told you!" chirped Isabela. As one, Torbal, Thirin and Vonim rolled their eyes and groaned.

"You humans!" Vonim said with distaste. "What do _you_ suggest we do with 'em, then?"

Sensing an opportunity to boost morale, Fletcher snapped his fingers and grinned. "They could be our mascots! Yes, the expedition mascots, to bring us luck!"

"Two queer nugs as our mascots. That just about sums up this whole sodding expedition, don't it?" Vonim grumbled, walking away and muttering under his breath.

"Let's give them names!" Isabela suggested. "Any ideas, Hawke?"

Glad that someone else shared his enthusiasm, he forgot his annoyance with Isabela for the time being and considered the frolicking couple. "I think _that_ one should be called 'Tufty'. Just look at his little patch of hair!"

"Oh, good name, Hawke! Hmm… the other one's all covered in bits of mud and stuff. How about 'Sprinkles'?"

"Yes! Everyone, this is Tufty and Sprinkles, our new mascots. They are _not_ to be eaten," Fletcher announced amid a few groans, as well as some laughter. "What do you think, Fen?"

"Do you _really_ want to know?"

"It's my naming day, remember," he reminded the elf. "You have to be nice to me."

With a world-weary sigh, Fenris folded his arms and looked morosely at Fletcher. "Those names are _perfect_. Is that what you want to hear?"

"I _knew_ you'd love them! Go on, pet them. Naming day, remember."

"Do not push your luck," Fenris warned, but Fletcher's ebullience meant that a smile lurked not far from the surface.

"I think Tufty likes you." Fletcher reached down to scratch the nug's head as it sniffed at Fenris through the fence. "Do you wike Fen-Fen? Do you? Yes, you do!" he said in a child-like voice.

"Ugh. Do mages _regress_ with each year that passes?" Fenris wondered to himself.

"Nope, just me." Fletcher winked at Fenris, who rolled his eyes. "Thanks for putting up with me," he whispered with a discreet nudge to Fenris's arm.

 _"Someone_ has to." The elf turned away from Fletcher before the mage saw his smile, but Fletcher already knew.

~o~O~o~

Later that night, Fenris and Fletcher retreated to their antechamber, where they had a reading lesson. Fletcher had decided to postpone his naming day celebration--not deeming it appropriate considering the situation they were in--although Varric had remembered, and had given Fletcher his greetings, as well as a present.

"I wanted to ask you something, Fen," said Fletcher once their lesson had ended. "Earlier, when you and Anders were bickering over the maps… you did that on purpose, didn't you? You deliberately riled him. He'd already given you an answer, but you kept on at him. I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just wondering why. You obviously had a reason."

Fenris nodded slowly with a wry smile. "Anders was shaken and had lost his focus. I gave it back to him. He is now committed to perceiving me as the irksome elf once again. My personal feelings aside, he is a vital member of this expedition and it will not do for him to lose sight of that."

"I knew it was something like that. Well, Anders may not have appreciated it, but I did. Thank you."

Fenris dipped his head. "What did the dwarf give you?"

"Hm?" Fletcher busied himself with tidying up the books, heat prickling at his cheeks.

"I saw him give you a book shortly after supper. Was it a gift?"

"Er… yeah," mumbled Fletcher. "Just a token, you know."

"You have stacked those books five times now." Fenris's eyebrow quirked with amusement at Fletcher's reddening cheeks. "Are you… hiding something from me?"

Fletcher grimaced and sat heavily next to the elf. "Sometimes it's _good_ to hide things."

"What is it?"

"All right… maybe it would be better if I read an excerpt to you, which would be preferable to showing you the _illustrations."_ Fletcher reached beneath his robes and produced a small book that he'd tucked inside his shirt. "Then you can decide if you want to hear any more of it." He cleared his throat and leafed through the small book. "'With the increase in popularity of sea travel, the ingress of many different races into the Free Marches has meant that couplings between humans and non-humans are inevitable'."

Fenris's other eyebrow rose, and he shuffled closer to Fletcher, indicating with a glance that he should continue.

Sighing, Fletcher went on. "'Of course, as many of the new races are either considerably shorter in stature or, conversely, much larger than humans, this can result in problems in the boudoir. This informative book provides advice and illustrations for those couples who find the logistics of the sexual act difficult due to such differences'." Fletcher closed the book. "It's a book of sexual positions, Fen. For couples with height differences."

"That was a thoughtful gift," remarked the elf evenly.

"It-it was." Fletcher dissolved into sudden laughter, mostly at Fenris's calm reaction.

"What is the book called?"

"'We're All the Same Lying Down'."

A deep, quiet chuckle emanated from the elf, and Fletcher again laughed, highly relieved that he'd seen the funny side. "And have you learned anything from this book?" Fenris queried.

"Well, like the book says, we're all the same lying down. There are a few interesting things in there, but nothing I didn't already know." Fletcher shrugged.

"You are… quite experienced, then?"

Fletcher looked warily at Fenris, unsure how his answer would be received.

"I am not judging you, I am merely curious. If the question was an inappropriate one, forgive me. I do not require an answer."

"Oh no, it's not that." Fletcher snaked an arm around Fenris's shoulders and exhaled. "It's just that most of my sexual experiences haven't really been… well, see what you think. When I was a teenager, there were a few disastrous fumbles with the local girls while I was trying to convince myself that I _liked_ girls. Turns out I didn't. Then there was Dalton."

Fenris touched his arm. "You do not need to…"

"No, it's all right. After him, I _knew,_ you know? But because of what happened, I lost interest. I was celibate for a good… five, six years. Then a bawdy house was opened outside the village." Fletcher smiled ruefully. "I went along out of curiosity, and ended up spending a week's wages."

Fenris looked at him, his expression soft. "Go on."

"Well, that's how I became experienced. Don't get me wrong--I wasn't in there every night, but now and again I treated myself. I became friends with a few of the men there, but there was never any love involved. It was the same when we arrived here. I went to the Rose, had a few nights there. I also heard casual encounters could be had along a stretch of the Wounded Coast on a Tuesday night, but that wasn't for me. I like to at least _see_ who I'm with."

Fletcher sighed and leaned back against the wall. "I may be experienced, but I've never… it's different with someone you care about. With you… well, I know we haven't, you know, properly… but even when you kiss me, I feel something deep inside." He laid his hand over his heart. "Something I've never felt before."

His eyes still on Fletcher, Fenris rested a hand on the mage's arm. "I feel it also."

"Do you… do _you_ want to talk about anything?" offered Fletcher, but Fenris shook his head.

"You are aware of _my_ experiences," he said quietly, without anger. "If there was anyone before, I do not remember."

"I'm sorry, Fen."

"There is no need." Fenris sat up straight and kissed Fletcher's cheek, still clasping his hand. "This is a new start for us both."

"A new start." Fletcher turned his head and kissed Fenris on the lips before sighing. "If we ever get out of here to enjoy that new start."

"Whatever fate awaits us, I will remain at your side always," Fenris said with conviction. "We will face it together."

"You know, that actually makes me feel better." Fletcher pulled Fenris closer, resting his cheek against the elf's silken hair. "Tomorrow, we'll find a suitable tunnel and we'll make a dent in that six weeks. I feel a bit more positive about it now, thanks to you."

"And we will find that place of yours where we can be alone."

"Yes, we'll find somewhere." Fletcher cleared his throat and sat up straight. "You never know, we might like it so much we'll decide to live there, and dine on nug for the rest of our lives."

Shaking his head, Fenris snorted softly. "But not Tufty or Sprinkles, presumably?"

"Not on your life." Feeling a stirring in his belly at the thought of being truly alone with Fenris, Fletcher reached for his pack, knowing the elf would not welcome any amorous advances while they were within earshot of the others. "Beth also bought me a book. A sensible one. It's not about sex or magic or medical curiosities. It's about Ferelden."

"Your home?" Fenris asked with interest.

"My former home."

Fenris squeezed his arm. "Read it to me?"

"We'll read it together. You're ready to move beyond children's books. It'll be difficult, but we'll just take one word at a time. I'll help you with the longer ones. Would you like that?"

Fenris smiled and nodded while Fletcher opened the book, placing it on Fenris's lap.

~o~O~o~

"Let's get these bagged up, and then get outta here. We don't have the maps, so we don't know where this tunnel leads, and I don't _wanna_ know. This lot'll bring us a pretty penny."

Angrim, Bartrand's partner, crouched down, bringing his torch closer to the cluster of clear gems that studded the walls of tunnel seven. "I still feel kinda bad about Varric, Bartrand. What if they all get trapped down there?"

"That brother of mine always rises to the top, like scum. This expedition was _my_ idea, and he and his friends decided they didn't like the way I ran it. Maybe he's re-thinking that right about now."

"He doesn't deserve to die," protested his partner.

"What did I just say, idiot? _They_ have the maps. They'll find a way out. Varric always did have all the luck. By the time they do, we'll be long gone. Now get harvesting!" He took out his knife and began chipping away at the stones.

"Uh, Bartrand? Did Gaar say the diamonds were here?"

"Are you retarded or something? There's the sodding marker! Now get on with it!" barked the ex-leader of the expedition.

"Bartrand… these are _not_ diamonds. This is quartz."

"Quartz, my ass! Gaar's an authority on precious stones! Why d'you think I brought him along? He's an expert on explosives as well. That's why I had him collapse tunnel two." Bartrand jabbed at his temple. "You see that ugly head of yours? Use it!"

Angrim stood up straight and grunted. "Yeah, he _is_ an authority on stones. He would have _known_ this was worthless. Any schoolboy can identify quartz, Bartrand! Look! The striations and formations of the crystals are completely wrong for diamonds!"

 _"What_?" Bartrand brought his face next to the crystalline cluster and frowned heavily, fury welling up inside him as he realised he'd been had. "That son of a bitch! I'll bet he's found something _really_ valuable in tunnel eight! Quick!" He stomped up the tunnel. Angrim, sighing, slowly followed.

When they'd gone a quarter of a mile or so, they hit a dead end.

"Did you take a wrong turn?" Angrim demanded.

"No." Bartrand looked at the ground, where he'd scored a marker into the rock. "This is where we entered," he said, his confusion evident. "That… that piss-swilling nug-fucker! Hey, Gaar! You collapsed the wrong tunnel, you freaking idiot! Gaar!" he shouted at the top of his voice.

"Hey! Is anyone there?" yelled Angrim, expecting one of the other dwarves to be waiting at the entrance to the tunnel.

"Where the hell _is_ everyone?" Bartrand growled. "Hey, Gaar! Gaaaaar!"


	57. One Link at a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's like looking up at the stars, isn't it, Fen? I think it's beautiful."
> 
> "It is," whispered Fenris, his eyes never leaving Fletcher's, which were still gazing up at the ceiling. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary, you really came through for me with this chapter. You made sense of a ridiculously long, confusing chapter, written in the middle of the night by someone who'd taken too many cold & flu powders. Thank you!
> 
> I recently commissioned a portrait of Fletcher and Fenris, which was painted by the very talented Aynslesa. You'll find it on her Devianart page, at:
> 
> aynslesa.deviantart.com/#/d4ux0wr
> 
> Please let her know what you think! I'm thrilled with it. Thank you to her and to my friend Carrie, who bought the commission for my birthday!
> 
> Long chapter ahead with NSFW content.
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 19/12/2015

Fenris awoke but didn't open his eyes. Although his markings ached, he was otherwise warm and comfortable and had no desire to move, or rise, immediately. He'd started to become slovenly since sharing a bedroll with Fletcher: at one time, he'd be up and about before the sun rose, but these days, with a nice warm body next to him, he'd been rising later and later.

Well, if he was slovenly, then so be it, he mused with a small shrug of his shoulders. It wasn't a problem to him, and Fletcher actively encouraged it.

He shifted slightly to take the pressure off his hip and shoulder, and snuggled down. Just as he was about to drift off again, he was disturbed by a loud grunt from behind him.

Fletcher was snoring. Again.

As his senses returned to him, though, Fenris wondered how Fletcher had moved behind him without his knowledge. And besides, didn't Fletcher _know_ Fenris didn't like anyone being behind him?

Irritated by the mage's apparent lack of consideration, he swivelled onto his back. Just as he was about to dig Fletcher in the ribs, his nose made contact with a pink, very wet, snout.

"Begone!" he exclaimed. Now quite awake, he sat up and glared at Tufty, who trotted closer to Fenris and snuffled at his leg.

"Fletcher!" Fenris called, looking around for the mage as he recoiled from the nug. "Fletcher! One of your _pets_ has found its way in here! I thought we discussed this last night!" With another glance around the small antechamber, it was clear Fletcher had stepped out, for breakfast, judging from the smell of porridge that wafted in.

 _"Hawke!"_ Fenris shouted in his harshest voice, backing up against the wall and scowling at Tufty, who was attempting to burrow under his thigh.

"No! You cannot… _bury_ yourself there!" he scolded the creature before realising he was still raising his voice, and lowered it to a sibilant whisper. "That is my leg," he informed Tufty, who gazed up at him for a moment before resuming his burrowing. "What are you doing? That is solid rock! You cannot _dig_ through it, you cretinous…"

He pushed himself up, irritated at himself for having a conversation with an unintelligent animal, and even more so at Fletcher for having allowed the creature into their sleeping quarters. "Fletcher!" he called again, his eyes widening and then narrowing as Sprinkles ambled into the small cave and began to sniff at Fletcher's pack. Feeling something wet on his unclad foot, Fenris looked down to see Tufty licking it, the creature's tail swishing from side to side.

"Stop that!" Fenris barked. "I do _not_ require a wash from you! I _said_ stop!" He took a step away, only for Tufty to close the gap and push its snout against Fenris's foot. "What is the _matter_ with you?" he demanded, hands on hips, a note of something approaching panic in his voice. "You! Come here!" he commanded Sprinkles, who completely ignored him. "Come and play with your mate, or whatever it is you… things do."

Sprinkles promptly sat down, oblivious to the elf's growing anger.

"What do you _want?"_ he bleated with a pleading look at Tufty, who was continuing his attempt to burrow under Fenris's foot. Sighing heavily, he picked up his blanket and bunched it up, placing it back down on the ground. He then plucked Tufty from the ground and, holding him at arm's length, placed the nug next to the blanket.

Much to his relief, Tufty began to burrow under the blanket.

"Hah!" Fenris intoned smugly. Then, realising he was smiling, took a deep breath and thought of Fletcher, who he was still annoyed with. The elf's expression turned dour and he stalked towards the entrance of the antechamber.

Then, he stopped and turned around with a long-suffering sigh. Not knowing why, he walked back to Fletcher's blanket, bunched it up and placed it next to Sprinkles. "Here. Burrow under this," he instructed the nug, but Sprinkles continued to ignore him and scampered away.

"Suit yourself, then!" snapped Fenris, furious that the nug had rebuffed his generous offer. "That is the last thing I do for _you!"_ Turning on his heel and entering the main chamber, Fenris stopped in his tracks, almost bumping into a grinning Fletcher, who was standing outside the antechamber, arms folded and legs casually crossed at the ankles.

"You and the boys seem to be getting along well."

"You sent them in there on purpose, didn't you?" Fenris accused, his cheeks pink with indignation.

"Well, I couldn't wake you. And you go on at me about _my_ snoring!" Fletcher began to laugh, but when he noticed Fenris didn't appreciate his quip, he straightened his face and sighed. "Look, I just don't trust those dwarves around them. Did you see the look on Thirin's face when he was talking about _nuglets?_ Tufty and Sprinkles are only about six weeks old, according to Varric, and they won't mate with females, so they could be chucked in the pot. You don't want _that,_ do you?" Fletcher pouted and batted his eyelashes in what he hoped was an adorable and charming way.

"That face will not avail you! I do not appreciate being awoken by a slobbering animal!"

"It hasn't bothered you before," replied Fletcher with a shrug and a cheeky half-smile.

"You are impossible." The cantankerous elf started walking away.

"Wait!"

Fenris huffed and turned back to face Fletcher. "What?"

"I'm sorry I sent them in to you. I thought it would be funny. I didn't take your feelings into consideration. I won't do it again." Fletcher sighed and pushed his fingers through his hair. "I suppose I shouldn't become too attached to them, anyway. They'll probably be eaten eventually." He sighed again and waved his hand ahead. "Let's get some breakfast."

Watching as the mage walked past him, Fenris was beset with guilt. Fletcher was a healer who saved people's lives, and was, in a way, trying to save the nugs' lives as well.

 _"If_ we are going to keep them," the elf began tersely, and Fletcher stopped, slowly turning around, "you will need to instill some sort of discipline in them. The one with the patch of hair on its crown-"

"You mean Tufty?"

"Yes, I mean _Tufty. That_ one will not leave me alone, and the other one completely disregards my commands."

"They're not dogs, Fen, they don't follow commands," Fletcher reasoned. "I was talking to Torbal earlier, and he reckons Tufty has taken a shine to you for some reason. He seems to like the way you smell, hence his constant sniffing."

"The way I smell?" Fenris raised his arm and sniffed at his armpit before smelling the front of his shirt. "What _do_ I smell like, then?"

Fletcher moved closer and lowered his voice. "You smell of musk and leather and fresh sweat… there's something woodsy about you, as well. Probably the soap you use. I also like the way you smell. A _lot."_

Disarmed, Fenris swallowed and shifted his weight as a shiver travelled through him. "I… do not want them sleeping with us. _Or_ waking me."

"Never again," Fletcher promised, his gaze, intense and full of longing, causing Fenris's stomach to knot. He leaned in and cupped Fenris's face with his hand, positioning his nose against the elf's neck and inhaling deeply. "A lot," he whispered, his lips brushing against the elf's ear.

Fenris took a hasty step back, his eyes darting around the chamber, and haltingly cleared his throat. "Um… perhaps we should… break our fast. That… _is_ what we were talking about… wasn't it?"

"Yes, we'll get breakfast. And then we'll get down that tunnel. And then," Fletcher again stepped close to Fenris, "we're going to find that special place of ours. I want to be alone with you, Fen. Today. No nugs, no other people. Just you and me. You'll have to excuse me, but I've been reading Varric's book."

Fenris took a deep breath and nodded. Fletcher took his hand, leading him away from their antechamber. Fenris immediately pulled his hand loose, but Fletcher caught a fleeting smile and, deciding not to push his luck, walked ahead.

"Today," Fenris said quietly to himself, his heart beating wildly, and he then looked down at his feet, feeling a by-now familiar wet sensation. "You have returned," he said to Tufty with a sigh, and glanced at the entrance to the antechamber, where Sprinkles was emerging. "Come," he ordered the nugs. "You had better not wander off. Fletcher will only fret, and I will _not_ take kindly to that. Do we understand each other?"

Tufty blinked and twitched his nose before nudging Fenris's foot. The elf shook his head, not quite believing that he was having another conversation with a _nug._ "Hmph," he grumbled as he looked at Sprinkles, who again wasn't taking a blind bit of notice. "And I suppose _you_ will do whatever you please."

"When you've finished negotiating with the nugs, I have a bowl of porridge here for you," Fletcher called out with a chuckle.

"Fasta Vass," Fenris muttered, and walked to the smiling mage with Tufty in hot pursuit.

~o~O~o~

After breakfast, scouting parties were sent along two tunnels which led in the direction the party needed to go. Anders's first choice was deemed too unstable and risky to travel along, but thankfully, the second tunnel, running almost parallel to the first, was judged to be safe.

"It'll take slightly longer to negotiate," Anders told the group, gathered around him, "but eventually it joins onto this large tunnel," he said as he pointed it out on the map, "which will put us back on track. That tunnel also leads back to tunnel seven."

"Wasn't that where the darkspawn were heading?" Fletcher asked him.

Anders shook his head and glanced anxiously at Varric. "No… that was tunnel eight."

The group fell quiet until Varric broke the silence. "Where are they now, Blondie?"

"Do you want to discuss this in private?" Anders asked.

"No. Just tell me," the dwarf ordered, a little impatiently.

"I didn't want to say…" Anders sighed. "The darkspawn are moving away from tunnel eight. Away from us as well. There are fewer of them than there were to start with. Maybe… maybe there were some survivors among Bartrand's group."

"Fine," said Varric, his expression blank, but his voice was hard and cold. "When we get where we're going, maybe a few of us could go back and investigate what Bartrand found so fascinating in tunnel seven. There's no point letting his death go to waste and us leaving here empty-handed."

"We don't _know_ he's dead, Varric," Fletcher consoled.

"He's dead," insisted the dwarf. "It's better I accept that, than my every waking moment being consumed by thoughts of murdering the bastard. I'm just glad my mother didn't live to see this." He picked up his pack, straightened Bianca and stomped towards the safe tunnel. "Are we going, or what?" he barked before continuing on his way.

"Is he going to be all right, Hawke?" Anders asked the mage.

"I'll keep an eye on him." Fletcher sighed. 

"Perhaps his _partner_ should do that?" Fenris queried with a frosty glance at Anders.

"I _do_ know that, you know," Anders spat back. "Believe it or not, us mages _can_ think for ourselves, and will get on quite well without your sage counsel!"

Fletcher covered his face with his hands and shook his head, laughing in spite of himself, as Anders stormed off. "I think Anders _has_ his focus back now, you know," he advised the elf as he removed his hands.

"I was just making certain," the elf claimed with an infinitesimal quirk of his lips. " _You_ have quite enough to think about. I am merely looking after my partner, as is my duty."

"That's very generous of you, Fen." A small smile passed between them and they followed Varric and Anders, ready to undertake the next leg of their journey.

~o~O~o~

As Anders predicted, the journey through the tunnel was long, requiring two meal stops. Along the way, a few precious gems were discovered, as well as numerous small orange stones which were abundant in one particular section of the tunnel. Although each stone was only worth a few silver, the two sacks' worth they collected would fetch considerably more. Fletcher, after consulting with the group, decided they were worth taking along as they could always be discarded if something more valuable was found later.

By the time the group reached the next chamber, which was considerably smaller than the others they'd camped in, Torbal, Vonim and Thirin decreed that supper should be prepared as it was quite late up on the surface. The three dwarves seemed to possess an innate sense of time while they were underground, and several of the humans frequently asked them the time, which the dwarves laughed at. For the sake of the strange humans, Torbal had started to announce roughly when the sun rose and set, and when it was midday.

A frugal vegetable soup thickened with cornmeal was prepared, and served with dumplings. Most members of the group were too tired to prepare, or eat, anything heavier than that. After Fletcher had consulted with Sheldon and Thirin, it was decided nothing too fancy would be prepared until the nugs had started to breed, which would happen in roughly four weeks' time. Fletcher was worried about stretching the food until then, but decided to push that thought aside for now, though it lingered and broke through his consciousness occasionally.

While the supper things were cleared away, Fletcher took Fenris aside. "I'm going to find somewhere for us to sleep tonight," he promised. "Why don't you carry on reading Beth's book, or take a bath, if you think you need one?"

Fenris smiled and pulled the neck of his shirt out, sniffing beneath it. "I still smell reasonably woodsy," he quipped. "I believe I shall read for a while. I wish you luck in your search. Do not wander too far."

"Promise." Fletcher winked at the elf and walked over to Anders, who'd promised to look after Tufty and Sprinkles each night. Fenris watched him go and rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache. With a sigh, he retreated to a quiet part of the small chamber, sat down, and took out his book.

When Fletcher returned almost an hour later, he made straight for his bedroll, which he promptly rolled up and slung across his back together with the rest of his belongings. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Fenris--who was seated against a wall studying _The Rise and Fall of Ferelden_ \--was watching him curiously. When Fletcher had completely cleared away his things, he strolled up to the elf, crouching next to him.

"Have you changed your mind about the expedition?" Fenris queried dryly. "If so, you will have rather a long walk back."

Fletcher grinned and shook his head. "Nope. Get your things together and come with me."

"Get my things together? Have you…"

"I've found somewhere special for us," Fletcher replied with an enthusiastic nod. "You've _got_ to see it. You'll love it, I promise."

His heart rate increasing, Fenris glanced around the chamber and then gave Fletcher a stern look. "Are you aware we are attracting… attention?"

Fletcher also looked around, noticing that some of the workers were averting their gazes from the couple amid a few sniggers and whispers. "Okay," he mumbled, feelings his hopes ebb away. "Do you want to leave it?"

"I did not _say_ that," retorted the elf irritably. "You could have told me privately, instead of making a show of the fact we will be 'sleeping' apart from the others."

"Right," Fletcher muttered, his own irritation obvious. "Sorry for being myself. I thought you were quite receptive to the idea of us having some privacy."

"That was _your_ idea," Fenris began, but was cut off by Fletcher's palm being thrust at him.

"Yes, it _was_ my idea, because _you're_ so obsessed with what other people think about us. I thought it would be nice, just this once, for you to relax and not have to look around every time I touch you. _I_ don't have a problem with the others seeing us being affectionate with each other, but I guess I have no shame. I _am_ a mage, after all, and you know what they say about mages, don't you?"

Fenris's eyes glinted, his anger barely contained. "If you are so concerned with my feelings, why could you have not told me discreetly? We could have left without anyone knowing."

"Oh, so we should have just buggered off without letting anyone know where we'd be all night? Perhaps I should have asked the workers to turn around while we gathered our belongings? That wouldn't have caused any gossip at _all,_ would it? Oh, wait," Fletcher held his hand up again when he saw the elf was about to speak, "this is where you tell me I don't understand you. Well, you're right. I don't, and I'm sick of trying. Just forget it."

As Fletcher turned and walked away, the shocked elf stammered, "Fletcher, I did not mean…"

"No, forget it," said Fletcher without turning back. "I've had enough. I just don't know how to take you. I found a really nice place for us, which I thought you'd _like,_ and I'm not letting it go to waste." He sought out Varric and told him where he'd be spending the night. To his credit, Varric didn't glance back at Fenris, though it must have been obvious they'd quarrelled.

"Anyone wanna help count those orange stones?" Varric asked loudly, and a few volunteers joined him. Varric's invitation was meant for Fenris as well, but the elf barely heard him, his eyes on Fletcher's back as the mage left the chamber through one of the tunnels.

~o~O~o~

Angrily throwing his belongings and torch on the ground, Fletcher slumped down next to a small gap in the wall of the tunnel and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, slowly and deliberately releasing a shaky breath. He rubbed his face with his hands and then, as his eyes opened, he stared blankly ahead as a small shadow fell across him.

Fenris silently walked nearer and, after a moments' hesitation, sat down on the ground a few feet away from Fletcher. For the next few minutes, neither man spoke and a heavy atmosphere permeated their section of the tunnel.

"I shouldn't have gone on about Varric's book," Fletcher said quietly after a while. "I got over-excited. I should have known you'd be nervous. Believe it or not, I didn't find this chamber for us to have sex in… not unless you wanted to, and you obviously don't. I'd be quite happy for us to read all night. Bloody hell, I'm babbling. What-what I'm trying to say is, I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just…" He groaned and his head fell back against the wall.

"I _am_ nervous," Fenris confessed in almost a whisper, and Fletcher looked at him, his brows meeting. "I want this more than anything, but… you know why. I do not know what will happen." Fenris shuffled nearer to Fletcher and hesitantly laid a hand on the mage's arm. "You are the only thing in my life that has ever been truly _mine._ Not that I consider you belong to me in any way, but… I do not want to share you with anyone else. I do not want the others to _know._ I _want_ to be alone with you, and yet I fear that very thing, for your sake…and for mine. I have never allowed anyone so close before. I do not want to hurt you, but..."

 _"You_ don't want to be hurt, either."

Fenris exhaled and nodded once, his eyes downcast. "I do not believe that you would, but..." He groaned and looked into Fletcher's eyes. "Why is this so difficult?"

"Oh, Fen." Fletcher took Fenris's hand. "This is _not_ me trying to pressure you, but nothing happened the other night, did it? You were able to let yourself go, and I think we became closer because of that."

"I agree," murmured the elf, "but this feels… different. Each time I think I'm breaking away from my former life, Danarius's spectre looms large. I do not seem able to free myself from him."

"Don't mention his name," Fletcher whispered. "He's not welcome. Come here." He placed his arm around the elf and they sat together in silence for a while.

"I _would_ like to see this special place of yours," Fenris murmured eventually. "You were very excited about it. I am sorry I did not appear to share your enthusiasm. I… do like to see you happy, despite all evidence to the contrary." Fenris's voice wavered with his last word, and Fletcher kissed the side of his head.

"I know. I shouldn't have reacted like that. I should know by now when you're afraid of something. As soon as I came out here, it hit me. I'm such a fool."

"Then we are fools together." Fenris laughed softly, though he betrayed his anxiety by wiping his palms against his breeches.

"How very true." Fletcher again kissed the elf's temple before pushing himself up into a squatting position.

He pointed to a small shaft that led off the tunnel. "We need to crawl through here," he told Fenris, lying in a prone position.

Fenris crouched down and peered through the narrow shaft. _"You_ crawled through there? What if you had become trapped?"

"Then you'd be talking to my bum, wouldn't you? Now pass me your things, I'll push them through first."

Sighing at Fletcher's casual disregard for his own safety, Fenris passed first his pack, then his bedroll, to Fletcher, who shoved them through the gap before pushing his own belongings through. "No fondling," he warned Fenris as he began to crawl through. "I'm not a sex object, y'know."

"You are hardly in a position to stop me," teased the elf, feeling a little more at ease, and Fletcher felt a small hand brush against his leg as it grabbed the hem of his robe.

"Oy! Stop that!" Fletcher laughed, quickly wriggling through, hearing a quiet snort from behind him.

Fenris released the robe and also lay down on the ground, following Fletcher through with much more ease. Just before Fenris's head emerged through the other side, Fletcher touched his hair to stop him.

"Close your eyes."

"Why?" asked Fenris suspiciously.

"Please, I want this to be a surprise."

With a soft sigh, Fenris did as asked and, after crawling through, Fletcher helped him to his feet, turning him around slightly.

"Now, open them," said Fletcher, smiling.

Slowly, Fenris opened his eyes, not knowing what to expect, but his own imagination could not have conjured the sight that met him.

They were in a small grotto, roughly forty feet square, with no other exits. In one corner a fire had been lit, presumably by Fletcher during his first visit. The far end of the chamber was spanned by a white, foamy rimstone pool, and above it, a sheet of pure calcite hung from the sloped ceiling like a billowing curtain. Several thin stalactites of gypsum and calcite hung just behind the curtain, a magnificent natural chandelier that was wondrous to behold. Only the crackle of the fire could be heard in this silent and still place, and Fenris and Fletcher felt they'd been caught in a moment of frozen time, that only they would ever have the privilege of glimpsing.

An awed smile spread across Fenris's face and when he spoke, his voice was hushed. "This is quite a find. I see now why you were eager to show it to me."

"Look up," Fletcher said softly.

Fenris glanced briefly at Fletcher and then upwards, his mouth falling open as his eyes met the high ceiling of the chamber. Against the pale rock were dotted countless tiny, blue, spherical crystals from which emanated pale, ethereal light.

"That is lyrium," Fenris stated quietly, almost reverentially.

Fletcher nodded and moved closer to Fenris, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Can you feel it? That gentle hum along your skin? That was what made me investigate this chamber in the first place. I felt like I was being called inside."

"I feel… something, but I had not really noticed until you mentioned it." Fenris looked into Fletcher's eyes and saw the tiny lights reflected in them. "My skin… I initially thought there was a chill in the air, but this is… different, somehow."

Fletcher moved even closer and removed his hand from Fenris's shoulder, slipping it around the elf's waist. "It's like looking up at the stars, isn't it, Fen? I think it's beautiful."

"It is," whispered Fenris, his eyes never leaving Fletcher's, which were still gazing up at the ceiling. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

Fletcher's eyes moved to Fenris's and he felt a flutter in his chest. Fenris wore a gentle smile and his eyes were heavy-lidded, fixed upon Fletcher as though he was the only person that had ever existed.

"Fen?" Fletcher asked softly, "would you like to spend the night with me, here? I mean, when I say spend the night…I mean, well, we don't have to..." He laughed and clasped the back of his neck. "I just saw this place and I knew I had to show it to you, and it would be perfect for spending some time alone." He sighed and removed his hand from around Fenris's waist. "I wasn't presuming anything, you know."

"Really?" Fenris asked indulgently. "I thought that was exactly what you were doing. You _were_ reading Varric's book, after all."

"I-I know, and I know I got a bit… excited earlier." Fletcher's cheeks flushed as he stammered a reply. "I mean, I've thought about it, of course I have. You're…" He moved his hands up to rest on Fenris's cheeks. "We've, uh, become quite close recently, and, yes, I've been thinking about it..."

Fenris dipped his head slightly and then his eyes widened and Fletcher felt something pierce his heart as they met his own.

"…But I know that, with your past, you may not… I would never pressure you into something you're not ready for. Well, not deliberately. But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it. Maker, I don't know what I'm going on about. I'm nervous, too. Something... something's happening tonight and I feel like my life will never be the same again. _You_ make me feel like that."

"Let us not speak of my past," Fenris murmured softly, resting his hands on Fletcher's shoulders. "There is no place for it here. I… have also thought about… _being_ with you."

"Have you?" whispered Fletcher, a fine tremor running through his body.

Fenris nodded. "I have thought about it often."

The silence around them seemed to deepen, and Fletcher stroked Fenris's face with his thumbs, looking deeply into his eyes. "Tell me."

Fenris hung his head shyly. "I have… thought about giving you pleasure several times since we met. More so since the other night."

"H-have you?" Fletcher asked again, his mouth suddenly bone-dry, heat pooling in his lower body while his upper body shivered.

Fenris ran his hands down the mage's arms. "You are a very attractive man, Fletcher. I thought as much the very first night we met."

"You liked me even then?" Fletcher asked in surprise, his fingers gently tangling through Fenris's hair.

"I thought you were _handsome,"_ Fenris clarified. "It took me a while to _like_ you, though, and I suspect the feeling was mutual."

Fletcher nodded thoughtfully. "I didn't like many people, or things, back then. You changed all that, you know."

 _"I_ changed it?" Fenris tilted his head slightly. "How?"

"Both Bethany and Varric commented on it, that I started to change after meeting you. I think that's also part of the reason Mother likes you so much. She said one day that my eyes light up whenever I talk about you. It's true, I changed when you came along. For the better."

"I doubt I can take credit for that," said Fenris humbly. "Things were more complicated then. Now, though…" He raised his head and Fletcher rested his forehead against Fenris's. "Now that I have come to care for you, things are simpler. I am ready. I _want_ to be with you. I want to… see you, as I have seen you in my mind when I..."

"When you touch yourself?" Fletcher whispered, his head still resting against Fenris's, their lips barely millimetres apart.

"You… know about that?"

Fletcher nodded, his breathing growing heavier. "Of course I do. You're a man, and you have hands." He felt Fenris tense slightly and slowly ran his hands up and down the elf's back. "I've also… you know. When thinking about you. It's nothing to be ashamed of. The thought of you touching yourself over me… my-my head is swimming just thinking about it."

"You are… aroused by it?"

"Maker, Fen, can't you tell?" Fletcher breathed heavily, his voice unsteady.

"I was not certain," Fenris said haltingly. "Nobody has ever… since my escape… there has been no one. I did not think I would ever… couple again with anyone else. And yet, with you, I cannot stop thinking about you. The other night... it opened my eyes."

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Fen," said Fletcher softly, his hands trembling slightly as they moved to Fenris's face. "I _know_ you wouldn't hurt me. You care about me too much. I _know_ that."

"I am gratified by your faith in me," replied Fenris. "Although I feel less afraid, I must confess to a certain… anticipation. I feel it here," he placed his hand over his stomach, "over and over. It will not abate," he breathed huskily. "I have never before experienced such a sensation. Even when we… the other night, it was not as intense. And my heart is beating wildly. It feels as though it will leap from my chest."

Fletcher's breath rushed out of him as he felt something firm press against his leg, and his eyes closed involuntarily, knowing that Fenris must also be feeling his own need.

"Maker, Fen, I-I've never wanted anyone so badly," he whispered unsteadily, brushing his lips against the elf's. "I'm in love with you. I want you so much. _So_ much."

"Then let us waste no more time with talk," Fenris said in a soft growl, pressing himself against Fletcher.

"Are you sure about this? I want you to want this as much as I do."

"I want this." Fenris pushed Fletcher against the entrance wall and grabbed his face, pulling him close, hard, their lips crashing together. Dizzy and startled, Fletcher released a sharp gasp as Fenris sucked and bit at his lips, his hands going for the ties on Fletcher's robe.

"F-Fen… "

Panting hard, Fenris moved from Fletcher's lips and down to his neck, nipping with his teeth as he pulled Fletcher's robe up and his small clothes down.

Fletcher's mouth gaped in shock as the elf dropped to his knees. "Fen, h-hold on a minute." This was everything Fletcher had dreamed of, yet it was happening too fast. He did not want their first time to be like this.

"S-slow down, Fen," he urged, hissing as Fenris took him hungrily into his mouth. "Fen, please…" Fletcher's resolve started to crumble as Fenris expertly worked his aching member, and his hips bucked of their own accord, pushing him deeper in. It felt wrong, somehow, but Fenris was clearly very experienced at this and knew exactly how to please another man.

Another man.

Fletcher's blood ran cold and he pushed Fenris away, taking a step back, his head spinning at the sudden withdrawal. He leaned against the wall, gasping, while Fenris, still on his knees, looked up at him.

"What is it?" Fenris demanded, anxiety in his voice.

"It-it's too fast," Fletcher rasped.

"Am I not pleasing you?"

"What?" Fletcher straightened up and glanced down at the elf, who looked back at him with fear and doubt in his green eyes.

"Am I not _pleasing_ you? Is this not what you wanted…"

… _Master?_

The word was unspoken, yet hung thickly in the air between them. For a brief and horrifying moment, Fletcher stood in Danarius's shoes, looking down not at the man he loved, but at his slave, whose only thought was how he could please the magister.

Fenris's eyes lowered and he slowly rose, turning away from Fletcher, failure and defeat in his posture. "I-I am sorry," he uttered, his voice thick and hushed. "I wanted to return the favour. What you did for me before… I thought that was what you wanted. Again, I apologise."

"Fenris," Fletcher began, smoothing down his robe, mentally shaking himself.

"No, do not…" Fenris held up a hand that forbade Fletcher from moving nearer. "I-I think I should go." Despite his words, he didn't move, and Fletcher took a few cautious steps closer.

"Fenris, you haven't done anything wrong," he said in a gentle voice. "This is not supposed to be just about me. It's supposed to be about both of us."

"I have disappointed you." Fenris hung his head.

"No you _haven't,"_ Fletcher said in a firmer tone, positioning himself in front of Fenris. He gently clasped the elfs chin, nudging it upwards, but Fenris would not meet his gaze, his eyes moving to the side. Seeing the sadness in them, Fletcher's heart clenched. "Is this the only way you know? Is this… "

"I was never allowed to take my own pleasure," Fenris whispered. "Sex was just a way to-to keep _him_ off my back, to get through the next hour. While he was sated, he would leave me be. This is all I know." He shook his head. "I thought… I thought that was what I was supposed to do."

"Oh, Fen." Tears sprang to Fletcher's eyes and, for a second, raw, biting fury took hold of him as he silently vowed to rain agony upon Danarius should they ever meet. He took a deep breath to calm himself and rested his hands on Fenris's cheeks, placing a tender kiss on his lips. "It's not about one person gratifying another. It's about two people who care for each other expressing their feelings for one other."

Fenris squirmed and released a heavy sigh. "I have only ever _served._ I do not know how to be part of a couple in this way."

"Then this is your first time."

"I… suppose it is," Fenris conceded, venturing an uncertain glance at Fletcher. "Do you-do you wish to proceed?"

"More than anything, love. But only if _you_ want to. I'd be quite happy for us to read all night or just doze in front of the fire. I don't care what we do, so long as you're here."

"No. I _want_ to be with you. I want my fantasies of your touch to be a reality. I just... don't know how."

Fletcher took Fenris's hands and laid them against his own chest, stroking them with his thumbs. "Let me show you." He lightly brushed his nose against the elf's. "Let me show you how to make love."

An unexpected flutter through Fenris's chest caused him to smile hesitantly. "I…" He nodded slowly and stroked Fletcher's hands in return. "I would… like that."

They stood silently for a moment, their breathing slowing, and Fletcher tilted his head, capturing Fenris's lips in such a tender and heartfelt kiss, a deep moan vibrated through Fenris's chest as a wave of yearning crested within him. Fletcher slowly and carefully withdrew and released one of Fenris's hands, holding tightly onto the other and leading him to the fire.

There, they unfurled their bedrolls, placing them side by side. Fletcher knelt upon one and held his hand out to Fenris, who took it and sat down next to him. Fletcher removed his boots, placing them to the side, and turned to Fenris, laying one hand on his cuirass.

"May I?" Fletcher asked. "You'll be more comfortable."

Fenris nodded mutely and, with Fletcher's help, loosened the ties of the cuirass and pulled it over his head. Fletcher then set it down next to his boots, along with Fenris's vambraces and pauldrons.

Fletcher reclined on an elbow and beckoned Fenris to lie next to him. Fenris did so, his halting movements betraying how nervous he was, and Fletcher knew this was something that couldn't be rushed.

"Let's just talk for a while, Fen," he suggested, gently clasping one of Fenris's hands with his free one.

"What would you like to talk about?" asked Fenris, a little puzzled.

"Tell me what you like."

"You mean…?"

Fletcher nodded, and Fenris propped himself up on his elbows, taking a few minutes to process the question. "I… am unsure. I have never given it much thought."

"Think about it now," Fletcher gently coaxed. "When you think about us together… what do I do? How do I touch you? Where? Is there anything you _don't_ like?"

Fenris's face fell a little. "I… do not wish to be… penetrated," he stated in a whisper.

"I-I would never…"

"I… know. I _should_ have known."

An awkward silence fell for a moment, and Fletcher gently stroked Fenris's hand. "Is there anything else you don't want me to do?"

"I would ask that you do not go behind me at any time. I don't like that."

"Of course."

"Is there…?" Fenris turned toward Fletcher and mirrored his position, leaning on one elbow while his other hand held onto Fletcher's. "Is there anything that _I_ should not do?"

"Nothing," Fletcher responded with a mischievous grin.

"Why am I not surprised?" asked Fenris with a hint of a smile, and Fletcher laughed softly, kissing the tip of Fenris's nose.

"Now tell me," Fletcher prompted, releasing Fenris's hand and moving his own up to stroke Fenris's hair. "When you think about me, how do I touch you? What do you like?"

Fenris edged a little closer and lowered his voice. "I like it when you do that. I mean, when you stroke my hair."

"What else?" whispered Fletcher, resting his head against Fenris's.

Fenris cleared his throat and released a shaky sigh as Fletcher's nails were gently drawn across his scalp and down the nape of his neck. "I-I can't."

"You can. You're allowed to ask. You're allowed to tell me."

Fenris closed his eyes, feeling Fletcher's warm breath against his cheek, and shivered as Fletcher slowly ran his hand down the front of Fenris's shirt, stopping to rest on his hip.

"I… I would like…" Fenris shook his head, years of conditioning preventing him from asking for anything that would benefit him or give him pleasure.

Fletcher's hand moved from Fenris's hip and went beneath his shirt, seeking out the warm, firm flesh of his abdomen, and slowly, tortuously slowly, trailed upward, grazing a nipple before slowly working its way back down.

"Uh-" Fenris gasped and grabbed Fletcher's arm, a shuddering breath bursting from him, unfamiliar, intoxicating sensations pulsing through him. His head fell back as Fletcher's lips brushed against his ear.

"Just tell me what you want." Fletcher's moist, hot breath in Fenris's ear sent sharp jolts through his body, and he trembled as Fletcher tightly wrapped his arms around Fenris and tugged at the tip of his ear with his teeth. "Tell me."

"Fletch-ah!" Irrevocably lost, Fenris fell limp in Fletcher's arms. Fletcher lowered him to the ground, keeping one arm firmly wrapped around him, while with the other, he moved his hand beneath Fenris's shirt again and slowly pushed it up, exposing the elf's taut, hard abdomen.

"Tell me," he repeated, a soft growl beneath his dulcet words, his mouth hovering over Fenris's as his fingers explored every contour of the elf's sculpted belly.

"Fletcher…" Fenris's eyes opened and met Fletcher's, and they gazed at each other wordlessly for a long moment, their irregular breathing the only sound to be heard.

"Fletcher…" Fenris repeated.

"Tell me."

Fenris watched the reflected flames dance in Fletcher's brown eyes and his gaze roamed over the mage's pale skin, watched the bob of his adam's apple and moved downwards to the scant hairs that peeked over the neckline of his robe. He wanted that robe off. More than anything. He wanted to feel Fletcher's weight on him, for their bodies to come together, to feel Fletcher's skin against his own. He opened his mouth but still no words would come out.

"Tell me, Fen," pleaded Fletcher, a pained expression coming over him as he felt Fenris's hardness twitch against his thigh. He positioned himself between Fenris's legs, his hip pressing on the elf's groin, and Fenris squeezed his eyes shut. A moan, deep and clear and utterly wonderful, escaped and played music in Fletcher's ears.

"Fenris… that's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard." Fletcher groaned, his voice trembling. Unable to hold back any longer, he seized Fenris's lips with his own, heat and want and need surging through him as Fenris's body undulated beneath him, the elf's hands grabbing at the back of his robe, tugging desperately at the fabric.

"T-take this off," Fenris rasped, breaking the kiss momentarily to catch his breath. "Fletcher… take it off, please."

Fenris moved his hands to Fletcher's front, fumbling with the cords. A grunt of frustration was heard and Fletcher began to assist, deftly undoing the ties, and one side of his robe fell open, revealing a long, thin shirt. Fenris's eyes wandered down to Fletcher's stocky legs, so robust-looking, and a wholly new sensation originated deep in the pit of his stomach and spiralled outward, filling his core with a deep, exigent need.

"I want you." Fenris gasped and snaked his hands inside Fletcher's shirt, his mouth seeking out the mage's lips and Fletcher hungrily met him, his own hands running up Fenris's slender arms. He laid on his back, indicating that Fenris was now in control, but the elf did not relinquish his mouth and Fletcher was forced to gently push him away, gasping and moaning when his lungs felt ready to burst.

Fenris braced his hands on Fletcher's shoulders and pushed himself up to kneel between Fletcher's legs. He then moved his hands to the hem of his shirt and paused, his eyes fixed upon the panting Fletcher's.

"This is what I want," he said in a clear, unwavering voice.

Fletcher nodded, blinking away the sudden blurring of his vision, and smiled blissfully and proudly, moving his hands to Fenris's and stroking them.

"Fen… do you know that I accept everything that you are and have ever been, and that I will never let you down? Do you believe that?"

"I… believe that," Fenris answered, a gentle light in his eyes. "And do you believe that I also accept you and that I will never let you down, nor will I ever leave your side, as long as I draw breath?"

Fletcher nodded slowly and ran his hands up and down Fenris's arms. "Do you believe that I love you, Fen?"

Fenris exhaled unsteadily and his eyes lowered. "I-I do," he answered roughly, longing to reciprocate, but the words refused to leave his mouth, for deep inside, the part of him that remained forever fettered to Tevinter warned him that this happiness could never last.

His eyes moved to Fletcher's, finding no expectancy in the mage's brown eyes, no compulsion or influence in his steady gaze. Instead, there was unspoken acceptance, quiet understanding.

His eyes never leaving Fletcher's, he once again moved his hands to the hem of his shirt and slowly pulled it up and over his head, hearing a quiet exclamation from Fletcher while his sight was temporarily obscured. Having removed it, he placed the shirt on the ground and took Fletcher's hands, allowing the mage time to take in the sight before him.

Against Fenris's bronzed skin was etched an intricate network of ghostly silver filigree, lent a coppery hue by the flickering firelight. It vestured his upper body in its entirety and appeared to extend beyond the covering of his breeches. Fletcher's mouth fell slightly open and his eyes, wide with apprehension, roamed over the exquisite and monstrous legacy of Danarius.

"Do not be afraid," Fenris said, quiet and low. "You will not cause me pain by touching me, nor will you feel pain from doing so."

"I know you'd never hurt me," Fletcher stated again, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He shrugged off his robe, assisted by Fenris who knelt between his legs, gazing lovingly at the mage at all times, still unable to say the words he longed to. Together, they lifted Fletcher's shirt over his head and it was carelessly discarded along with the mage's small clothes. Fletcher wore nothing else beneath his robe and Fenris smiled softly, a hint of restrained lust in his eyes as they feasted on Fletcher's body.

Slowly, Fenris's eyes travelled back to meet Fletcher's, the hunger in them undeniable, and yet Fletcher reined himself in, giving Fenris complete control... something Fenris recognised and appreciated greatly.

"You are very handsome," Fenris articulated, his voice husky. Fletcher bit his bottom lip, moving his hands to Fenris's chest, but the elf evaded his touch and pushed himself up, taking a step back. His hands went to the laces on his breeches and he slowly undid them, pushing them down and letting them fall, where he gracefully stepped out of them, standing proudly, completely unashamed of his nakedness.

Fletcher held his hands out to the elf, watching, awe-struck, as each perfectly-formed sinew and muscle moved with a fluid and lissom grace with each tiny movement Fenris made. As Fenris stepped closer, Fletcher's hands came to rest on Fenris's svelte hips, his thumbs brushing lightly over the hard knobs of his pelvic bone. Fletcher's eyes travelled down sculpted, lean, yet powerful thighs, following the silver whorls and ridges that continued all the way down to Fenris's feet.

Gently, Fletcher applied downward pressure to Fenris's hips and the elf bent his knees, coming to sit astride the mage, their members brushing together, and Fenris wrapped his legs around Fletcher's back. Fletcher brought his hands round to Fenris's back, his fingers running up the nodes of his spine, and Fenris splayed his hands across Fletcher's chest as their foreheads came to rest together.

"And you're beautiful," Fletcher said thickly, snaking his arms tightly around Fenris's back, pulling the elf tight against him. "I love you, Fen," he breathed, softly brushing his lower lip against Fenris's.

"I-I know." Fenris wavered, feeling light-headed and giddy while heat rose inside him like a phoenix from the ashes of his self-doubt, mistrust and bitterness; the ruins of his former life.

"Tell me what to do," Fletcher whispered against Fenris's mouth. "You're in charge, Fen. I'll do whatever you want. Anything for you."

Fenris released an involuntary moan, Fletcher's words and love as powerful a force as any he'd ever encountered, caressing and enveloping him, making him feel worthy, cherished…whole. Wordlessly he moved onto his back, holding a hand out to Fletcher, who carefully positioned himself atop the elf, their faces an inch apart, their eyes locked as their bodies came together.

"I love you. Don't ever forget that." Fletcher maneuvered himself so their erections pressed together and put his full weight on the elf, Fenris's resulting cry of joy resounding around the chamber. Slowly, they began to rock back and forth, fingers meshing together, Fenris's eyes rolling in his head as Fletcher's lips met his neck. A crescendo began to build inside each of them and their movements became more frantic and powerful.

Beads of sweat clung to Fletcher's forehead as he started to thrust, desperately trying to keep his eyes open so he could see Fenris realise his fantasies, and as the elf trembled beneath him, as Fenris's teeth gritted and his entire face contorted, Fletcher bore witness as the elf came undone in his arms, all former shyness fleeing as Fenris yelled Fletcher's name.

At that moment Fletcher's body seized up, his world shattering, and he collapsed, panting, onto the elf who was still moaning. Their bodies slumped and they clung to each other until their breathing had returned to normal.

Gently, Fletcher rolled Fenris over and placed a tender kiss on his quivering lips. Reaching for his pack, Fletcher moistened a cloth with some rose water from a vial and cleaned Fenris's hands and lower regions with it, before the elf returned the favour, a soft smile passing between them.

Fenris then took Fletcher's hands and allowed himself to be guided to the mage's side, where they laid down together, bringing their hands up to the other's face. Fletcher moved one of his legs over Fenris's while the elf slid his own leg between Fletcher's, and they lay entwined, gazing into each other's eyes.

"Love you," Fletcher mumbled drowsily as his eyes fluttered closed.

Only when Fletcher had drifted off to sleep, and when Fenris had made absolutely _certain_ he was asleep, did the elf find his voice. After watching Fletcher in repose for a while, he reached for the mage's robe and covered them both with it. He then told Fletcher everything: every single word he'd wanted so desperately to say, but had not felt able to. Lying back down and closing his eyes, he made a vow that one day he would tell Fletcher to his face; that he would reciprocate the mage's own words of love; that he would say exactly what he felt.

That Fletcher was everything to him.


	58. In the Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Templar-Mage covenant dictates that you are present at all meetings of this nature," she informed him as she turned her back on him, again facing the window. "It would appear that on this occasion, your input was not required. Good day to you, First Enchanter."
> 
> Angered but loath to let her see it, Orsino took up his staff. "My day has just improved dramatically, Knight-Commander."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary, thank you again for your help and honesty and for clarifying my jumbled thoughts into something readable. :)
> 
> This chapter sees the debut of Danarius as well as Vionet, his head bodyguard. I've started writing a supplement to Per Ardua Ad Astra, entitled, 'Memoratus in Aeternum', which tells the back story of Leto, Danarius and Vionet according to my head canon. Chapter one will be published shortly, and I hope you'll be able to take ten minutes to have a read. Thank you!
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 5/1/2016

** Gamlen's house **

"Off to the market again, Mother?" Bethany's seemingly innocuous question was loaded with insinuation and Leandra knew it, but she played innocent.

"Hm? Oh, yes, dear. I thought we could do with a new tablecloth. This one is becoming rather tatty."

"I see," replied her daughter as she cleared the breakfast plates away. "Well, just so you know, we have plenty of carrots. As we did yesterday, when you brought back _another_ bunch, and nothing else, despite being gone for over an hour."

"Yes, I used them for the carrot cake, didn't I, dear?" The amused lilt of Leandra's voice coincided with Bethany's poorly-hidden smile.

"Who _is_ he?" Gamlen sniped from his armchair, his arms crooked as his hands rested on his thighs.

"He, Brother?"

"Yes, _he_. You've been walking around here for the past week like a moon-faced simpleton, singing to yourself and staring into space. It's embarrassing for a woman of your age."

Incensed, Bethany placed her hands on her hips and stared at her uncle until he looked at her. _"If_ Mother wants to walk around singing and staring dreamily at the moon or whatever, _I'm_ happy for her, whatever the reason. And if the reason for that happens to be that she's _met a man at the market,"_ she said with emphasis, "then I'm also happy about that. I would have thought you'd be pleased for your sister, Uncle."

"Let's not fanny about with reasons, Niece," Gamlen bit back. "Your mother _has_ met a man, that's obvious. What I'm concerned with is her notoriously poor taste in men. She always did go for the ne'er-do-wells."

"Are you talking about my father? You didn't even know him, and you sit there and dare to make judgements about him? And while we're on the subject of ne'er-do-wells, Uncle, I don't see any women breaking down _your_ door! Now, why _is_ that?"

Gamlen shot up out of his chair, causing the book he'd been reading to crash to the floor. "Because, while your mother pissed off to Ferelden with your father, I had to stay here and look after your grandparents, remember? How did I have the time to meet anyone?"

"Oh, so it's nothing to do with you being a wretchedly miserable no-account who despises everything and everyone, and looks like the arse-end of a mabari?"

"Daughter! Gamlen!" Leandra exclaimed, her palm slamming against the breakfast table. "I will _not_ abide cursing in this house, from either of you! I think apologies are in order!"

"Well, I _will_ abide it, because this is my house!" Gamlen flung his arms up in the air and paced back and forth. "You two aren't bringing a copper into this house, and you tell me what to do in it?"

"Brother, I've told you that when Fletcher returns..."

 _"If_ he returns," snapped Gamlen. "Of all the bloody reckless things to do! Why couldn't he just get a labouring job like everyone else? Oh no, he has to be the dashing hero, going off in search of gold and riches while the rest of us have to make do on my wage! It apparently hasn't occurred to him that if he gets himself in trouble down there, he'll leave his mother and sister without a breadwinner! And you needn't look at me! I can't keep you two forever!" He snatched up his jacket and toolbox and headed for the door. "I'm off to the docks. _Someone_ has to earn a crust around here!"

Jolted by the slamming of the door, Leandra drew a deep breath and picked up Gamlen's book, as well as straightening a picture next to the door.

"Mother, I'm sorry about that." Bethany sighed. "I just feel like I'll go mad, cooped up in here! I haven't been out for three days! How much longer will it be?"

"I don't know, dear," answered Leandra sadly, placing the book on the table and walking over to her daughter. "I'll see if I can find a friendly-looking templar at the market and ask. Something's happened at the Gallows, but nobody seems to know what. It's just too risky for you to be out with such a strong templar presence about. I know how frustrated you must be, but hold on for a little while longer."

Bethany groaned and took a seat at the table, Leandra joining her. "Being stuck in here has made me think about Fletcher and Varric a lot as well. I hope they're all right."

"I'm certain they're up to all manner of mischief," Leandra said brightly, forcing a smile and hiding her own worry. "When I return, we'll do the baking together, take your mind off things."

"Yes, I'd like that, Mother." Bethany moved her chair closer to Leandra's and tapped her mother on the arm. "So, tell me about these trips to the market of yours," she cajoled, hoping to lift both their spirits. "I suspect there are more to them than just carrots."

"Oh, it's nothing, dear," Leandra said, her cheeks growing pink. "I _have_ met someone, but he's just an acquaintance. He's at the market every day. I often see him outside Mistress Jade's."

"Mistress Jade's? Is he a mage, then?"

"I think so," whispered Leandra, "but I haven't asked. I've been trying to get a good look at his hands." Both women laughed before Leandra's expression turned serious. "Don't tell Gamlen, whatever you do. I'll never hear the end of it."

"I won't. But… if he's a mage, how come it's all right for _him_ to wander around in front of the templars, and not for me?"

"He doesn't dress like a mage, you see, and he doesn't carry a staff. He looks just like everyone else, but he _has_ bought a few unusual things at the market. That was what got me talking to him in the first place, I was looking at the Earth Stars at Jade's. Your father used to use them in some of his infusions. While looking at a particularly pretty one, I was tapped on the shoulder, and a gentleman asked if I knew what they were. When I told him I did, and why, he seemed pleased, and told me he's a herbalist."

"A herbalist? Isn't that rather a dishonest way of saying he's a mage?" asked Bethany, her tone suspicious.

"Well, if he's dishonest, then so am I. I told him I have two children, but failed to mention you're mages. One can't be too careful, darling, and I expect he was exercising similar caution."

"I suppose so," Bethany conceded. "So, what else did you discuss, besides fungi?" She playfully nudged Leandra's arm.

"Oh, nothing exciting. Family things and the like. He lost his wife only a year ago. I told him about your father, and you and Fletcher, but only minor details. I didn't mention Carver. It's... it's a bit too soon."

"It's all right, Mother. You hardly know him. I understand."

Leandra clutched Bethany's hand and smiled. "Well, I see him there most days, and we always exchange pleasantries. He's a very nice man, but just someone I pass the time with. I do look forward to our chats, though. He's a very nice man."

"So you just said," Bethany commented with a smirk.

Leandra tutted, shook her head and stood up, but couldn't hide her smile. "I should get going. I have _carrots_ to buy. Will you be all right?"

"I'll be fine, and I hope you enjoy 'buying your carrots'." Bethany also stood up, kissing Leandra on the cheek.

"I will, dear. When things have settled down, and the templars have gone, perhaps you'd like to come with me and meet him? You'll like him, Beth. He's…"

"A very nice man. I get it." Bethany chuckled. "I'll look forward to that. Try to find out what's going on, won't you?"

"I'll do my best. Perhaps I should ask Messere Carrot? Maybe he'll know."

"Messere Carrot? Don't you know his name?"

"Well, no, dear. I wondered if it would be too forward of me to ask."

"Oh, Mother! You really are daft. I'm sure he'd prefer you ask his name than call him Messere Carrot!"

"Oh, I know, Beth, but I'm rather inexperienced when it comes to things like this," Leandra said with a shy shrug. "I've only ever _known_ your father, and I'm not sure how to… well. I suppose enough time has passed, though, and I know your father wouldn't have wanted me to be lonely."

"No he wouldn't, Mother, and neither do Fletcher and I. Just be yourself, and you'll charm the pants off him!"

"I don't want to do _that!"_ exclaimed Leandra, blushing, and they laughed together. "I'll just charm him a little bit. I know exactly how to get around the name problem. How do I look?"

"Lovely!" Bethany smoothed down her mother's hair. "Now go and charm those pants off!"

"You _are_ naughty!" Leandra headed for the door. "I'll be back a little later. I'm… quite excited now." She laid a hand over her rapidly beating heart.

"Don't rush back!" Bethany called, and shooed Leandra out. Once the door had closed, her smile faded and she sighed, resting her chin on her hands. She sat back and looked at the four walls that were starting to feel like her prison since the mysterious 'incident' at the Gallows, before rising and entering the kitchen to wash the breakfast plates.

** The Gallows **

The two men stood stiffly in front of the desk, waiting for their commander to speak. She was standing with her back to them, her arms held at her sides, as she stared out of the window in her office. Her subordinates wore the same uniform and armour of the Templar Order, but their demeanours sharply contrasted: the dirty-blond man with the large sideburns was relaxed, confident and at ease, while his red-haired counterpart stood awkwardly, his eye twitching as a bead of sweat ran down his temple, but he dared not wipe it away.

Presently, a heavy rap came at the door and a dark-haired elf, wearing a black robe, entered. He laid his black, gnarled staff against the wall and stood next to the red-haired templar, clearing his throat.

"Excuse my tardiness, Knight-Commander."

The commander slowly turned around, her blue eyes lent the appearance of glass as the sun caught them, though when she spoke, her tone was anything but warm. "Thank you for finally joining us, First Enchanter."

The templar subordinates continued to wait while a silent game was played out between the leaders of the templars and mages of Kirkwall. Knight-Commander Meredith waited for an explanation of First Enchanter Orsino's lateness, one the elven mage had no intention of supplying. At length, a huff was heard, and the knight-commander leaned forward, resting her palms on the desk. The red-haired templar took a small step back.

"The ringleaders are still at large?" she demanded of the red-haired templar.

"Yes." He cleared his throat and straightened up. "Yes, Knight-Commander. The rest of the mages have been captured or killed, but Grace and Alain have not yet been located."

"I see," she said flatly, turning her gaze on the other templar. "Ser Karras, what have you discovered about this 'First Enchanter Hawke'?"

"I can tell you that," Orsino interrupted, undeterred by her cold glare. "There's no such person. If you had come to me first, we would have saved a lot of time. First Enchanter Raddick was killed in the fire at Starkhaven. I corresponded with him regularly, as I do with his successor, First Enchanter Bloom."

 _"As_ I was about to say," Karras cut in, "we've established this 'Hawke' was an imposter. He did seem genuine in his desire to turn the apostates over to us, but he had accomplices, some of whom seemed dubious about his decision."

"And what of Thrask?" asked the knight-commander.

"He claimed his arrival at the cave had coincided with that of this Hawke person," said Karras. "I can't verify that, as they were both there when I arrived." Karras produced a piece of paper, which he unfolded and read. "My investigation has turned up a Hawke family living in the slums of Lowtown. We've had the house watched. Over the last couple of days, a man and woman of mature years have been observed leaving and entering the house. After bribing a few drunks at the local tavern, I've determined that the woman has a son matching Hawke's description, who walks around quite openly wearing mage's robes. Apparently he earns a living as a hired sword, or staff, if you will. And that's not all," he went on, obviously pleased with himself. "Her son has just left for an expedition into the Deep Roads with a man matching the description of the wanted apostate, Anders."

 _"Anders,"_ Meredith hissed, her eyes moving to the red-haired templar. "You know him, don't you, Knight-Captain?"

"Only vaguely," said Cullen, painfully aware that his cheeks were flushing. "I spoke with him on occasion when I served at Kinloch Hold."

"I want him." Meredith jabbed the desk with a gauntleted finger. "Find out when this expedition is scheduled to end. That man made a mockery of the templars at Kinloch Hold but he will not find escape from the Gallows so easy. And if the man calling himself Hawke is with him, I want him brought in for questioning. I want to know who he is, and what influence he had upon Grace and Alain."

"It's my understanding that Anders is now a member of the Grey Warden Order," Cullen supplied, his calm voice belying his churning insides.

"Then let their leaders come to me. They can either re-conscript him, or he can remain here. He will not, however, be permitted to roam around Kirkwall, thumbing his nose at authority!"

"It will be done, Knight-Commander," said Karras with a bow.

"Continue to watch the Hawke house, and have someone observe Thrask as well," ordered Meredith.

"Is… that really necessary, Knight-Commander?" Cullen said. "Thrask is not under suspicion, as far as we know."

Meredith's jaw tightened, but her voice retained its icy calmness. "Thrask spent an undetermined amount of time in the company of the apostates, who revealed themselves as blood mages when they assaulted four of my men during their recent escape, I'll remind you, as well as a mage who masqueraded as the First Enchanter of Starkhaven." She tilted her head, her eyes locked with Cullen's. "Perhaps you think I should promote him for that, Knight-Captain?"

"Of course not, Knight-Commander. I retract my demurral."

"There is no need to placate me." Meredith stood up straight, folding her hands behind her back. "One more thing. I want to know why no apostates have been captured along the coast recently. We know there is a link of some kind to the Undercity, but all activity seems to have ceased for the time being. Find out what you can. Post operatives there if necessary." She sighed and her shoulders rose as she stifled a yawn. "You have your orders. I want Grace and Alain found, and any information pertaining to Hawke, Anders and this expedition brought to me forthwith. Maintain the watch on Hawke's house, and have someone observe Thrask. Dismissed."

Cullen and Karras bowed and left the office, leaving Orsino and Meredith alone. "Was there something more you wanted?" Meredith asked the first enchanter.

"You sent for me." The mage folded his arms, raising his chin slightly.

"The Templar-Mage covenant dictates that you are present at all meetings of this nature," she informed him as she turned her back on him, again facing the window. "It would appear that on this occasion, your input was not required. Good day to you, First Enchanter."

Angered but loath to let her see it, Orsino took up his staff. _"My_ day has just improved dramatically, Knight-Commander. I hope you enjoy yours." With that, he swept out of the office, leaving the door open.

Turning a corner, Orsino spied Knight-Captain Cullen standing in a recess, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The templar startled as Orsino silently arrived beside him.

"Yes, First Enchanter? May I assist you with something?"

"Weren't _you_ relieved when Meredith didn't ask if you'd seen Anders _since_ Kinloch Hold?" asked the mage.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on," whispered Orsino. "You may have commanded the rank-and-file templars to keep their mouths shut, but the mages come to _me_. I know all about your deals with apostates. I know all about Hawke, and Anders, and the rest of them."

"If you are attempting to blackmail me, then-"

"If you believe I'd blackmail one of the more moderate templars at the Gallows, then you're a fool, Cullen. I'm trying to help you, man. If Anders and Hawke are brought here, do you really think they'll keep their mouths shut about your hand in their freedom?"

Cullen swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"Just as I thought," said the mage. "And do you think _I_ want Anders brought here? He'd cause chaos. That breakout the other night would be nothing compared to the discord he'd sew. We need to warn him, and Hawke, and let them make arrangements."

Cullen folded his handkerchief and put it in his pocket as he glanced around to ensure they didn't have company. "And why would you--an outspoken advocate of mages' rights--want to prevent any further escape attempts?"

"How many of those escaped mages were brought back alive? Three? Out of seven? There's your answer, Cullen. Mages' rights I'm in favour of. Mages being run through with a templar's sword, I'm not."

Cullen's eyes closed momentarily and he sighed. "What would you suggest, then?"

"You need to get a message to Hawke's house."

 _"I_ need to?"

"Well, I can't do it, can I? I can barely take a piss around here without permission!"

"And how am I supposed to get a message to his house if it's being watched?"

Orsino rolled his eyes and groaned impatiently. "You're the knight-captain, aren't you? Send the men on an errand, distract them, whatever! You need to think of something!"

"Actions like that will be questioned."

"Maybe you shouldn't bother, then," snapped Orsino. _"You_ may be prepared to martyr yourself, but you need to think of Thrask as well. I won't lie to you--my interest in this is purely selfish. We need templars like you and Thrask at the Gallows because you treat the mages like people. You can't deny Meredith is slowly replacing people like you with people like Karras and Alrik. You can't allow yourself to be squeezed out."

"I am not going to discuss Knight-Commander Meredith's methods with _you,"_ Cullen retorted, though Orsino had clearly touched a nerve.

The elven mage shrugged. "Do what you think's best. But imagine for a moment if you and Thrask are moved on, and Anders is brought here. A very delicate balance is maintained here, and things are changing. You know it, and I know it. A change like _that_ could be enough to tip things over the edge. If you don't want to be responsible for that, I suggest you _do_ something, and fast."

Cullen knew he was being manipulated but, to his chagrin, also knew that Orsino was right. "You must be busy, First Enchanter," he said crisply, walking away. "I won't keep you."

Orsino smiled as he turned and headed off in the opposite direction.

** The Deep Roads **

Holding his frying pan over the fire, Fletcher grinned at the sleeping elf who was tucked under his blanket a short distance away. Every so often Fenris's nose would twitch, or he'd mumble something incomprehensible. The mage had needed to restrain himself from laughing in delight when Fenris had whispered "Fletcher," a time or two.

As soon as Fletcher cracked the eggs in the heated pan, Fenris's nose started to move in earnest, and he fidgeted a few times as the irresistible aroma of something other than porridge wafted into his nostrils. Shortly after, Fletcher caught a glint of green as Fenris's eyelids slowly opened and his eyes homed in on the mage.

"Beat you this time," Fletcher said with a smile. Fenris pushed himself up with a groan, his blanket pooling around his hips and revealing his tight belly, the muscles of which tapered down into a V-shape. Fletcher coughed and averted his gaze, sniggering quietly to himself. "I managed to rustle up a few eggs that are still okay to eat, plus I knew Varric had a stash of salted bacon. I managed to _persuade_ him to give us some. And by persuade, I mean I wouldn't tell everyone else about it."

"You… have been out? When did you return? For how long were you gone?" Fenris asked with a frown.

"Not for long. Don't worry, if I'd got stuck in the hole, I would have had you here to help me. I just didn't want to wake you. You looked so peaceful."

Fenris snorted, a gentle smile curving his lips as he leaned back on his hands. "You will have to forgive me, but it is customary for me to be somewhat… _grouchy_ in the morning. Is that how you would say it?"

"That's exactly how I'd say it." Fletcher's smiling eyes lingered on the elf before he turned his attention back to the pan.

"Then you are fortunate, for I doubt anything would cause me disquiet on this morning." Fenris moaned quietly as his head fell back and he rotated it, slowly stretching his torso, followed by his legs.

"Maker," Fletcher whispered to himself, his eyes once again on Fenris as the elf's muscles and sinews rippled beneath his skin. Setting the pan aside, he got onto all fours and started to crawl towards Fenris.

"What are you doing?" Fenris asked, an eyebrow cocked.

"I'm not in the mood for eggs." Fletcher reached Fenris's legs, and the elf leaned farther back. "In fact, I rather fancy a bit of elf for breakfast. Have you ever tried one?"

"Can't say I have," Fenris drawled, both eyebrows raised this time.

"Well," Fletcher slowly tugged the blanket away from Fenris's lower body, "they're quite tasty, light, easy on the eye and very, very satisfying, from what I hear."

"Dolt!" Fenris laughed, leaning back on his elbows as the blanket was fully removed, uncovering his naked body. "The-the breakfast." He gasped, then, as he felt hot breath on his belly.

"Help yourself. I'm not stopping you." Fletcher looked up briefly before placing a kiss on Fenris's navel and slowly moving downwards, pausing when he reached the base of the elf's tumescent member. He looked up again. "Still hungry, Fen?"

Only a shuddering exhalation came from the elf as he lay down, one knee drawn up to rest against Fletcher's shoulder. One of his hands found its way to Fletcher's head, his fingers tangling through the mage's hair.

All thoughts of breakfast, and pretty much anything else, fled Fenris's mind as Fletcher once again lowered his head. The mage did not speak again for a while.

** Minrathous, Tevinter Imperium **

"Master, there is no news, I fear. All avenues of investigation have been exhausted. It would appear that Fenris has… gone into hiding. I-I am sorry."

Lifeless, cloudy eyes bored into the messenger, who shifted nervously under the relentless stare of Magister Danarius. As still as a statue, the mage lowered his eyes, affixing the polished marble floor with the same piercing stare.

 _"All_ avenues?"

"Well, perhaps… perhaps there is something we overlooked, Master. We-we will redouble our efforts."

Danarius's eyes moved to his hands, which were neatly folded in his lap. "Where is Hadriana?" he asked the messenger, his voice low and quiet.

"She… did not return from the Free Marches, Master. Do you remember?"

"Of _course_ I remember! What do you take me for, a senile old fool?" Accustomed to such outbursts, the messenger lowered his head and uttered apologies. Danarius fisted his hands to hide the tremor that had developed in recent months. "Bring me my tonic!" he ordered.

The messenger scurried out of the magister's chambers, where a clamour erupted as several voices were heard at once. Presently, a blond, blue-eyed elf--who wore exquisite white and silver armour and carried a magnificent broadsword on his back--entered, carrying a goblet full of clear, golden liquid.

"Ah, Vionet." Danarius took the goblet from his head bodyguard. "Your company always soothes me. Sit with me for a spell."

With an elegant dip of his head, Vionet crouched and sat upon a small stool at the magister's side as his master sipped at the concoction. "I have received distressing news," Danarius confided in his bodyguard. "The trail has gone cold. _He_ has evaded my grasp once again, and Hadriana has not returned. What do you suppose that means?"

"He killed her, Master," said the bodyguard, his tone dull, his eyes averted.

"So it would appear."

"I will kill _him_ for his treachery, Master," the elf promised solemnly. He stared ahead, awaiting his master's next word or command. When, after a few minutes Danarius said nothing, Vionet's eyes slowly moved to the magister, who was staring at his hands, which were shaking violently. "Master?" Vionet cautiously rose to his feet and stood in front of Danarius, who looked up at him with confusion and anger in his eyes.

"What-what are _you_ doing here?" Danarius demanded, his eyes darting from side to side. "Where is Hadriana? I need my tonic!"

Vionet took a deep breath, removed an ornate dagger from his belt, and knelt in front of his master, holding out the knife with both hands. "Master, I apologise for my impertinence, but you have already taken more tonic than is recommended. I humbly submit that you need something… stronger to sustain you."

Danarius nodded, panting as he took the dagger and hastily rolled up his sleeve, only to be stopped as a small hand clasped his wrist.

"No, Master. Please forgive me, but your physician advised against blood loss while you are not yourself. Use me instead." Swiftly removing his vambrace, Vionet presented his bare arm to the magister and braced himself, gritting his teeth against the pain as the blade cut into his flesh.

The dagger clattered to the floor along with the blood that spilled from Vionet's arm, which formed perfect ruby droplets on the smooth, white floor. Vionet clasped his arm to stem the flow and straightened up as a laughing female form materialised in front of him.

"Again?" she purred, sauntering towards the trembling magister and prodding him on the shoulder.

"He's having one of his turns," Vionet told her listlessly, watching the blood drip from his arm. "Help him, and make it last longer this time."

"He's on his way out," the demon hissed. "You know it as well as I do. I cannot do the impossible! He grows ever more demanding."

"You will be paid," said the bodyguard with obvious disdain. He walked towards the door and pushed it open, leaving a bloody hand print on its surface. "Send in the bearer of ill-tidings," he commanded one of his underlings.

The messenger from Kirkwall was pushed into the room, followed by two more bodyguards to ensure there was no struggle. The messenger gasped at the trail of blood that led from the elf, and then dropped to his knees, praying to Andraste, when he laid eyes on the demon. With a nod from Vionet, the two bodyguards dragged the unfortunate messenger to his feet.

"You have disappointed your master," said the elf, his head twitching as a brief spasm jolted his body.

"Maker, help me! W-what _are_ you?" cried the messenger as Vionet advanced, a pale blue light streaming from his eyes, nostrils and ears.

"I am the messenger of death," said the elf in a flat monotone, and the sickening crunch of bone was heard as he drove his fist through the man's chest to grip his heart.

The messenger slumped to the floor, Vionet looking down at him without emotion. "Get rid of him," he commanded the other guards. The messenger was silently dragged away, leaving a thick, bright trail of blood in his wake. Vionet then turned to the demon. "You have your wages. Now begone."

"Until the next time," hissed the demon, shaking her head. "I cannot keep him from insanity for much longer." Vionet stared blankly at her until she melted into the wall, and gingerly stepped over the trail of blood, taking care not to slip, until he reached his master's side.

Danarius's chest rose and he cried out, his hands clutching the arms of his chair, and Vionet waited patiently until the light had returned to his master's eyes. After a moment, Danarius rose and reached for Vionet's arm, sending healing magic into it and closing the wound.

"Dear Vionet," he whispered, resting his now-steady hand against the elf's cheek. "You have done well, and will be rewarded for your loyalty." Retracting his hand, he clapped loudly, twice, and the doors were opened by two of his servants. "Give him whatever he wants. Wine, food, women, men. Bathe and massage him. See he is well rested before evensong."

"And clean this up," Vionet added, his eyes dull as he stared balefully at the floor.

"I will come to you later," Danarius murmured to Vionet.

"And I will await you, Master." With a bow, the head bodyguard was led out of the chambers. With a slow blink of his eyes, Vionet's latest victim was pushed to the darkest recesses of his memory, and forgotten.

Almost.

** Lowtown Market **

Leandra smiled to herself as she spotted her new friend enter the market and turned away, not wanting to appear too eager. She rifled through a few trinkets on one stall before moving onto the next.

"I had hoped to see you here. Good morning, dear lady," said the man with a small bow.

Leandra turned around and nodded her head in return. "And good morning to you, messere. I was not certain I would see you here today with so many templars around."

"Oh?" A knowing glint appeared in his eyes as his smile broadened. "And why should I be concerned by that?"

"No particular reason." Leandra gave him a knowing look of her own. "Have you heard what's happened? No one seems to know."

"I am not certain. They appear to be searching for someone. I would surmise that one, or more, of their mages has escaped."

"That's what I thought," she replied quietly. "I wish those mages all the luck in the world."

The gentleman tilted his head and looked at Leandra thoughtfully. "As do I, dear lady. If I might venture… was your husband also a _herbalist?"_

"My husband was many things," she answered with an enigmatic smile.

"Of course," he said apologetically. "Forgive me. I did not mean to pry."

"No, no… you didn't. It's just that, as I'm certain you are aware, one must exercise caution in times such as these."

"Indeed one must. You are wise, as well as beautiful."

Leandra hung her head and smiled, a blush burning her cheeks. "My mother warned me about charmers and flatterers, you know."

"Then I see where _your_ wisdom comes from."

She cleared her throat and attempted to push her smile down, with limited success. "What brings you here today, Messere…?"

"Please." He extended a hand. Leandra took it, the tips of her fingers brushing over the rough patches on certain parts of his palm: a dead giveaway that he was a mage. Her stomach fluttered and she looked up as he raised her hand to his lips, softly kissing her knuckles. "Please, you must call me Quentin."

"Well, in that case, you must call me Leandra," she replied as he released her hand.

"Leandra. What a lovely name." He crooked his arm, and Leandra rested her hand on his elbow as he led her around the market.


	59. Lost & Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris took a further step back, pressing the tip of his sword against Fletcher's chest.
> 
> "Fen? W-what are you doing?"
> 
> "Move away from the wall. You are not yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for your excellent beta, over and over and OVER again!
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 5/1/2016

** The Deep Roads **

"Will you be all right?" Fletcher asked Fenris as they peered around a corner into the main chamber. "They're all up and they'll all be looking at us when we enter. Or, they'll be pointedly _not_ looking at us. There might be a few comments as well. Do you think you'll be okay with that?"

Fenris's hair fell over one eye as he tilted his head, looking at Isabela and Varric in particular from a distance. "If they have nothing better to discuss than us, let them talk. _Some_ of us have fuller lives than they."

Fletcher's head slowly turned towards him, a bewildered smile forming. "I wasn't expecting you to say that."

Fenris sighed quietly and tossed his hair out of his eye, looking at the wall. "You and I… we are… together, now. Truly together." He quickly faced Fletcher and a faint smile crinkled the edges of his eyes. "We will face whatever awaits us _together."_ He took Fletcher's hand. "Last night… was the best and most important night of my entire life."

"So far," Fletcher added softly.

"So far." Fenris released Fletcher's hand, moving his own hand to Fletcher's cheek. "I feel as though… something is different. Something has changed within me, yet I am the same. I cannot explain it."

"You've fallen in love." Fletcher wrapped his arms around Fenris's waist. "I hope," he added with a grin.

"Is that how it feels?" asked the elf quietly, resting his elbows on Fletcher's shoulders. "As though…?" He shook his head, unable to sufficiently verbalise his feelings.

"As though you're invincible?"

A grin brightened the elf's face as he nodded. "Yes. I feel as though I could face any trial, any hardship, as long as you are at my side."

"I'll _always_ be at your side, Fen. I love you." Lowering his lips to Fenris's, he pulled the elf close, moaning quietly as he felt Fenris melt into him.

His smile still on his lips, Fenris gently pulled away, his eyes moving to the side as he stroked Fletcher's arm. "Come, then."

An unpleasant churning in Fletcher's stomach held him in place as Fenris turned and walked around the corner. He'd hoped that this time Fenris would reciprocate his words or sentiments. He suspected such words would not come easily to the elf, but still, Fletcher could not help feeling a little deflated.

But hadn't Fenris said, in not so many words, that he loved Fletcher? That he would always be at his side? That he could face anything so long as Fletcher was with him? Was it so important that he actually say those three words?

"Fletcher," Fenris called from around the corner, a nose and a shock of white hair barely visible. "We are together, are we not?"

Fenris hadn't requested that they enter the chamber separately, nor had he quailed at the thought of enduring the banter they were bound to be subjected to.

"Coming, Fen. I'm just being an idiot." Both smiling, they entered the main chamber. Together.

Almost as soon as they appeared, Tufty, who had been lying next to Anders, jumped up and trotted up to the twosome, oinking in excitement. Fenris rolled his eyes and spoke to the nug sternly, but it didn't escape Fletcher's notice that when Fenris looked at Sprinkles--who, as usual, was ignoring the elf--his frown deepened.

"Hey! Elf!" Varric shouted as they walked along, and Fletcher braced himself. "Your hair's all mussed up! Yeah, right there at the back!"

"I believe you are in error," Fenris calmly responded without looking at Varric or touching his hair.

"That's nothin'!" Torbal exclaimed loudly and mischievously. "Hawke, you got boot prints on the back of your robe!"

Laughter, mingled with jeers, filled the cavern, but Fletcher and Fenris continued to walk, heads held high, through the braying throng. "You are mistaken, Dwarf," Fenris countered. "I do not wear boots. Perhaps if you refrained from certain... _activities,_ your eyesight would improve."

This time, the laughter was loud and raucous, and even Anders managed a wry snort. "Ha! Maybe I should! Good comeback!" Torbal walked to Fenris's side, offering the elf his hand. Fenris looked at it, and then at Fletcher, who was still laughing, and shook his head, declining the dwarf's offer. Torbal guffawed again before slapping Fenris's shoulder and walking away.

Fletcher grinned at the elf as the banter died down. "That was perfect! I'm so glad you're not offended."

"I believe I will _water the flowers_ before breakfast," Fenris whispered to Fletcher, and walked away wearing a hint of a smile.

"I'll get breakfast, then," Fletcher called after him, "and when you come back, I'll _fertilise_ them."

Fenris paused briefly to shake his head before continuing, with Fletcher's dopey gaze following him.

"Snap out of it, you!" Isabela chided with a none-too-gentle thump to Fletcher's arm. Fletcher turned his head and gave the pirate a long-suffering look.

"Isabela. How unusual to see you."

"So," she began without preamble, "any new material for my story? Anything shocking? Disgusting? _Illegal?_ All contributions are welcome."

"Well, I don't know." Fletcher crossed his arms, affecting a casual air. "Why don't I take a look at this story of yours and get the lie of the land?" He started walking in the direction of the pirate's bedroll.

"What's the rush?" she asked with a slightly maniacal laugh, sticking to him like glue. "How about later on, when we're all settled?"

"We're settled _now_. What's the matter? I thought you wanted me to read your story?"

"Oh, I do! I'd just rather Fenris was around to read it as well, and according to Torbal, we're all setting off immediately after breakfast. Later, captain's honour."

"Fenris isn't reading a word of that book until I've reviewed it," Fletcher insisted as Isabela moved to her pack, slinging it over her shoulder. "Let me take a quick look, he'll be back in a minute."

"No, it's all right, I have everything packed up now. Later." She winked at Fletcher before turning away.

"Why, Isabela, anyone would think you have something to _hide."_

"Who, me?" She quickly turned around, batting her eyelashes, a split-second frown forming and then disappearing when Fletcher didn't return her smile. "I'm an open book, sweetheart."

"Unlike your books, then?"

"Those who speak in riddles, erm…" she trailed off as Fenris, having returned, appeared beside Fletcher. "Well, it looks like this conversation is over. Fenris is back, so you _can't_ look at it, can you?"

"Have I missed something?" Fenris demanded.

"Actually, I've changed my mind," Fletcher said. "I think Fenris would like to look at it. Let's _all_ look at it."

Isabela's head whipped around and she cupped a hand to her ear. "Oh! I think I hear… Sebastian calling me." She quickly gathered her pack as it slid off her shoulder. "Later, like I said!" she twittered, quickly moving away from them.

"Sebastian is praying," Fenris observed with a look at the supplicant archer.

"She's definitely nervous about that book," said Fletcher. "Let's try and get another look at it later."

"Agreed." Fenris's eyes moved to Fletcher's hands. "Where is my breakfast, Mage?"

"Look, while you were killing the flowers or whatever, I was investigating and unnerving the suspect." At Fenris's arched eyebrow, he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You've changed. There's confident, and there's _cocky."_

"There is no need to be vulgar."

"And you're just as pure as freshly-fallen snow, aren't you?" Fletcher teased, and Fenris finally cracked, his laughter gusting out of him.

"You have me there," admitted the elf, who then nodded at the tunnel where he'd passed water. "Go and do what you must. I will fetch breakfast." Fletcher grinned and squeezed his arm before heading to the tunnel, but stopped when he heard Fenris quietly clearing his throat. "Perhaps tomorrow… _you_ will provide… breakfast?"

Fletcher's mouth fell open and he goggled at the elf's back as Fenris slowly sauntered towards the serving table. "What _have_ I created?" Fletcher whispered to himself, beaming widely, his stomach burning. Then, remembering that he was surrounded by lots of other people, he hastily cleared his throat and affected a solemn expression before going to the tunnel, his entire body tingling.

** The Gallows **

Knight-Captain Cullen was seated at his small desk in one of the drafty corridors of Templar Hall, hastily amending the duty roster. Luckily for him, Ser Radley--the templar usually responsible for the roster--had gone to the infirmary with a stomach complaint. Instead of delegating the task, Cullen had taken it on himself.

He'd already sent Ser Karras back to the coast to co-ordinate the renewed search for apostates. In accordance with Meredith's orders, he'd reluctantly assigned Ser Cody, a knight of equable temperament, to discreetly observe Ser Thrask. All he had to do now was find a suitable man to keep watch over Hawke's house.

Scanning the list, he decided on one of the templars who'd recently transferred from Starkhaven. Following the fire that had ravaged the Circle Tower there, some of the templars had requested, and been granted, reassignment. Such a templar would not yet have been influenced by the internal politics of the Gallows, and was therefore suitable for Cullen's purposes. Closing the book, he checked his pocket to ensure his letter was safely tucked away and made his way to the training yard.

Not wishing to disturb the round of sword training that was currently underway, he waited for it to finish and then approached the head trainer, asking for his charge. He was led to a small group of recent inductees, some of whom spoke with the distinctive Starkhaven brogue, while others did not.

"Ser Ruben?" he said to one of them.

A tall, athletic-looking man stood stiffly to attention. "Knight-Captain!" he answered with a broad northern accent, recognising Cullen's insignia.

"As you were," said Cullen, and Ser Ruben relaxed a little. "You have completed your training for today?"

"Yes, ser. I'm due to commence my duties in the Great Hall at two bells."

"You have been re-assigned. You will accompany me." Cullen beckoned the knight, who stepped into line beside him. As they walked through the halls, Cullen glanced at Ruben and frowned. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Um… not to my knowledge. Were you ever posted to Starkhaven, ser?"

"No. Were you ever posted to Kinloch Hold? You seem very familiar."

"Kinloch Hold?" a small gasp came from Ruben and he quickly attempted to compose himself, but not before Cullen had noticed his reaction. "Um, no, ser. Were-were you?"

Cullen halted and his charge stopped next to him. "Yes, I was there until approximately eighteen months ago. You've heard about what happened there, I take it?"

Ruben nodded slowly, his eyes wide. "Yes, ser. I heard the losses were grievous."

Cullen said nothing and continued walking.

"Begging your pardon, ser, but I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn, or brought back unhappy memories for you."

"No," Cullen mumbled quietly. "You didn't. The memories are always with me. You were fortunate to have been posted to Starkhaven."

"Actually, ser, I originally applied to Kinloch Hold, but was told it was overstaffed at the time, and was sent to Starkhaven."

"Then you had a lucky escape," Cullen said, bitterness entering his voice.

"Yes, ser." Ruben didn't consider what had happened at Starkhaven to be _lucky_ in any way, but kept his thoughts to himself.

They walked on in silence until they reached the outer gates, where they were waved through. Cullen could tell by Ruben's demeanour that he was desperate to speak and, once embarked on the small rowing boat, his subordinate could no longer contain himself.

"Ser," he began nervously, "I'm sorry to keep on, but… did you know anyone at Kinloch Hold?"

"I knew _several_ people," Cullen answered impatiently, wanting to move the conversation along.

"Of-of course, ser. What a stupid question. I beg your pardon."

Cullen sighed. He knew what it was like to be a nervous recruit in a strange, new place. Although Ruben was no raw trainee, Cullen felt some empathy for the man and what he'd been through, and his irritation waned. "What would you ask of me?"

"Oh, nothing in particular, ser," Ruben said warily. "I just remember, as a child, that apostates from my neck of the woods were always sent to Kinloch Hold or Nevarra. It never made any sense to me that they were sent across the sea, when there were circle towers throughout the Free Marches."

"I think it was a matter of space," answered the knight-captain. "The towers in the Free Marches were always overcrowded, or so I'm told. I can't imagine the journey from the Anderfels or Antiva to Ferelden was pleasant, as it would have taken weeks. Where are _you_ from? Somewhere in the north, from your accent."

"The Anderfels, ser."

"And you applied to Kinloch Hold?" asked Cullen, astonished. "Why in the world would you want to be posted so far from home?"

"I have family in Ferelden, ser."

Cullen nodded before letting out a snort. "One of the mages at Kinloch Hold, Anders, hailed from the Anderfels. He is now at large in the Free Marches."

"I… don't recognise the name, ser," said Ruben with a deep frown.

"I'm not surprised. He refused to give the templars his real name, and so 'Anders' was given to him, as we had to call him something. He looks a bit like you, come to think of it. Perhaps that's why I thought I knew you. You Anders folk all have golden hair and olive skin, don't you? Tall as well. Or am I generalising?"

"No, you're not generalising, ser, though there are exceptions. How old is he?"

"I couldn't tell you for certain. Maybe in his mid-twenties. Anyway," he went on, moving the subject away from Kinloch Hold, "Ser Karras will need a few more men along the coast when we're done in Lowtown. I've assigned you there permanently from tomorrow. It should be more interesting than standing around in the Great Hall, no?" Receiving no answer, he raised his voice a little. "Ser Ruben?"

"Oh! Forgive me, ser, I-I was momentarily distracted," stammered Ruben, his face reddening. "Yes, ser, permanently assigned to the coast. I will serve in whatever way I can."

"A piece of advice, Ser Ruben," Cullen said sternly. "Do _not_ become 'momentarily distracted' should you find yourself addressing the Knight-Commander."

"I won't, ser, and I appreciate the advice," replied Ruben with a dip of his head.

"And don't let Karras give you all the menial tasks," Cullen counselled, his voice softer. "You are of equal rank to him. Do not allow him to push you around. Should you have any problems, come to me."

"Thank you very much, ser," Ruben said with a hesitant smile, and the men continued the rest of their trip to the mainland in thoughtful silence.

** The Deep Roads **

After several hours' trek through the next tunnel, during which Fletcher noticed they had considerably fewer provisions to carry, the group finally reached the point on Anders's map where the tunnel forked.

"Who wants to come take a look at tunnel seven with me?" Varric asked. "There must be _something_ down there worth screwing over your own brother for," he muttered in an aside to himself. "You going to keep going, Hawke?"

"Yes, we'll press on and find somewhere suitable to camp. Whoever wants to go with Varric, take some dried rations. You'll be gone for a few hours at least."

Unsurprisingly, Isabela immediately volunteered. While Fletcher reminded her he hadn't forgotten about her story, a few of the humans also stepped forward, as did Sebastian and Anders.

"I want a _proper_ dwarf going with you," Fletcher teased, concerned by how quiet and serious Varric had been lately. Varric nodded and rolled his eyes, forcing a grim smile for Fletcher's sake.

"Proper dwarf, right here," announced Vonim, stomping to the front of Varric's small group. "Think you can keep up, Short Stuff?" he asked Varric, who was approximately an inch smaller than him.

"Quit standing on tiptoes, you bloody cheat," was Varric's rejoinder. Fletcher smiled to himself, glad to see a little of his friend's humour. "Let's get this over with, then. See you later, guys."

"I'll catch up," Anders called out, and Varric nodded at him as he and the others departed.

"What is it?" Fletcher asked him quietly.

Anders took Fletcher away from the others while Fenris watched them carefully, although he knew Fletcher would apprise him of what had been said.

"I don't want to alarm you, Hawke," Anders whispered, "but I've been getting… something." He tapped his temple.

Fletcher quickly glanced at the group behind them before turning back to Anders. "You're sensing darkspawn?"

"I think so. It's the same feeling I had before. I can't quite pinpoint anything, yet, but it's there. It's difficult to explain to a non-warden."

Fletcher nodded and moved closer to Anders. "Could it be the same darkspawn Bartrand's group encountered?"

Anders shook his head. "I can still sense _them_ but they can't reach us now because they're heading in the wrong direction. No, I'm sensing something ahead of us. Where we need to go."

"Great," Fletcher muttered, his heart leaping in his chest. "And you can't be any more specific than that?"

"I'm sorry, no. We're not in any danger yet, but I'd advise you not to go too far." Anders took out his maps and showed Fletcher where they were. "Make your way to this junction, about half a mile ahead, and stay there until we return. There's a chamber about a mile ahead of that where we can make camp later. While you're at the junction, take a look in the adjoining tunnels for some lyrium in a form we can use. I've been feeling it lately. Have you?"

"Yes. Fenris and I found a little bit last night, but we couldn't reach it."

Anders dropped his voice lower. "I don't know about you, Hawke, but I'm running low."

"Shit! I was going to ask _you_ how your supplies were… bloody hell, there's a whole sack of lyrium potions in the first chamber we can't get to!"

"I know," Anders said angrily before sighing. "Just see what you can find. We're in no state to take on darkspawn with what we currently have. Ooh, if I could get my hands on that Bartrand…"

Fletcher laid a hand on Anders's shoulder. "I'll see what I can find. You'd better go."

Anders sighed and nodded. "All right. Remember what I said. Don't go too far in."

As Anders walked into the tunnel, Fenris moved to Fletcher's side. "Is something amiss?" he asked, concerned.

Fletcher slowly nodded, his gaze cast downward. "Anders thinks there are darkspawn ahead. Right in front of us. We won't be able to avoid them this time."

"How far away? How many?" Fenris queried, immediately formulating strategies in his mind. "Fletcher?" he prodded softly when the mage didn't reply.

"Sorry. I'm just…" Fletcher sighed and closed his eyes.

"You are thinking of your brother." A small hand came to rest on Fletcher's elbow, and he looked at the elf, tears forming in his eyes.

"Fenris, promise me you won't do anything stupid, like throwing yourself at them or… and-and if there's an ogre, just stay back, all right? Promise me. Please, Fen… I-I couldn't bear it if…"

Fenris quickly steered Fletcher to a shadowy recess and, with a hard look at the group--just in case they were watching, which they mostly weren't--he turned back to the mage, dismayed to see him wiping his eyes. He waited for Fletcher to compose himself, hiding his concern well. Fletcher had seemed on edge, jumpy, even, for most of that morning, even before Anders's news of the imminent darkspawn encounter, and Fenris wondered why.

"Maker, I'm sorry, Fen. I don't know where this has come from," Fletcher uttered, shaking his head in self-remonstration. "Why am I so bloody emotional? Ha! I thought Anders would be the first one to crack, really I did." He sniffled, forcing a brittle laugh.

"You are strong," Fenris said with determination. "Do not doubt that. This time, the darkspawn will _not_ prevail."

"Promise me," urged Fletcher.

"I will be cautious."

"I _said,_ promise me."

Fenris looked into Fletcher's eyes and waited until he'd taken a few deep breaths. "I _promise_ I will be cautious. I can promise little else, as we do not yet know what awaits us. I would not break my word to you."

Fletcher nodded and glanced at the group, unable to meet Fenris's eyes.

"I would not needlessly throw my life away," said the elf. "I give you my word on _that_. I have too much to live for. Now." With a gentle smile, he reached for Fletcher's fur collar and straightened it. "Trust me."

"I do, it's just…"

"And you may bestow upon me whatever protective magic you feel is necessary."

"You-you'd let me? But… it causes you discomfort. I wouldn't want to-"

"Any discomfort I experience will be a trifle compared to that of seeing you distraught. Just… warn me first?"

Fletcher bit his lip as tears formed anew in his eyes, touched that Fenris would endure pain to set his mind at ease.

"Enough of this," Fenris gently chided, his anxiety over Fletcher's emotional state deepening. "Take a deep breath… release it," he instructed, remembering Anders's directions when they were at the Dalish camp. "Are you all right now?" he asked when Fletcher had calmed himself. Fletcher nodded with a wan smile. "I will take some of the burden from your shoulders." Fenris raised an arm and hailed Torbal, inviting him to join them. "Ser Dwarf, will you walk beside me?"

With a laugh, Torbal bowed and straightened up. "Well, sure, _Ser Elf_. Will you shake my hand?"

"That depends. Have you been indulging in 'certain activities'?"

"Probably. My memory ain't what it used to be. Like my eyesight."

Fenris sharply retracted his hand. "Certainly not, then." Torbal chuckled heartily in response. "Follow us," the elf instructed the group, leaving Fletcher at the rear with the space and solitude Fenris knew he needed.

Fenris looked back for a moment and caught the eyes of Fletcher, who silently mouthed, "I love you." He was rewarded with a warm smile and a nod from the elf, the fondness in Fenris's eyes all the answer he would ever need.

** Central Lowtown **

"Have you visited Lowtown before?" Cullen asked Ruben as they made their way through the bustling market at its centre.

"Only briefly, ser. Since arriving here, most of my time has been taken up with training and drills."

Cullen nodded, remembering how he'd also thrown himself into training after the incident at Kinloch Hold. He laid a hand on Ruben's back, mustering a sympathetic half-smile. "I have a personal errand to attend to while we're here. Take a look around the markets and meet me at the slums when you're ready." He gave directions to Ruben.

"Thank you, ser!" Ruben said brightly, warming to the knight-captain who wasn't as severe as he'd first appeared to be. "I won't be long."

"Take your time," said Cullen. "Let's call it an hour."

Ruben bowed to his captain and thanked him again. Cullen left him, once again checking his letter was safely in his pocket.

Upon reaching the slums, Cullen sought out the templar on duty. Since the breakout at the Gallows, a templar had been posted in each precinct of Lowtown. What the residents of the slums did not know was that this particular templar was also keeping an eye on the Hawke household.

"Has there been any activity?" Cullen asked the templar.

"The lady of the household arrived home not long ago. The gentleman appears to work shifts and I would guess he will come home at approximately five bells. Apart from that, nothing of note."

Cullen nodded. "I relieve you. Your replacement will be here shortly. I will stand in his stead until his arrival. You are dismissed."

The templars folded their arms across their chests and bowed to each other in salute. Cullen waited until his counterpart had left, and glanced at the small dwelling at the top of the steps. His heart quickening, he ascended the steps, arriving at the door. He then rapped firmly upon it and waited.

A twitch of a curtain caught his eye and then he heard muffled voices, both female. He was only aware of _one_ female residing in the Hawke house, although he supposed the other one could be a guest. After a few minutes the door was opened by a lady in her fifties, Cullen immediately recognising the family resemblance to Hawke.

"Good afternoon to you, madam," he said with a respectful bow. "Am I addressing the mother of Messere Fletcher Hawke?"

The look of anxiety on Leandra's face answered his question. "Is everything all right, Ser Knight?" she asked before remembering where her son was, and who she was speaking to. Too late, she stopped herself, realising she'd given herself away.

"I have not seen your son recently," Cullen said quietly, glancing over his shoulder, "as I understand he is currently in the Deep Roads. I am here to deliver a letter to him."

"What do you want with him?" she demanded, her tone uncharacteristically fierce. "If you think I'm going to assist you in his capture, you have another think coming. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, ser."

"You misunderstand me, madam." Cullen passed the letter to her and she took it, her eyes never leaving his. "This letter is addressed to your son and his friend, Anders. I would ask that you give it to them as soon as they return home, _before_ if possible. It is for their benefit."

As he released the letter, Cullen's hand brushed against Leandra's, and his body hummed as an echo of mana resonated within him. She was not a mage, he was certain, but she _had_ been in contact with a mage, and recently.

"If I might ask, madam, has your son returned from the Deep Roads?"

"You people seem to know where he is, so perhaps _you_ could answer that for me?" she said tersely, not meaning to be rude to the polite man, but the appearance of any templar instantly set alarm bells ringing in her mind. She felt especially worried for Bethany now that Fletcher was gone.

"To the best of my knowledge, madam, he has not yet returned. Please… give the letter to him when you can. I am certain you will also want to read it, and I assure you you will find nothing sinister within. I am sorry to have disturbed you."

With another bow he departed, leaving Leandra staring at the letter. As he reached the bottom of the steps, he heard the door close and the bolt slide across. With heaviness on his brow, he walked to the spot where he'd relieved the templar earlier, and waited for Ser Ruben to arrive.

Ruben was punctual and met Cullen almost an hour after they'd parted. After exchanging pleasantries about Ruben's trip to the market, Cullen turned to business and explained Ruben's duties to him. What he failed to mention was that he strongly suspected Hawke's mother was harbouring--or at least knew--another apostate, but he couldn't act on those suspicions as he'd had no business taking a letter to her in the first place.

"Your shift will end at eleven bells, Ser Ruben, when you will be escorted back to the Gallows for prayers and sleep. Ser Graham will relieve you at eight bells for a toilet and supper break. Most of us go to the Hanged Man for that. Don't get drunk," he warned. Ser Ruben nodded solemnly, but relaxed when he detected a ghost of a smile from Cullen.

"Observation is not the most exciting of duties," Cullen went on, "but it's relatively safe. Crime does occur here, but only the truly idiotic would engage a templar. And, from what I hear, you are skilled with a sword. I doubt you will need to use it, though. I'm certain one of the city guards will find his or her way here to keep you company later on. They get just as bored as we do. Now, I must return. Maker watch over you."

"And you, ser. Thank you," Ruben replied. They once again saluted each other, and Cullen departed.

Ruben exhaled and leaned against a wall, his heart pounding, numerous thoughts racing through his head. Was the man Cullen had spoken of the very man Ruben had been seeking for the past twelve years? The man he'd feared was dead following the disaster at Kinloch Hold? The man who was the very reason he'd joined the Templar Order in the first place?

He would have to be careful as he'd almost given himself away with his questions. Straightening up, he began a slow walk around the perimeter of the slums, keeping one eye on the Hawke residence.

He would just have to wait a little while longer.

** The Deep Roads **

By the time Fenris and his group had found the junction, Fletcher's mood had brightened, and he was back to cracking jokes and discreetly flirting with Fenris when the chance arose. Fenris knew Fletcher wasn't completely himself and still wondered why, but was glad to see him smiling at least.

During a break, Fenris was once again forced to fend off Tufty's attentions and corral Sprinkles when he wandered off, although the stubborn nug still refused to follow directions. Fletcher suspected Fenris was quite proud of the fact that Tufty now responded when Fenris called his name; he also suspected Fenris was annoyed that Sprinkles did not. It was, in fact, a sentiment shared by the entire group, although not one of them was brave enough to say it out loud.

"Shall _I_ round him up again?" Fenris grumbled to Fletcher when Sprinkles decided to take off down a small tunnel at considerable speed.

"I'll come with you," offered Fletcher, relishing the chance to be alone with Fenris, even for a few minutes. "I'm having kissing withdrawals," he whispered to the elf, who quickly followed the nug into the tunnel. Just before he disappeared, however, he turned back and locked eyes with Fletcher. The mage forced down an idiotic grin and went after him.

"Come back!" Fenris ordered, breaking into a run as the nug charged through the tunnel. Rounding a bend, Fenris felt his markings flare into life and he stopped dead, his mouth hanging open at the sight that met him.

"I can feel it… I'm coming," Fletcher called from further back in the tunnel, an odd note in his voice. He entered the small chamber seemingly in a trance and slowly walked to the far end, barely noticing when Fenris moved in front of him.

"Do _not_ touch it." Fenris pushed Fletcher back with his hands, but the mage ignored him, irresistibly drawn to the thick, azure blue veins that snaked along the cavern walls, ghostly fronds branching off them, lulling, calling, beckoning Fletcher closer.

"Let me just… let me just get a bit closer, Fen. I just want to touch it. Just a little bit. It-it's whispering to me… can't you hear it?"

"Get a hold of yourself!" Fenris realised with some alarm that he and Fletcher were alone, possibly out of earshot of the others. It appeared they'd stumbled across a raw lyrium vein, meaning Fletcher may be in danger... and Fenris would need to be very careful with his handling of the situation.

Fletcher blinked and his eyes, pupils dilated, moved down to the elf, whose markings had reacted with the lyrium vein and were glowing softly. "You-you're _beautiful."_ Fletcher gasped, awestruck. "Maker, you're beautiful… just _look_ at you." His fingers brushed along the elf's cheeks, his neck, and then moved to his hair. "Wow," Fletcher uttered, his voice trembling, "you-you're my beautiful lyrium prince. You're so... Maker… look at you…"

Fenris felt pain shoot along his markings and guessed Fletcher's mana reserves were reacting to the lyrium, fearing he might use magic. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't while Fenris was nearby, but here... he was not in his right mind. "Move away from the wall," the elf ordered. "I am _not_ asking." 

Fletcher advanced, a joyous smile on his face. "You're so beautiful. We were meant to be together. I have to make you mine. Just... touch me. _Please._ I can make both our dreams come true."

As tears of joy slipped down Fletcher's face, the appalled elf pulled away and drew his sword, pointing it at Fletcher. "Torbal! Vonim!" he yelled.

"No, don't do that," Fletcher murmured, again moving close to Fenris and pushing his sword aside. "Let's make love. Right here. It'll be mind-blowing. You, me, my magic and-and… all of this…" He waved his hand toward the cavern walls.

The fact that Fletcher was willing to use magic in Fenris's vicinity, no matter the activity, set off an alarm in Fenris's mind. He took a further step back, pressing the tip of his sword against Fletcher's chest. _"Someone!_ I am in need of aid!"

"Fen? W-what are you doing?"

"Move _away_ from the wall. You are not yourself."

"I've never felt _more_ like myself!" Fletcher protested, hurt in his voice. "What's the matter? Why are you _being_ like this?"

"Desist, or I will be forced to take action," Fenris commanded. "Please, Fletcher. Do as I say. I do _not_ want to hurt you."

At that moment, and to Fenris's great relief, Torbal arrived at the entrance. "Bloody hell!" exclaimed the dwarf. "What have you found here?"

"Raw lyrium," said the elf in a grave tone. "He is responding poorly to it."

Torbal, noticing Fenris's sword was pointed at Fletcher, nodded in understanding. "Hawke," he said in a deep, gruff voice. "Get your ass over here. Now."

"No!" Fletcher snapped, angry at the intrusion. "You have no right to come in here and tell us what to do! You all had a good laugh this morning, didn't you? We're just a joke to you, aren't we? You need to understand that we're in love," he spun around and glared at the elf, "although _Fenris_ would never admit that, would you? We're staying here, until I make Fenris see we were meant to be together!"

Alarmed by the madness in Fletcher's eyes, Torbal slowly unsheathed his axe. "Let's not do this, Hawke," he said calmly as Fenris moved behind the mage. "Now we're all gonna walk out of here, together, nice and easy."

 _"We_ are not going anywhere!" Fletcher raised his hands and, just as they started to glow with flame, his breath was knocked out of him as Fenris and Torbal took him down, all three of them landing in an unceremonious heap, Fletcher flat on his face.

Fenris grunted, twisting Fletcher's arms behind his back, his knee pinning the mage in place. "I'm sorry. Please, do not struggle."

"Let-me- _go!"_ Fletcher screamed as Thirin arrived, panting, at the entrance.

"What the fuck is going on here?" exclaimed the elderly dwarf.

"'Bout time you got here. Get some sodding rope!" Torbal ordered.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher awoke, sometime later, to find Anders crouching over him. He began to move but his limbs failed him, and he slumped, as limp as a rag doll that had lost its stuffing.

"Can you see me?" Anders snapped his fingers in front of Fletcher's eyes.

"Yes… what am I doing here? What-what's going on?" He looked up at the high ceiling of the chamber but was unable to focus, and closed his eyes, feeling giddy.

"You found a lyrium vein," Anders told him with a wry smile. "When I told you to look for lyrium, I didn't mean _raw_ lyrium!"

Fletcher's eyes slowly opened and his brow creased as hazy blue images meandered through his mind. Then he gasped as everything came crashing back, and he once again attempted to get up, but Anders pushed him back. "Fenris! Shit! _Shit!_ Where is he? Maker! I-I… is he all right?"

"Fenris is… busy at the moment. He's fine. Worried about you, but he's okay. He told me you'd been a bit emotional earlier today. Maybe you'd been sensing it on some level. It seems Sprinkles did as well. The dwarves have taken him down a few of the tunnels and he's sniffed out some lyrium we _can_ use. Everything's going to be fine, Hawke. No harm done."

"What's Fenris doing? Is Torbal all right? I nearly… Maker, I nearly incinerated him! And how come you didn't sense it, Anders? Why weren't you affected by it? Have you drained my mana? Anders?"

"One question at a time! Just calm down." He sat on the ground next to Fletcher and helped him to sit up, but Fletcher had to lean against him. "First of all, yes, I did drain your mana. I had to. You were all but frothing at the mouth. As to why I wasn't affected, well, it's a guess, but maybe Justice gives me a little protection from it. And Torbal said you cast like a girl."

"Huh." Fletcher managed a small laugh and looked around, wondering where everyone had gone. "And… what's Fenris doing? Please tell me he's all right. The way I was behaving… I can't believe it."

"He's fine, honestly. Listen," Anders said seriously. "We didn't find any treasure in tunnel seven. We _did_ find Bartrand, however."

"What? I thought the darkspawn had got him!"

"Well, he went and sneaked down another tunnel, didn't he? He and Angrim were together, both filthy and stumbling around in the dark. They said they hadn't eaten for two days and nights. I tell you, Hawke, Bartrand's lucky he made it back here alive. Varric and I went for him as soon as we set eyes on him. If it hadn't been for Sebastian's intervention…"

"The bastard!" Fletcher tried to scramble to his feet, but this time Anders didn't need to hold him back as his legs gave way and he plopped onto his bottom with a thud.

"We don't know what happened yet," Anders told him. "He's _claiming_ that Gaar collapsed both tunnels, trapping both groups. Angrim, on the other hand, is asserting it was Bartrand's idea to collapse our tunnel, and that Gaar double-crossed Bartrand. They were both quite willing to betray each other once we waved some food under their noses, and we had to pull them apart. Poor Varric doesn't know what to bloody think."

"And what do _you_ think?" Fletcher asked him.

"Personally, I think Bartrand's lying through his teeth, but it's not up to me. We'll see what Fenris decides."

"Fenris? What do you mean? What does he have to do with it?"

Anders shook his head and laughed. "Fenris has gone into full guard mode. He told both of them that, as he wears the uniform of the Kirkwall Guard, he _is_ the Kirkwall Guard down here. He's interrogating them both, and is _not_ in the mood for any crap. He's pretty impressive, actually."

"I must be hallucinating or something." Fletcher blinked several times to clear his hazy vision. "I could swear you just called Fenris _impressive."_

"You probably did imagine it." Anders settled Fletcher against the rock and stood up. "You're going back to sleep. You need to regenerate your mana, now you're actually safe to be trusted with it."

"No, Anders, I'm fine, really, and I need to see Fenris!"

"I'm not arguing. Besides, I want to see what's going on with Bartrand, and now you're awake, I'm not going to risk you wandering off into that tunnel again. Fenris agrees with me."

"No, don't! I-"

With a wave of Anders's hand, Fletcher's eyes fluttered closed and his head drooped on his shoulder.

"Yes, I know you're going to kill me when you wake up," Anders said with a smile, shaking his head as he left Fletcher to his sleep.


	60. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are correct in your assumption that the law forbids me from dispensing capital punishment," Fenris said, moving closer to Bartrand. "I would have to explain such an action, and paperwork is not my strong suit. Wounds, however, can be explained far more easily."
> 
> "Wounds?"
> 
> "Wounds." Fenris pushed Bartrand's face to the side with the edge of his sword. "Permit me to demonstrate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for de-stiltifying the chapter! And yes... I know exactly which word you were thinking of, you mucky pup :P
> 
> And thank you to all of you who are reading, and for your inspirational comments.
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 5/1/2016

"This is bloody outrageous!" Bartrand was pushed into the main chamber, hands bound at the wrists. "We were coming to _warn_ you about that bastard Gaar!" he claimed with his best approximation of a pleading glance at the dour-looking group.

With a yelp, he was propelled forward by a slipper-clad foot to his backside. "See if the others offer you sympathy," growled Fenris, his sword at the dwarf's back. "You do not have mine. _Sit."_

"Who do you think you are? Telling me to sit like a dog? Does he talk to _you_ like this?" he asked the rest of the expedition workers. "You gonna take this from a sodding _elf?"_

"Shut up and do what he says, you Stone-forsaken idiot!" Thirin called as he stirred a huge pot of stew over the main fire pit. "You're damned lucky he hasn't sliced you up."

"Oh, yeah?" Bartrand said with an arrogant tilt of his head. "This pretend guard can't kill me. He's been quoting me the _law_ the whole time, so I guess he's gotta stick to it, doesn't he?"

"You are correct in your assumption that the law forbids me from dispensing capital punishment," Fenris said, moving closer to the dwarf. "I would have to explain such an action, and paperwork is not my strong suit. _Wounds_ , however, can be explained far more easily."

"Wounds?"

"Wounds." Fenris pushed Bartrand's face to the side with the edge of his sword. "Permit me to demonstrate."

Bartrand batted the sword away and almost fell over as he stumbled back. "You can't wound me, you illiterate goon! See all these people? They're called _witnesses!"_

Fenris glanced at the group, a dark smile stretching his lips as every single worker turned their back on them. "I see no witnesses, Dwarf. Now, _sit down_. My patience is at an end."

"Bunch of bastards!" Bartrand barked at the group.

"I _said,_ sit down!" Fenris snarled, lunging forward.

Bartrand finally lost his footing and fell onto his backside, unable to right himself due to his bound hands. At the same moment, Varric and Angrim emerged from a side-tunnel and walked past, with Angrim smirking at Bartrand and Varric decidedly ignoring him.

"Hey, why aren't _his_ hands tied up?" Bartrand demanded furiously, quickly shutting up when Fenris leaned over him, still brandishing his sword.

"Because _his_ story was more plausible than yours," explained the elf. "However, you will both face the magistrate upon our return, and he will decide your fate. Do _not_ give me cause to bind you in a similar fashion," he warned Angrim.

"Don't worry, Elf. I'm no criminal," Angrim said, looking at Bartrand as he spoke.

Bartrand wriggled and attempted vainly to stand up. "You're fucking dead, you double-crossing son of a bitch!"

"Not if I get to you first, you lying bastard!"

"There will be no reprisals," Fenris dictated, thumbing over his shoulder. "You. Over there," he commanded Angrim. "And you will be silent," he said to Bartrand. "Or I will silence you."

"There's no law against talking! Who do you think you-"

"I _will_ have silence!" barked Fenris, his sword biting into Bartrand's neck. Bartrand again defiantly pushed the sword away, but said no more, and glowered at Angrim instead.

"Varric." Fenris walked up to the dwarf and spoke quietly. "I realise he is your brother. I would not want to-"

"Do what the hell you like with him," Varric muttered irascibly. "And if you need any help with those _wounds_ , gimme a holler." He sighed. "You'd better go check on Hawke. Let me worry about Bartrand."

Fenris glanced across at Fletcher, who was seated in a far corner of the chamber with Anders. Catching a pair of fearful brown eyes looking back at him, he quickly turned to Varric. "As you wish, but remember you are not alone in your burden."

"Burden?" Varric slapped Fenris's arm. "Oh, he's that all right, Broody. It's good to have you at my back, though. Now, go see Hawke. The guy's fretting his ass off over there."

Varric walked away, as far from Bartrand as he could get, and Fenris watched him, drawing a calming breath, with Fletcher and Anders in his peripheral vision. He turned and walked in their direction.

Anders stood up as Fenris neared. "He's had a sleep, but he's still low on mana," he warned the elf, but his tone was not hostile. As Fenris nodded at him, Anders whispered, "The lyrium's still affecting him. It's everywhere, even beneath our feet, we just can't see it. The way he's reacting to it... he can't help it. He's a bit fragile. He feels terrible about what happened."

"I understand," murmured Fenris quietly. Anders departed, leaving Fenris standing at Fletcher's feet, looking down. The mage was seated against the rock wall, his legs stretched out.

"Nicely done, Guardsman," Fletcher said with a weak smile, nodding in Bartrand's direction. He then cautiously looked up at Fenris before quickly lowering his eyes. "Will you sit with me? I'm not... I won't try anything, I swear. There are loads of people around and I promise you Anders is watching us, even if we can't see him."

"Of course." Fenris moved to Fletcher's side, where he sat upon the ground. Neither of them spoke for a short time.

"I must have really frightened you," uttered Fletcher, finally breaking the silence, his gaze on his feet.

"I was… somewhat taken aback, yes."

"I wouldn't have hurt you, you know," Fletcher whispered.

"And yet you meant to harm Torbal," Fenris said in a reasonable tone.

"Yes." Fletcher sighed and drew his knees up to his chest. "The way I was thinking at the time--and I accept the way I was thinking was completely abnormal--was that Torbal was trying to separate us, break us apart. I was trying to protect _us_. I know, I know… it sounds ridiculous," he said with a morose shrug, and glanced at Fenris, whose expression was inscrutable. "You, in my mind, are in the category of someone who must never be hurt. You're like family. I would _never_ have… forced myself on you. Maker, even saying it…"

Fenris groaned softly, saddened, as tears welled up in Fletcher's eyes, but he did not touch the mage for fear of upsetting him further. Instead, he waited for Fletcher to compose himself.

"I'm not making any sense, am I?" Fletcher went on, his head bowed. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm desperately sorry I placed you in the position where you had to subjugate me. I'm _glad_ you did that. But if you hadn't, I wouldn't have… if you'd rejected me, I probably would have burst into tears or had a tantrum or something." He laughed bitterly. "I would never have hurt you, I swear. I just don't have it in me to… you know. I'm so sorry." He hesitantly moved his hand to cover Fenris's, but didn't grip it. "I know you might not believe what I'm saying…"

"I believe you." Fenris curled his fingers around Fletcher's hand. "You were not acting of your own volition."

"I-I know, but the fact is, I am _capable_ of acting like that. Anders has been down the main tunnel with the dwarves and he said it's lined with raw lyrium. This is only going to get worse. I think… I think it's best that I'm restrained from now on," he uttered quietly, resignation in his voice. "For everyone's sake."

"Restrained?"

Fletcher nodded. "So I can't cast. As for my behaviour… I don't know what will happen. I'm sorry, Fen. This probably hasn't improved your opinion of mages in general."

"Not all mages are equal." Fenris tightened his grip on Fletcher's hand. "That is something I have learned since we met." Fletcher's eyes moved up to his, a faint, hopeful smile on his face. "Besides," the elf continued, "I am also affected by the lyrium." He raised his free arm, an indistinct glow radiating from his markings. "I cannot help that any more than you can help _your_ reaction to it."

"Thank you for understanding, Fen," Fletcher said with a loving gaze at the elf. "But I have to insist my hands be tied. I won't risk anything like that happening again. I may very well act like a complete prat, but at least I won't be able to hurt anyone."

Fenris examined Fletcher's hands, considering his proposal. _"Would_ binding your hands prevent you from casting?"

"Yes." Fletcher placed his hands together, as though he was praying, and meshed his fingers together. "If my palms are covered, I can't cast."

"I have seen other mages casting without using their hands or a staff," Fenris contended. "I have seen men driven to madness with a mere look from a mage."

Fletcher let out a nervous laugh, his head falling back against the wall. "Some battle mages can do that, and... I daresay blood mages can do it too, once they've made a blood sacrifice. I'm not a battle mage--I'm not even a decent healer. If my hands are bound, I can't use mana _or_ call on my demon. Not that I would, anyway."

"I know that." Fenris squeezed Fletcher's hand. "I do not wish to see you reduced to… is there no other way?"

 _"I_ would feel better, Fen. Please, I'm asking you."

Fenris took a deep breath and then sighed. "Very well. I will ask the pirate to do it. She is versed in several types of knot, and bound Bartrand's hands. She will not hurt you."

"I-I want to apologise to Torbal, first," Fletcher insisted, "while I can still shake his hand… if he'll shake mine, that is."

They didn't need to look far for the rotund dwarf: he was holding court with some of the human workers a short distance away, his deep laughter echoing throughout the chamber.

"He appears to be quite unscathed," observed Fenris. "I am certain he will shake your hand."

Fletcher started to push himself up, but was stopped by Fenris's hand on his chest. "There is… something more," said the elf.

"Oh?" Fletcher asked warily, sitting back down.

Fenris sighed again and didn't speak for a few moments. When he did, his voice was soft and quiet. "You do not believe that I care for you?"

"No, I-I don't know why I said that," Fletcher answered hastily. "And I'm sorry I said it in front of Torbal. I wasn't in my right mind. I didn't mean it."

"But somewhere in your mind, you must have doubts," Fenris reasoned, a crease forming between his brows. "You would not have said it otherwise."

"No, I was just being stupid," Fletcher replied, feeling guilty that a small part of him still hoped Fenris would say those three little words.

"You must understand," Fenris began, "that I have never… shared myself with anyone before, not in the way I have shared myself with you. These feelings are completely new to me, and I do not have anything with which to compare them. I do not _know_ what it is I feel. I would not dishonour you, or us, by speaking without conviction. Words are easily spoken, but if the meaning is not there, then they are empty. Do you understand?"

"I… I think so," Fletcher said, nodding slowly, his heart sinking.

Fenris once again took Fletcher's hand. "Consider this. When we first met, I was embittered, angry, and incapable of feeling anything other than hatred. I was barely a person at all due to my experiences with blood mages. _You_ are a blood mage--albeit, I accept, a non-practising one--yet I have shared my story with you, even the darkest episodes. I have given my affection to you, and I have given my body to you. Allow me time, and I will give my heart to you. And when I do, it will be freely, without conditions or caveats. Perhaps I already have, but I do not _know_ for certain. I am damaged... but, with your help, I am healing. All I ask for is time, dear Fletcher."

Fletcher squeezed his eyes closed and nodded as a tear coursed down his cheek. Wiping it away, he released his breath in a shaky burst and nodded again. "S-sorry. It's the blasted lyrium." He wiped both of his eyes on his sleeve, sniffled and looked at the elf, who wore a fond smile. "I understand, Fen. Finally, I understand. Thank you."

Fenris, still smiling, held the mage's gaze for a moment before pushing himself up and offering his hand to Fletcher. "Are you able to stand?"

"Let's find out." Fletcher took the elf's proffered hand and, with much effort from Fenris, stood on wobbly legs.

"One more thing," Fenris began. "I do not want to hear you disputing your abilities again. You stated that you are 'not a decent healer' when, in fact, the opposite is true. How many can claim they mended the broken leg of one who was terrified of being touched? At midnight, with only a burning tree branch as a light source? _You_ did that. You are an excellent healer... and a fine man. You make me proud."

Fletcher's lower lip started to wobble but he was also smiling. "I left you with a limp."

"None of us are perfect." Fenris's breath rushed out of his lungs as he was almost crushed in a hug. Laughing softly, he extricated himself from Fletcher, who kissed him on the nose before finally releasing him.

"I want to apologise in advance for any worry I'm going to cause you," the mage said seriously as he held onto Fenris's arms. "I don't know how the lyrium's going to affect me. Well, it's affecting me now, but I mean when we're right next to it. I didn't... I didn't know what I was doing before. It's not me. You know that, don't you?"

"I know." Fenris gave Fletcher a wonderful smile, which was reciprocated, before a booming laugh from Torbal brought them back to the present. "Would you like to speak to him now?"

Fletcher sighed. "I suppose I'd better."

As Fenris suspected would be the case, Torbal dismissed Fletcher's apology, throwing in a few good-natured jibes about his casting abilities. The couple then sought out Isabela, who reacted predictably when asked to tie Fletcher up.

"I _knew_ you'd come round," she teased, reaching for a length of rope from her pack. With a stern look from Fenris, however, she relented with a sigh. "Are you certain you want to do this, Hawke?"

"It's for everyone's safety," he said, still feeling ashamed. "I don't know how I'm going to be when we head through that tunnel." He pressed his palms together and held his hands out to Isabela, who considered the type of knot to use.

"Allow him flexibility and comfort, but do not allow his palms to separate," instructed Fenris.

The pirate nodded. "I know just the thing. And I'll be much gentler with you than I was with that arse of a dwarf," she said with a nod towards Bartrand, whose ears pricked up.

"Ha! Binding the mage now, are we?" He craned his neck for a better look. "How the mighty have fallen!"

 _"Excuse_ me," Fenris rasped, his nose wrinkling.

Before Fenris could reach the dwarf, however, Vonim--who'd been glaring daggers at Bartrand the whole time--stomped over and kicked him hard in the chest, sending him onto his back. "I'm getting real sick of hearing your stinkin' voice, Bartrand! Now shut the hell up!"

Bartrand flailed on his back, eventually gaining purchase on an elbow and pushing himself onto his bottom. "Hey, _guard!"_ he yelled at the approaching Fenris, "you can't allow this kind of treatment! I haven't been convicted of nothin', yet! What are you gonna _do_ about this?"

"Have you not heard, Dwarf?" retorted Fenris. "I am no guard, but merely a counterfeit one. I have no power over the actions of these people."

"Yet you think you have power over _me?"_ Bartrand held up his tied hands, not noticing a stocky figure to his side, who was winding a leather strap around his knuckles.

Fenris sneered at the former expedition leader. "You're _special."_

"And where's that no-good brother of mine?" Bartrand demanded. "I don't see _him_ defending House Tethras! There's no family honour anymore, I tell you! Where is he?"

"Right here... _Brother."_

The last thing Bartrand saw was the leather-clad fist as it slammed into his nose. Pain stabbed at his eyes, and the sound of applause and cheering lulled him into unconsciousness.

"You're welcome," Varric said to his friends, flexing his hand and unwinding the leather cord.

"Varric," Isabela called over the hubbub. "To lift Hawke's spirits, I've decided to treat him to a reading of my story. Care to join us? It should be good for a laugh if nothing else."

"This oughta be good," replied the dwarf, his own tensions easing a little as the noise died down.

"Thank you for the peace and quiet," Fenris said as Varric walked away from his recumbent brother. "I owe you a debt that cannot easily be repaid."

"Anytime, Broody." Varric bowed, and Fenris caught a cheeky glint in the dwarf's eye when he straightened up.

Anders then moved to Fenris's side and they both watched as Varric approached Isabela and Fletcher, whose hands were now securely bound.

"I'm going to need your help, Fenris," Anders said quietly.

"You shall have it," answered Fenris with a small nod. "We must both be strong for him."

"I didn't want to say anything to Hawke, but I think the darkspawn have begun to sense my presence," Anders whispered. Fenris jerked his head, indicating that they move away from the others, and Anders followed without hesitation. "They've picked up their pace and are heading right for us," Anders continued, taking out his maps. "Remember this portion of the map that we arg- _talked_ about? The 'uncharted' section?"

"I remember."

"Well, it looks like we're going to run into them there. Maker knows what else we're going to find there as it is."

"Could we not stay back? Ambush them?"

"We _could,_ but there are drawbacks to that plan. First, the food situation is bad enough as it is _without_ the addition of Angrim and Bartrand--we need to press on as quickly as possible. Second, I wouldn't fancy engaging the darkspawn in as small a chamber as this. They might have mages as well, and any encounter could quickly turn into a slaughter, not necessarily in our favour."

"How long do we have?" Fenris asked, staring grimly ahead at the tunnel they would be heading down.

"If we make an early start tomorrow, we'll arrive at the uncharted section before they do, but only just. I'd prefer to reach the larger chamber up ahead before we bed down for the night, as well as making an early start, but it might not go down well with the others. They're preparing for supper."

"Then supper will have to be delayed. Our lives are at stake." Fenris stepped away from Anders and addressed the group, speaking clearly. "Gather your belongings," he instructed them. "We will make camp at the larger site ahead."

"But they're just about to serve supper!" moaned Marston, one of the human workers.

"And what about my story?" Isabela complained.

"Eat quickly, then," replied Fenris evenly. "We will depart shortly. We will wait for no one."

"Okay, you heard the elf!" Torbal shouted. "Everybody chow down and get ready! Double quick!"

Amid much grumbling, the expedition workers rushed to the huge pot of stew, plates at the ready. Varric and Isabela joined them, but Fletcher, hands bound in front of him, wandered across to Fenris and Anders.

"What's the rush?" he asked them.

"We thought we'd get that lyrium-lined tunnel out of the way, particularly as you're now tied up," Anders lied smoothly, but Fenris glanced down, unable to meet Fletcher's eyes.

"Don't go to any trouble on my account," Fletcher said, his tone guarded as he noticed Fenris's reaction.

"It's no trouble," said Anders. "Go and get your supper. We can untie your hands for that."

"I'm… not that hungry," Fletcher mumbled, his eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. "I'll go and pack. I'll need some help."

"I will be along presently," Fenris assured him with a forced smile.

"Right." With a suspicious glance at the pair, Fletcher turned and headed towards his bedroll.

"Are you comfortable with hiding the truth from him?" Fenris demanded of Anders once Fletcher was out of earshot, "because I am not."

"I'm perfectly comfortable with it. Telling him about the darkspawn at the moment would do more harm than good."

"He is not stupid," Fenris hissed. "He _knows_ your explanation was fallacious. Did you not see the look in his eyes?"

"Look," Anders said irritably, "I know what he's going to face in that tunnel. I spent a lot of time in the Deep Roads as a warden, and I didn't have Justice's protection back then. Why do you think I didn't want to come back down here? It's not just the darkspawn. The Deep Roads is a very dangerous place for a mage. Raw lyrium can be lethal to mages--did you know that? But death may be preferable to the insanity that continued exposure can also cause."

Fenris's eyes widened and he stared, horrified, at Anders. "Are you saying-"

"We need to get out of here as soon as possible," Anders interrupted. "He'll be a wreck when we go through that tunnel. I _don't_ think he needs to know about the darkspawn, and have the memories of his brother come back to him, at the same time. Do you?"

Fenris exhaled, his mouth set in a hard line. "Your argument is logical," he conceded with reluctance, "but I will _not_ lie to him."

"Then don't. If he asks you anything, send him to me. I'm supposed to be the authority on the Deep Roads, aren't I? Just keep your mouth shut, that's all you need to do. He's going to need both of us when we go through that tunnel, and it would be better if we're not at each other's throats. Now, you'd better give him a hand before he becomes _more_ suspicious. Any negative feelings he experiences at the moment are going to be magnified tenfold."

Fenris looked across at Fletcher, who was watching them intently. With a heavy heart, Fenris joined him, where he began packing away their belongings.

~o~O~o~

Torches were not required during the journey through the mile-long tunnel--enough light was provided by the lyrium that was marbled throughout the walls. Despite that, some still chose to carry torches, preferring the wholesome, familiar and _ordinary_ light cast by the orange flame to the unnatural, spectral luminescence that seemed to float away from the walls and insinuate itself into the top layer of the skin.

No one, mage or otherwise, was completely at ease in the tunnel. Occasionally, a worker would turn around, frown and then shake their head, feeling foolish. Others scratched at their neck or ears, plagued by imagined touches or half-heard whispers. Anders and Fenris seemed to fare better, as did the dwarves, so the healer and elf flanked Fletcher, with Torbal behind and Vonim ahead. Both dwarves had their axes drawn, at Fletcher's insistence. He'd also instructed each and every worker--with the exception of Bartrand, who himself was bound--that they must not hesitate to disable him if he exhibited erratic behaviour.

Conversation was minimal, but Fletcher was unnaturally silent during the journey. Anders had attempted to make conversation with him, but Fletcher had merely looked at him blankly, giving no reply. Most of his attention was on Fenris, whose markings glowed as brightly as the blue veins along the walls. Fletcher hardly took his eyes off the elf, who felt faintly uncomfortable under the mage's intense scrutiny, but consoled himself that at least Fletcher was quiet, and not distressed.

A short break was taken for the sake of Thirin who, despite wearing his oxygen mask, grew short of breath three-quarters of the way through the tunnel. During this time Fenris and Anders examined the maps again, and held another quiet conversation that Fletcher couldn't hear, although his eyes never left them.

When they returned to Fletcher's side, Fenris touched his arm in a show of reassurance, but Fletcher shrugged off the elf's hand and walked off, quickly followed by the dwarves.

"It's getting to him," Anders informed the elf. "Don't take it personally."

Fenris nodded, but his heart palpitated. He couldn't help feeling hurt, and apprehensive, despite Anders's reassurances.

Anders was similarly snubbed by Fletcher, and so Thirin and Varric flanked Fletcher, with Bartrand ahead of Vonim, where the warrior dwarf could keep an eye on him. Any smart comments from Bartrand were quickly met with a swift kick or a cuff about the head, and Bartrand eventually kept his thoughts to himself.

Anders and Fenris led the group, Fenris turning around intermittently to check on Fletcher, only to receive a hostile glare in return. As they neared the end of the tunnel, Fenris stopped turning around.

"As soon as we get out of this tunnel, he'll be all right," said Anders, sensing Fenris's discomfort. "He's not Hawke at the moment. Whatever you see, remember it's not him."

"It seems as though you speak from experience," the elf replied, hoping to displace his anxiety with a conversation.

"I do. When we were in Kal'Hirol, we came across masses of raw lyrium, all in one chamber. In a very short time, I became convinced that the wardens had brought me there--almost three weeks' travel from Vigil's Keep--to kill me. Never mind the fact they could easily have killed me at the Keep. No, I was completely convinced, and I wouldn't sleep or eat anything for fear that they'd poison me. Eventually, Nathaniel, the clever one out of us, saw that something was badly wrong. He stuffed a hankie in my mouth which was coated in something that knocked me out. When I woke up, I'd been carried away from the chamber and I was back to myself. I couldn't believe it, the way my mind had worked. It had seemed so real to me."

"The lyrium made you paranoid," guessed Fenris, and Anders nodded. "Do you think Fletcher also believes that we mean to kill him?"

"It's possible. Who knows? He's obviously not happy with us for some reason. I heard that raw lyrium can amplify a mage's neuroses or insecurities. How was he when you were packing?"

"He did his best to conceal it, but I am certain he did not believe your story. Perhaps… perhaps he believes we are conspiring against him?"

Anders looked at Fenris seriously. "I hate to say it, but you could be dead right, there. Let's get a move on. The sooner we're out of this tunnel, the better. I'd guess we only have a few hundred metres to go."

"We are almost clear of the tunnel," Fenris called over his shoulder for the benefit of those at the rear. "Let us make haste. Thirin? Are you well?"

"We'll take our time, Fenris," Sebastian--who was supporting the elderly dwarf--called back. "Go ahead, we're fine," he added, understanding Fenris's need for expediency.

"Thank you, Sebastian." Fenris nodded ahead, and he and Anders moved quickly to reach the tunnel's end.

When the others caught up to them, however, they found the twosome standing at the entrance to another large chamber, Anders shaking his head, cursing, and Fenris glowering at the scene before them.

"What? What is it?" Vonim demanded as Bartrand burst out laughing.

"Just look at that," Anders mumbled disconsolately.

The walls of the chamber ahead fairly shimmered with wide streaks of lyrium, the thickness of tree trunks, and the ceiling was studded with huge lyrium crystals, some larger than Thirin's cook pot.

"Bollocks!" Anders exclaimed, kicking a loose piece of rock across the chamber.

"I guess Creampuff's about to go doolally then, huh?" Bartrand cackled, his next remark dying on his lips as he was slammed, hard, against the wall.

"You are _this_ close to death, caitiff," Fenris hissed in a deadly tone, his blade held horizontally across Bartrand's throat. "I no longer care for procedures or laws. I could gut you and leave you here, still alive, to slowly bleed to death. Who would know?"

"Or _care,"_ added Vonim to several murmurs of agreement.

Bartrand's eyes flitted around and, seeing that no one--not even Varric--had leapt to his defence, he gulped, Fenris's sword scraping his adam's apple as it bobbed.

"What will it be, _wretch?"_ demanded Fenris, his eyes aflame with murderous intent.

"Just-just take it easy, okay?" Bartrand laughed nervously, finally realising he'd pushed the elf too far. "I'm sorry, all right? Just lay off me and I-I'll lay off of him. Just… put it down."

"Ask me _nicely."_

"P-please," stammered Bartrand, genuine fear in his eyes and voice.

Seeing Varric from the corner of his eye, Fenris relaxed his grip on his sword, and Bartrand exhaled in relief. Then, without warning, Fenris again shoved his sword against Bartrand's throat, causing the dwarf to gag. "Provoke me one more time, Bartrand. Just one. More. Time. _Please."_

Fenris released the dwarf and quickly turned away, heading into the chamber with Anders, while Bartrand rubbed the bloody welt on his throat left by Fenris's sword.

"You fucking coward." Varric spat at Bartrand's feet as he walked by. "You make me sick."

Fenris and Anders stood together, talking, as Fletcher was led into the chamber by Torbal and Vonim. "He can't stay here," Anders said, receiving no argument from Fenris, who nodded gravely. "This lyrium is slowly poisoning him. Me as well. I may have Justice's protection, but I don't know how far that goes. I'm more concerned about Hawke at the moment, though."

"I agree, but we cannot just keep going. The others are starting to tire. Thirin needs his rest--he is not as young as the rest of us."

"We're about three miles away from the uncharted section of the map," Anders said, pointing in the direction they needed to go. "I recommend we quickly scout those few tunnels, and when we find a safe one, you and I take Hawke ahead in the hope we find somewhere with less lyrium. What do you think? The darkspawn won't be upon us until tomorrow. We could reconnoitre the area, come up with some strategies?"

"That makes sense," answered Fenris thoughtfully. "But… what if there is _more_ lyrium? What then?"

"We don't have much choice, do we?" Anders replied with a weary shrug. "We have to try, and we can't go back. We'll only end up here again eventually."

"I will speak to Fletcher first, and ask his opinion."

"I doubt he'll agree."

"I… want him to feel involved," Fenris uttered quietly. Anders nodded and turned, walking to one of the tunnels leading in the direction of the uncharted section.

When Fenris reached Fletcher, Vonim and Torbal stepped aside, allowing them some privacy.

"Fletcher?" he asked gently.

The mage startled and stared at Fenris, wide-eyed, taking a step back when the elf neared. "Fletcher… Anders and I are going to take you away from here. Come with us. You will feel better."

"Anders and I? _Us?"_ Fletcher spluttered, and Fenris noticed that his pupils were once again dilated. "Why are you _asking_ me? You and Anders seem to be getting along just fine! Why don't you just go with him?"

"Fletcher… please, do not-"

"Do you take me for an idiot?" Fletcher whispered harshly. "Do you think I can't see what's going on right under my nose? You're determined to make a fool of me, aren't you? I'll bet the two of you are having a right laugh about me, aren't you? Well, you're _welcome_ to each other!"

"Fletcher!" Fenris exclaimed, his voice breaking as the mage turned his back on him. Torbal and Vonim, having heard the conversation, nodded at each other and approached Fenris.

"Let's get him out of here, and quick," Torbal advised the distraught elf. "You make arrangements with Anders. We'll bring Hawke, kicking and screaming, if need be."

Fenris watched Fletcher, who was laughing softly to himself as he gawked up at the lyrium-studded ceiling. "Thank you," Fenris rasped with a small bow to the dwarves. "Thank you, sincerely."

Slowly, he approached Anders, who noticed the defeat in Fenris's posture and eyes.

"Let's get ready to go, then," he said to the elf.

"Yes," Fenris answered in a whisper. "Immediately."


	61. A Big Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You perceive it, Elf. It sings to you as well, but you do not hear it. Men have wept over lesser tragedies."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm an idiot, I forgot to say a few words when the story received 10,000 hits, so I'll say something now that it's had 300 kudos (and thank you to fictionlurker for the 300th)! The fact that you have stuck with the story for 60 chapters, as well as your kudos, comments and support means more to me than I can express. All I can say is thank you to you all, and I hope you'll stay with me for the next 60 chapters! :D
> 
> Thank you, Mary, for holding my hand and for your never-ending support, as well as your invaluable beta services.
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 5/1/2016

The dwarves were watching him again, axes drawn, voices gruff. What did they want with him? Where were they taking him? And just who had tied his hands? What business of theirs was it if-

"Get back, Hawke," warned Torbal with a shove. "You're getting a little too close to that wall for my liking."

Why were they trying to keep him away? Weren't they supposed to be his friends? Weren't friends supposed to be supportive, make each other happy?

"I told you to get back, Hawke!" Painful fingers dug into his arm and he was roughly manoeuvred away from the wall again. He struggled, but without the use of his hands he was powerless against the sturdy dwarves.

_Just keep on. Wait until my hands are untied. These so-called friends will be gone and finally we'll be alone._

His eyes wandered to the blue effulgence that snaked outward from the walls, tiny fingers of radiant resplendence that gently welcomed him, caressed him, and loved him. Then, his eyes found Fenris. It wasn't _his_ fault. Fletcher shouldn't have blamed Fenris for what was happening. Fletcher loved Fenris--he _was_ made of lyrium, after all.

It was all Anders.

Anders _knew_ how Fletcher felt about the lyrium elf, and had tied his fellow mage up and placed him under guard. He was taking Fletcher where no one would ever find him again because he wanted the lyrium elf all for himself.

"Over my dead body," Fletcher growled with a maleficent smile.

Fenris and Anders, who were walking ahead, stopped dead and turned to face him. The dwarves' fingers dug deeper into his arms.

"Hawke? Are you all right?" asked Anders, walking up to him.

"Just untie my hands and you'll find out, _thief."_

"Thief. Okay, then…" Anders sighed and glanced at Fenris, who moved to his side, his face drawn with unease.

"Don't worry, Fen," Fletcher whispered, awe and veneration in his eyes. "I won't let him do it. We'll be together, I promise... all three of us. Just be ready for my signal."

Fenris's face tightened further, and he started to look at Anders, but thought better of it; doing that would only fuel Fletcher's paranoia. "Three of us?" he asked quietly.

"You, him and the _lyrium,"_ Anders clarified, shaking his head. "Well, at least he's no longer pissed off with _you."_

"You're _not_ having them," Fletcher told Anders with a cold glare. "You'll have to kill me first. But that's the plan, isn't it? You think I can't see? Oh, yes, I'm onto you. You're not as clever as you think."

Anders groaned and turned away. "Bloody hell. Now I know what Nate had to put up with." He glanced at his maps and turned back to the others. "We're about a mile away from the uncharted section. Does anyone need a rest?"

"We can rest when we're clear of this sodding lyrium," Vonim said with a shudder. "Stuff's startin' to make me itch."

"Fenris?" asked Anders.

"I need no rest," answered the elf, stifling a yawn as he spoke--their journey had taken them into the early hours of the morning. Soon, the rest of the group, who had stayed behind, would be rising. "Fletcher? How are you faring?"

"I've never felt better, love," Fletcher assured him before his eyes moved to Anders. "It won't be long now. Just wait and see."

Ignoring Fletcher's deluded threat, Anders tucked his maps away in his pocket. "Well, let's see what the wardens _didn't_ put on the map. The way our luck's going, it'll be a bottomless pit of raw lyrium."

** Gamlen's house **

Bethany frowned as she read the letter for the ninth time, or maybe it was the tenth. It had been delivered the day before by a templar she'd never seen before. She'd been watching the templars that had recently been posted to the slums, and was familiar with them all by now. It had been five days since she'd left the house.

"I wish I could work this out," she said to Leandra, who was buttering toast for breakfast. "It's very carefully worded, isn't it?"

"It doesn't seem to make much sense as it is," answered Leandra, "and it isn't addressed to anyone in particular, but the templar said it was for Fletcher and Anders. Perhaps they'll understand it?" She passed a plate of toast to Bethany and looked at her thoughtfully. "Something that templar said make me think. He said I should give the letter to Fletcher _before_ he returns home, if possible."

"And how are you supposed to do that?"

Leandra shook her head and frowned. "I don't know, dear. Read it again, will you?"

Bethany cleared her throat. _"Due to a change in circumstances, any previous arrangement between us is hereby rescinded. You are advised to exercise due caution and not to draw unnecessary attention to yourselves. I trust I can count on your discretion in this matter, as you can count on mine. KCC."_

"What possible arrangement would either of them have with a templar?" Bethany pondered aloud. "I mean, Fletcher, _maybe,_ but Anders?"

"Whatever it is, dear, I think you would also do well to follow the advice, as you are also an apostate. I know you wanted to come to the market with me this morning, but the templars are still outside. Perhaps they're clamping down."

"I can't stay inside forever, Mother!"

"I'll stay with you, dear."

"No, Mother! You were to meet Quentin today, weren't you?"

Leandra shook her head and sat down next to her daughter. "He wasn't at the market yesterday. I suspect he's keeping a low profile, just as you are. I know it's frustrating, darling, but it's better than the alternative. And just think how fortunate we are compared with some. Oh, that poor woman. The one who was found at the docks?"

Bethany shuddered, shaking her head. _"Why_ would someone cut her hands off? What kind of a world are we living in? Her poor husband and children. I can't even imagine what they're going through. You're right, Mother. We have a lot to be grateful for."

Leandra smiled and patted Bethany's hand. "Now, come on. Help me feed the chickens and get a bit of sun on your face. There are no templars in the back yard."

The two ladies rose, leaving their toast untouched. "I always think of Fenris when I see those chickens," Bethany mused wryly. "I wonder if Fletcher has got him to cluck yet?"

"I doubt that very much, dear. But I'm certain they're having a lot of fun on their big adventure."

** The Deep Roads, uncharted section **

Anders's bitter laugh echoed far and wide, bouncing off a distant wall and returning to mock them all. "Well, now we know why the wardens didn't map this section. There's nothing _to_ map!"

All five men stood at the lip of a giant chasm and stared ahead into the impenetrable blackness. The only reason they hadn't walked over the edge was that the dwarves had detected a sudden change in the air quality, and called a halt. They'd stopped mere feet away from the edge.

"Look on the bright side," offered Torbal with a glance at the luminescent blue tunnel behind them. "This is where the lyrium ends."

Fenris walked up to Fletcher, who was about to drop from exhaustion and, for the last part of their journey, had been babbling or laughing to himself. "Sit, Fletcher," he said softly, pushing the mage's shoulders down. Fletcher sat on the ground without resistance and Fenris crouched next to him, stroking his arm. "I am going to find a way out of here. I did not escape my master's clutches and meet the man who has completely changed my life, only to die in a bloody cave."

Fletcher slowly looked up, his eyes dull and heavy-lidded, and started to snicker like a naughty child. _"You_ said bloody."

"I did, didn't I?" replied Fenris with a genuine smile, hugely relieved that Fletcher was not being hostile towards him. "I believe I've spent too much time with the dwarves. Rest easy. I will return shortly."

Leaving Fletcher to giggle inanely to himself, Fenris walked back to the edge of the chasm and lay on his belly, looking into the gloom. Reaching for a pebble, he instructed the others to be quiet and dropped it.

A second later, a quiet splash was heard. "Not a bottomless pit," Fenris said to Anders. "How much rope do we have?"

Each dwarf produced a large coil of rope, which were joined with a secure knot. After some discussion, it was decided that Fenris, as the lightest, would be lowered down to investigate the bottom of the chasm. One end of the rope was secured around his waist, and the other end around Torbal, who would serve as an anchor.

"Keep him distracted," Fenris instructed Anders with a nod at Fletcher, who was picking at his nails, still chuckling to himself.

"I doubt he even knows what you're doing," Anders said. "We might be clear of the tunnel, but the lyrium's still having an effect on him. Whether that's due to our proximity to the tunnel, or… well, let's not speculate."

Refusing to entertain the possibility that Fletcher had been permanently affected, Fenris told Torbal to lower him into the chasm. The main priority was to get them out of there-- _then_ he would worry about Fletcher.

Anders summoned a large wisp to accompany Fenris, which caused the elf's markings to jump but provided welcome light. Slowly, Torbal let the rope slip through his hands, lowering Fenris over the edge, watching him carefully at all times.

After a minute or two, Fenris called up for them to stop. "My feet are touching the water. Lower me slowly. I do not know how deep it is. The water is flowing quite rapidly."

Torbal duly obliged and Anders, who was kneeling by the edge, called down to him. "Can you swim, Fenris?" No answer came from the elf and Anders glanced at Fletcher, who had apparently fallen asleep, and then at the dwarves.

"What?" Torbal exclaimed. "The rope's gone slack! Hey, Fenris!"

"Fenris!" Anders yelled.

"Are you talking to me?" the elf called up.

"Fuck!" Anders groaned in relief. "Who else would we be bloody talking to?"

"I can barely hear you!" Fenris shouted. "The rush of the water is too loud. I will tell you what I can see. The water is shallow enough to wade through, although there is a large trench ahead of me. I will see if I can edge around it. Anders, is it possible to send your sphere of light further ahead?"

"Just tell it what to do!" Anders loudly instructed.

"Are you telling me it is intelligent?" Fenris demanded. "What happens when you dispel it? Does it expire?"

"No! It's part of my will. When I dispel it, it's absorbed back into me," answered Anders, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "Can we not have this discussion now? Just tell it what to do and then tell us what you see!"

A brief silence followed, but Anders sensed that his wisp was on the move.

"There is something up ahead," Fenris shouted up, and the three men on the ledge--the three who were paying attention, anyway--tensed. "A small tunnel," the elf went on. "I am wading towards it." There was a short pause before Fenris spoke again. "Kaffas! Anders... it is lined with lyrium!"

"It just gets better and better, doesn't it?" griped Anders with another glance at Fletcher.

"I am inside the tunnel, which leads upwards," Fenris related, his voice barely audible. "If you are speaking to me, I can no longer hear you. I will keep talking, however."

That was the last time they heard Fenris speak for some time, but Anders knew his wisp was still moving, slowly going upwards.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact only a few minutes, a tiny light appeared across the chasm, slowly becoming larger and brighter as it drew closer. Finally, the dimly-illuminated face of Fenris appeared behind it--he almost appeared to be floating in mid-air.

"Can you hear me?" the elf called faintly.

"Yeah! We hear you, Fenris!" shouted Torbal. "What have you found there?"

"Another ledge. Behind this, our path continues. Tell Anders this will give us an advantage over the darkspawn when they arrive. There is more lyrium here as well, but it does not seem to be affecting me, and it casts no light. I am at a loss. It _is_ lyrium, as far as I know."

"Well, tell him yourself," Torbal began, turning towards where Anders had been standing. "Hey… where is he?"

"Anders?" Vonim shouted, and both dwarves looked around, seeing only Fletcher, who was now awake but still not completely lucid. "Anders?" he called again, moving to the tunnel and walking a short distance inside. _"Anders!_ Where the hell are you?"

"Wait there! I will return," Fenris instructed them. "Do not leave Fletcher alone."

Fenris and the wisp disappeared from view, and Torbal once again secured the rope around his waist as Vonim continued to call out for Anders. Fenris was quickly pulled back up, and he and Torbal untied themselves.

"Has he answered your calls?" Fenris asked the dwarves, both of whom shook their heads. "Fletcher? Did you see where Anders went?"

"I suppose he fell over the edge or went down the tunnel, silly! Where else could he go?"

Remembering Fletcher's threats against Anders, Fenris was gripped by dread for a second, but he dismissed that thought with a shake of his head. "Did you _see_ where he went?" he repeated in a firmer voice.

"Who, little old me? Well, that would be telling, wouldn't it?" Fletcher replied with a grin, oblivious to Fenris's growing irritation.

"He can't have gone over the edge, Fenris," said Torbal. "We were concentrating on you, but we would have heard something at least. He's gotta be in the tunnel, but don't ask me why."

Fenris cocked his head and examined Anders's wisp, which still hovered nearby, awaiting his next command. "Orb, are you able to take us to Anders?"

Slowly, the wisp drifted into the lyrium tunnel and took a right turn down one of the many branches leading off it.

"Will one of you stay with him?" Fenris asked the dwarves. Torbal volunteered, sitting on the ground next to Fletcher.

"We had better be prepared," warned Fenris, drawing his sword. Vonim followed him, axe at the ready.

The wisp picked up speed the further it went, and Fenris made a mental note of the direction they were taking. The last thing he needed to happen was for them to become lost, particularly as Anders had the maps. Shortly, the wisp slowed and led them around a bend. Anders was standing a short distance away with his back to them, his hands fisted at his sides.

"Anders," the elf said harshly. "What are you doing? You are needed. Fletcher is still affected by the lyrium and we need to formulate strategies for dealing with the darkspawn. Whatever you are doing, stop now and come back with us."

When Anders failed to answer, the elf and dwarf exchanged a concerned glance. Fenris took a few cautious steps closer, halting when his markings screamed in pain--the sensation was similar to the one he'd experienced when the mages had entered the Fade during their pursuit of Hadriana.

He turned to look back at Vonim and whispered, "Lower your weapon, Dwarf. Whatever you see, do not threaten Anders. You will be quite safe. I give you my word."

Puzzled by Fenris's words but recognising the assurance in them, Vonim placed his axe upon the ground, and Fenris slid his sword between the straps on the back of his cuirass. Fenris then moved in front of Anders, whose eyes were closed, and felt the pain in his markings intensify.

"Spirit! I have just addressed you. Have the courtesy to answer."

Anders's eyes slowly opened, azure light to match the lyrium-streaked walls streaming from them. "Begone, Elf. I have no quarrel with you," uttered Justice.

"Nor I with you, but I must ask that you relinquish control of Anders. He is needed."

Anders's eyes closed and a deep, contented sigh came from him. "Do you not hear it, Elf?" Justice murmured, eyes slowly opening, and Fenris was taken aback by the tenderness in the spirit's voice. "I have sought… _this_ … for many long years. I suspected from the moment we ventured underground, but was not certain, and strained to hear it. I had not thought it possible on the mortal plane… but there it is. I bid you join me, and listen."

Fenris listened but could hear nothing save Vonim's gruff sigh.

"I hear its song," Justice said in an awed whisper as he looked up at the crystal-studded ceiling, and Fenris was reminded of the chamber where he and Fletcher had become lovers. "Such remarkable beauty must be acknowledged," continued the spirit, his eyes moving to the markings on Fenris's arms, which were glowing. "You perceive it, Elf. It sings to you as well, but you do not hear it. Men have wept over lesser tragedies."

Astonished--and, to his surprise, touched--Fenris was speechless for a few moments but then remembered the stricken Fletcher and the approaching darkspawn. "You must listen to me, Spirit," he urged softly but firmly, his voice trembling slightly as he fought to overcome the pain. "Anders's body, and his cognitive abilities, are vulnerable to the effects of the lyrium. You must know this. He has already been exposed to more than he should. You only have to see how it has affected Hawke. I understand how important the song is to you, but the cost to Anders must also be considered. For is it not unjust that he be injured, when he has injured no one?"

"Your argument is impeccable, brave elf," Justice replied with a nod. "I have failed Anders with my weakness and can no longer protect him. I _had_ to hear it one time before..." He raised his head and took one final look at the ceiling of the chamber. "It was almost worth it, but I will inflict no further harm upon Anders--or pain upon you. Forgive me."

The veins under Anders's skin briefly crackled with a flare of blue light, before it waned and Anders blinked several times, holding his hands out in front of him as he swayed.

"Anders!" Fenris caught him and waited until the mage had steadied himself before releasing him. Taking a step back, Fenris was dismayed at the expression on Anders's face: he'd seen it in Fletcher not so long ago.

"Fenris?" Anders said in the same awestruck tone, and reached out for the elf, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. "Maker... look at you! You-you're _made_ of lyrium! Let me touch you!"

"Crap!" Vonim spat as Fenris backed away from Anders. The dwarf charged forward, grabbing Anders firmly by the arm. "Go on ahead, Elf, if you know the way. We'll be right behind you."

"I will _find_ the way somehow," promised the appalled elf as he took off down the tunnel, and Vonim followed with Anders straining against his iron grip.

When they emerged from the tunnel--and to Fenris's eternal relief--Anders stopped trying to grab him, but still he gawked at the elf, silent and slack-jawed.

"Now _both_ mages are affected," Fenris complained to the dwarves. "We will need them when we engage the darkspawn. They _must_ be taken away from the tunnel. Will you assist me?"

The dwarves readily agreed, and the three of them came up with a plan. Fires were lit, without magic, so that when the remainder of the group arrived in a few hours' time, they would be able to see the chasm before approaching its edge. Torbal and Vonim would remain next to the tunnel, and hopefully Fletcher and Anders would agree to accompany Fenris to the other side of the chasm, away from the lyrium.

"Fletcher?" said Fenris as the dwarves helped the mage to his feet. "We are going to have… an adventure. Would you like that?"

"I'd go _anywhere_ with you, Fen," gushed the mage with a sidelong glance at Anders, who responded with a scowl.

"There is no need to fight over me," Fenris told both of them through a weary sigh, not quite believing what he was saying. "Anders, you will also join us."

"But, Fen," Fletcher whined.

 _"No_ arguing," Fenris said sternly to both of them, drawing on his experience with the child slaves in Minrathous. "I have decided. If there is any moaning, _neither_ of you will go."

The mages glumly mumbled their assent and joined Fenris and the dwarves near the chasm's edge. "Fletcher, I am going to remove your bonds," said the elf, drawing his sword, "as I no longer believe you pose any danger to us. _Please_ do not betray my faith in you."

"Promise," Fletcher uttered, holding his bound hands up. Using the tip of his sword, Fenris made a cut to the rope and then untied the knot. Fletcher rubbed his wrists and grinned at the elf, but thankfully there was no sign of anything sinister in his smile. However, Fenris knew better than to completely let his guard down, especially when he noticed a challenging look pass between the two mages.

Remembering a puzzle he once set for the child slaves--whereby a fox, a chicken and a sack of grain had to be transported across a river--Fenris decided it would be safer for Fletcher to be lowered down first. As Torbal secured the rope around his and Fletcher's waists, Fenris asked if Torbal would be able to comfortably bear Fletcher's weight.

"More to the point, will the _rope_ bear his weight?" Anders sniped.

"It'll bear the weight of your neck if you don't shut up," Fletcher retorted. "Just come over here and I'll show you."

"Enough!" scolded Fenris. "In case you have forgotten, the darkspawn will be upon us later this morning. We do not have time for your petty quarrelling. Now, you will either be lowered down, or you will be _thrown_ down. Which is it to be?"

"You wouldn't throw me down!" Fletcher chuckled, his laughter quickly fading when Fenris advanced on him, eyes glinting.

"Do _not_ test me, Fletcher. _Either_ of you. Now, hurry!"

"Better do as he says, Hawke," advised Torbal. The dejected Fletcher moved to the edge, attempting a forlorn look at Fenris, but the elf folded his arms, unmoved.

With Anders's wisp for company, Fletcher was steadily lowered down. As he weighed almost twice as much as Fenris, however, both Torbal and Vonim took the strain.

"Hey, Elf," Vonim said to Fenris once Fletcher had reached the bottom. "I've been thinkin'. Assuming we all make it through this fight, how are we gonna lower the last person down?"

"I have considered that, as well as the fight. Fear not, Dwarf. I have solutions to both, provided Anders is fit to cast spells."

"I ain't afraid, Elf. I was just wonderin' who'd be lowering us dwarves down."

"No one," answered Fenris with a hint of a smile as the rope was brought back up and tied around his waist. "Are you _still_ unafraid?"

"I _am_ capable of casting spells," Anders interjected, slightly offended, "but I can't summon a huge hand to carry them down, you know!"

"Good. Then we will each need a light source."

Anders summoned two more large wisps, using exaggerated arm movements to prove the efficacy of his magic.

"When we reach the other side of the chasm, I will reveal my plans," promised the elf as he was lowered down by Torbal, "provided there are no shenanigans."

"Tell _him,_ then!" Anders pointed to the bottom of the chasm where Fletcher awaited, and Fenris groaned.

"Follow me, Orb," he instructed the wisp, and they both descended.

After one last wistful glance at the lyrium tunnel, Anders was successfully transported to the bottom of the chasm, and noticed immediately that Fletcher was possessively clutching Fenris's hand. However, Anders no longer felt as drawn to the elf as he had in the tunnel, and shook his head, wondering why he had. Fletcher, however, watched Anders intently and refused to relinquish Fenris's hand.

"What's _that?"_ Anders said, looking at the surrounding walls and the floor beneath the water which, under the light of their wisps, appeared to be made of pale blue glass.

"It looks like lyrium." Fletcher finally released Fenris's hand and the two mages waded over to one of the walls, running their hands along it.

"That was what I suspected," offered Fenris, "but my markings do not react to it and, it appears, neither do either of you."

"Everything okay down there?" Torbal shouted down.

"Yes, thank you," answered Fenris. "I recommend you and Vonim get some sleep. The others will wake you when they arrive."

"Will do. Make sure you and the kids get some shut-eye as well," was the dwarf's answer, and he could almost feel Fenris's glare in response to his quip.

"You know, there's one way to test if this is lyrium," Anders mused. "I could cast a spell directly at the walls, but am I correct in assuming that mana usage causes your markings to hurt, Fenris?"

"I'll kill you if you hurt him!" Fletcher growled, clearly still not in his right mind.

Fenris laid a steadying hand on Fletcher's chest and waited until he'd calmed down. "I don't believe it's as simple as that," Fenris said to Anders. "When I spoke to your spirit, I also felt pain. It… _he_ was not casting."

Anders frowned heavily and thought for a moment. "Then maybe… maybe the Fade reacts with your markings. When mages cast spells, the Fade is opened momentarily. Justice is a conduit to the Fade. Are there any other times when your markings hurt?"

"When he's asleep," Fletcher contributed, once again taking hold of Fenris's hand. "The pain wakes him up." The mages' eyes met and Fletcher gasped in realisation. "Elves and humans enter the Fade when they're asleep, but unless they're a mage, they're unaware of it."

"That's it!" Anders exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "It's not mana or magic that hurts you, Fenris! It's the Fade itself! Maker, your master must be a genius!"

"A genius?" Fletcher raged, releasing Fenris's hand. "Danarius is insane! Do you have any idea how much suffering he's caused? And you, what? Fucking admire him?"

"No!" Anders held his hands up in appeasement. "Of course he's insane. What I'm trying to say is, if a mage is capable of this, then surely another mage can undo it? You and me, Hawke. If we put out heads together, we can _do_ something! We can help Fenris!"

Fenris's mouth gaped open as he considered Anders's theory, but Fletcher was still suspicious. "Why would you do that?" he demanded. "What are you after?"

"Nothing! _Listen_ to me! You're not thinking straight, Hawke. The lyrium affected you more than me, because I had Justice's protection until not long ago. I'm _not_ after Fenris, trust me. I'm just trying to help. Fenris was good enough to persuade Justice to release me when we were in the tunnel, and his problem gives me something other than the darkspawn to think about, if you must know. Come on. Fenris and I are never going to be best friends, as invaluable as he's been down here. Do you _really_ think we're going to run off together?"

"Hardly," Fenris said with a contemptuous snort. "I prefer my paramours _not_ to be possessed."

Anders crossed his arms, raising his chin. "No, you like _your_ men with a demon at their back instead, don't you?"

"Believe me, that is preferable to a creature with two distinct personalities... neither of which are particularly captivating."

"Hark! The voice of experience has spoken!" mocked Anders. "I'm sure _you_ were fending off potential suitors with your sword before you ensnared Hawke!"

"'Ensnared'? Ha! Hawke stands at my side willingly. Who warms _your_ bed at night?"

"I've had plenty of offers, trust me!"

"Indeed, I have heard the local insane asylum frequently hosts date nights, but you are yet to meet your match."

Fletcher listened to the exchange, wondering if they were pretending to quarrel for his benefit, but something told him their sentiments were genuine. Still, he felt a need to be close to Fenris, and clutched the elf's hand tightly for the third time, saying nothing.

"When you've quite finished insulting those unfortunate enough to have mental difficulties, there's a more pressing issue at hand," Anders said.

"Quite. For now, we must think of that," Fenris agreed. "Let us get out of this cold water and discuss how we are to deal with the darkspawn. I have a plan, if you are willing to entertain it."

"Hawke?" Anders said cautiously. "Are you all right with that?"

With a curt nod, Fletcher tugged at Fenris's hand and the elf led them all up the small tunnel to the far side of the chasm. When they reached the top, they lit a couple of fires to dry their clothes by and changed into their spares, which they'd carried in their packs.

Once they were settled and Fenris had apprised the mages of his plan, Anders called across to the dwarves, warning them he was about to conduct an experiment.

"Brace yourself, Fenris," he warned. "Even if this _is_ lyrium, and my spell is amplified, you'll only feel pain for a second, as the mana won't hurt you." The elf, who was seated beside Fletcher, nodded stoically as Anders raised his staff, pointing it at one of the walls of the chasm.

"Let's see… something that won't harm us. How about a little frost?" Anders opened the Fade, drawing moisture from the air in the cavern and willing his body temperature to plummet, causing tiny crystals of ice to form on his fingertips and staff. Fenris's fingers dug into Fletcher's arm for a second before his grip relaxed. Fletcher ran a hand through Fenris's hair to soothe him.

"Woah!" Torbal and Vonim exclaimed from their ledge, and Fletcher and Fenris looked up in wonder as the entire chasm was lit by an unidentified light source. An eerie, icy-blue glow pulsed from the walls, and a loud cracking sound was heard from below as the underground lake froze solid. After a few seconds, the temperature in the cavern rose infinitesimally and tiny white flakes started to fall from the frozen ceiling.

"It's fucking snowing in the Deep Roads!" Torbal shouted over Anders's delighted laugh.

"It _is_ lyrium!" Anders announced triumphantly as the dwarves and Fletcher and Fenris scrambled to cover the fires. "Hawke! Do you know what this means? We've discovered a new type of lyrium! One that _doesn't_ cause insanity in its raw form! Just think what else it could do! I've never been so excited in my entire life!"

"I doubt the Chantry would share your enthusiasm," counselled the circumspect Fenris.

"Well, I'm not going to tell them, are you?" he asked his companions. Fenris shook his head.

"No," uttered Fletcher with a hesitant smile and then, finally freed from the effects of the raw lyrium in the tunnel, the memories of the previous day rushed into his mind. He clapped a hand over his mouth, tears springing to his eyes.

"Shh," reassured Fenris, moving to his side. "Do not waste your words on apologies. You were not responsible. Save your strength for the morning."

Closing his eyes and nodding, Fletcher stepped closer to Fenris and pulled him into a tight hug. In a rare allowance of public affection, Fenris held Fletcher for a moment, the snow settling on them, before he gently pulled away.

"Anders," Fenris said as the snowfall began to subside. "It would seem our plan is going to work."

"It certainly will." Anders walked up to both of them and offered the elf his hand, smiling when he shook it. He then offered it to Fletcher, who skipped the handshake and went straight for another hug.

"Now we should sleep," advised Fenris. "The others will arrive in a few hours' time, and the darkspawn not long after that. When we awaken, we must waste no time."

"Whatever you say, Boss," Fletcher replied softly. Fenris rolled his eyes but led the two mages over to one of the fires where they settled down, with Fletcher resting his head on Fenris's shoulder, and Anders reclining on an elbow.

"Would you really have pushed us over the edge?" Anders asked Fenris.

"Sadly, we will never know," said Fenris drily. "You would be advised to consider that the next time you do not do as you are told."

"When you two were squabbling back there," Fletcher drawled, suppressing a yawn, "you were doing that to convince me you weren't going to run off together, weren't you? You were just pretending... right?"

"Oh, I meant every word," Anders said with a smirk in Fenris's direction.

"As did I," said the elf. "It was rather fun. We must do it again sometime."

Fletcher frowned, fatigue fogging his mind. "So let me get this straight... you two still hate each other, but you can laugh about it? That doesn't make any sense."

Anders lay back, folding his arms behind his head. "We're surrounded by lyrium that amplifies spells and _doesn't_ cause insanity, and you're puzzling over me and Fenris? I think you need to get some sleep, Hawke."

"I think I'm _already_ asleep. This is the Fade. It's got to be."

"Then hush." Fenris stole a quick kiss to Fletcher's cheek before pulling his blanket over them. "When you awaken, this nonsensical reality will no longer exist. Anders and I will despise one another once more, and all will be well."

"Too bloody right," Anders said. "Well, goodnight."

Fletcher's eyes began to flutter closed as he watched the last tiny snowflakes fall from the ceiling, and wrapped his arms around Fenris's warm body as he drifted off.


	62. A Debt Repaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The qunari are a race of warriors who respect strength. I suspect a guard-captain who sits behind a desk with her thumb up her arse would be unseemly to them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere thanks to Uber-beta Mary for your fabulous suggestions, as well as listening to me whinge about having to write another fight scene. You made it a lot easier!
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 6/1/2016

Fletcher was awoken by a sharp tap on the shoulder. A few blurred shapes slowly came into focus, and he could see that Anders and Fenris were already up, talking to Sebastian a short distance away. So who had roused him?

"Wake up, you!"

Fletcher groaned and turned to Isabela who was squatting next to him, holding a wriggling Tufty under one arm. "Morning," he mumbled, reluctantly sitting up.

"I was the first to volunteer to come and wake you," she told him brightly. "It reminded me of when I used to climb up to the mizzen. Oh, don't worry, I wore trousers when I did that. If I hadn't, nothing would have got done. Can you imagine?"

"Unfortunately, I can," said Fletcher through a yawn.

The pirate chuckled. "Anyway, I'd better see Fenris. I have a gift for him, you see," she whispered conspiratorially with a nod at Tufty. "Maybe it'll put a smile on his face. He doesn't look all that happy to me." She sprang to her feet, winking at Fletcher before she joined the others.

Fletcher's stomach plummeted as he glanced at the elf, who appeared distracted and troubled while conversing with Sebastian and Anders. Fletcher placed his hands over his mouth and shook his head as he remembered the way he'd behaved in the tunnel, and the look in Fenris's eyes when Fletcher had accused him of betrayal... with Anders of all people.

"I brought your friend to see you!" he heard Isabela say, and looked up to see Tufty being thrust into the aghast elf's arms. "He's missed you terribly. And _he's_ not the only one," she added with a cheeky grin.

"Um… _thank_ you," Fenris muttered unconvincingly, leaning back to avoid Tufty's probing snout, but the nug was having none of it and scurried up Fenris's arm, perching on the elf's shoulder, where he began snuffling Fenris's ear and neck.

 _"Stop_ that!" snapped Fenris, squirming as he plucked Tufty off him, placing the nug on the ground.

"Careful, Fenris! He'll wander over the edge!" scolded Isabela as she ran to scoop Tufty up.

"That is _his_ choice," said Fenris unsympathetically with a withering glare at the pirate. "Excuse me," he said tightly to the others, and walked up to Fletcher, sitting down heavily next to the mage.

"Bad night?" Fletcher asked softly.

Fenris glanced back at the others and huffed. "You could say that. You will have to forgive me. I am short on sleep and feel quite… fractious." That wasn't a lie, and Fenris took comfort from that, but would it be lying if he _didn't_ tell Fletcher--on Anders's advice--that they would be facing not only two dozen darkspawn, but an _ogre_ as well?

_Your brother kept the truth from me; you have just said as much. That is the same as lying._

Fenris's own words, spoken to Bethany at the Dalish camp, returned to him unbidden. A headache bloomed at the base of his skull and he rolled his shoulders, trying without success to shrug off his building tension.

"Well, we didn't sleep at all the night before, so that's understandable," said Fletcher. "Why didn't you sleep last night?"

"Anders had a… nightmare," Fenris explained quietly. "We did not want to wake you. I believe it was brought on by the proximity of the darkspawn." Fenris sighed and glanced at Fletcher. "If I am tetchy at all, then please ignore me. I mean… if I am _more_ tetchy than usual."

"You're not tetchy, you're just not a morning person," consoled Fletcher with a half-smile. "Anyway, you've put up with more than your fair share from me over the last couple of days." His voice tapered off and he shook his head, his shoulders drooping.

"That was not your fault. We have discussed this."

"And it's not your fault you haven't slept." Fletcher rested his hand on Fenris's arm, and the elf sighed softly. "Were you up _all_ night with Anders?"

"Most of it, yes. He was calling out in his sleep. I woke him before he woke you."

Fletcher glanced at Anders, who was explaining their plan to Isabela and Sebastian. "Did he call out for Ruben again?" he whispered, and Fenris nodded. "I wonder who he is?"

"Someone from his childhood, perhaps? Ruben is a common name in the Anderfels."

"He mentioned a brother, but never told me his name," Fletcher replied thoughtfully. "I wonder if-"

"Let's get going," Anders loudly instructed.

Fenris rose and held a hand out to Fletcher, who took it, but looked across the chasm at the entrance to the lyrium tunnel as he stood up. "I-I don't want to go back," he admitted nervously, his eyes still fixed on the tunnel.

"We must," Fenris gently urged.

"Then I'll have to be tied up again."

"No you won't," said Anders, having heard the latter part of their conversation. He moved beside them and placed a hand on Fletcher's shoulder. "You'll be outside the tunnel, and not directly affected by the lyrium. You might be a bit jumpy, but I don't believe you'll pose a threat to anyone."

"Then I want to help," Fletcher said.

Anders shook his head. "We've been over this. You're not strong enough. Your body's been through a lot over the last day or so. You'll stay out of the fighting."

"But I can't just sit there and do nothing!"

"You _can_ and you will," Fenris dictated. "You are exhausted."

"But I've had some sleep! And you told me you'd allow me to protect you," Fletcher said to Fenris. "Unless my hands are tied, I _will_ be doing that." Fletcher stubbornly folded his arms and locked eyes with the elf. After a moment, Fenris sighed and glanced at Anders.

"All right, you can keep an eye on Fenris _only,"_ Anders conceded, deciding it might be better for Fletcher to have something to focus on, "but that's it. _No_ offensive spells. I'll put you to sleep if I catch you doing that. Leave the primals to me. This is not negotiable."

Fenris quickly glanced back and forth between the two mages, hoping Fletcher would not see another conspiracy brewing. Fletcher was way ahead of him, however--he did _not_ want a repeat of his behaviour the night before. "Fair enough. No offensive magic, I promise."

Accepting Fletcher's word, Anders led the small group towards the tunnel that would take them down to the underground stream, which he'd defrosted with magic, leaving a narrow frozen path for them to walk across. The other workers had been busy since their arrival, and torches had been fixed to parts of the chasm walls after the dwarves had deemed the 'new' lyrium safe to work with. When Fletcher and the others reached the frozen path, they met a Bianca-less Varric and Torbal, who were examining the walls and speaking in hushed tones.

"There you are, Hawke!" Varric beckoned his young friend closer. "Heard you had some trouble in the tunnel. Everything okay now?"

"I'm fine, Varric, and I wasn't the one who _had_ trouble... rather, the one who caused it, I'm afraid."

Varric waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't beat yourself up over it. None of us would even be in this section of the Deep Roads if it weren't for my brother. No, we'd be stinking rich by now, and free of craziness, temporary or otherwise," he said cheerfully, nodding for Anders and Fenris to draw closer.

"We'll go on up, Varric," Sebastian called out as he assisted Isabela with the rope while she held Tufty. "They should have finished breakfast by now. We'll get everyone in position. Hawke, we saved you some porridge."

"Wait," Fletcher asked with a glance at Torbal, "who's holding the rope?"

"No one," Anders said. "Fenris had a good idea. Another one," he amended, looking up at the two lengths of rope that now hung down. "He wondered if I was able to fuse the rope to the rock with a spell. After a few attempts, I managed it. I should have thought of it myself, actually." He smiled at Fenris, who modestly shrugged his shoulders.

"You _have_ been busy, haven't you?" Fletcher said, relieved and delighted that his friends had worked so well together, though he felt guilty he hadn't been of any help, more so when Anders and Fenris yawned.

"Hey, speaking of good ideas," Varric cut in, "Torbal and I have been discussing this discovery of yours." Grinning as the tired threesome frowned in confusion, he elaborated. "The lyrium? You know--what this entire chasm is made of? Take as long as you need."

"Oh, yes," Anders mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Listen," Varric whispered. "As much of a shit as Bartrand is, he might have done us a huge favour taking us down this section. This stuff," he said with a wave of his hand, "could be worth a bloody fortune to the right people. I mean, lyrium that _doesn't_ harm mages in its raw form? Think of it! We could set up a supply chain to rival that of the Chantry's!"

Fletcher and Fenris cast a doubtful glance at the dwarf, but Anders's face lit up.

"I don't know, Varric," said Fletcher. "That would be pretty risky. The Chantry guards its monopoly of the lyrium trade fiercely."

"How would they know, Hawke?" Torbal asked with a shrug. "Varric and I have it all figured out. This stuff's pretty enough to be turned into trinkets. We set up a few little market stalls as a front, but those in the know could shift it for us by the cartload. So long as we're careful who we deal with, and who we employ, we'd wind up not just stinking rich, but _filthy_ rich."

"Are you suggesting this lyrium be mined?" Fenris asked, his voice hushed.

"We're not suggesting it, Elf," said Varric. "We're already planning it. We've got plenty of mining equipment left behind in the first chamber, and hopefully we'll get enough money together to buy some more, as well as employing miners. Blondie, there are plenty of able men in the Undercity seeking gainful employment, aren't there, but no one will take them on because they're refugees?"

"Maker!" Anders exclaimed with a huge smile. "If they worked down here, they could get back on their feet! That's a wonderful idea!"

"And you two," Varric said to Anders and Fenris, "would take a share of any profits made. Hawke told me before we came down here that any money we make from this expedition will be split between all of us, as you helped him get his fifty sovereign investment together." He slapped Fenris and Anders's backs. "Gentlemen, we're going to be rich!"

Fletcher's face brightened. Not only would many of his fellow refugees find employment, but he'd finally be able to repay Fenris and Anders for all of their help.

Noticing Fletcher's expression, Varric grinned. "So, we're all happy about this? In that case, I'd like to introduce you to the mine's foreman."

Torbal bowed as far as the water would allow and offered his hand to each of them in turn, but frowned when Fenris did not shake it. "Hey, I washed my hands this time," he quipped, but Fenris responded with a sigh.

"I do not mean to be rude. I congratulate you all and wish you luck with your venture, but I cannot be involved in it."

"Why?" Fletcher asked. "What's the matter?"

Fenris shook his head. "As I am a member of the city guard, a conflict of interest would arise should I profit from this venture in any way. I am not aware of the laws governing the Deep Roads, or the lyrium trade, but I suspect your proposed mining operation would be considered 'black market'. Fear not--I understand loyalty, and will speak of this to no one. However, I must decline your offer."

"But… I owe you," Fletcher murmured. "We wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you and Anders. Both of you helped me get my money for the expedition."

"I did not accompany you with financial gain in mind," Fenris said with a faint smile. "Well, at first perhaps, but after a time I accompanied you to keep you out of harm's way. Besides, I owe _you_ more than I will ever be able to repay."

Sensing that the couple needed to talk alone, Anders and the two dwarves moved to the ropes and waited until Sebastian and Isabela had ascended. "This is between us," Varric told them first, and they all agreed.

"You can't come out of this expedition with nothing," Fletcher argued once the others were out of earshot. "In my opinion, you've worked harder and have come up with more ideas than anyone else here. Anders and I may have been put in charge of the maps, but _you've_ been a leader, whether you care to admit it or not."

Fenris shrugged diffidently and cleared his throat. "It was not my intent to lead. If it pleases you, I will take a share of any minerals or precious stones we find down here, though I have no need of riches. I have friends, a position within the Kirkwall Guard--which I am very proud of and have no intention of forswearing, I'll have you know--plus the companionship of a man whose care and trust have made me a better person, and enriched my life immeasurably."

"Who is he? I'll kill him!" Fletcher joked, and Fenris chuckled, grinning widely.

"I already have much," he said softly, still smiling, his fingertips brushing against Fletcher's hand. "Why would I want more? With you at my side, I have all I need."

Aware that most of the group were probably looking down at them from atop the ledge, Fletcher groaned, holding himself back. "How long has it been since I last kissed you?"

 _"Too_ long," answered the elf with a note of wistfulness. "We will have quite a backlog to clear. For now, though, let us return. The darkspawn will be upon us within the hour, and you have not yet broken your fast." Fenris released Fletcher's hand and gestured to the ropes, just as Anders and Varric clambered over the ledge.

"When we're clear of the darkspawn, we _are_ going to discuss your remuneration," Fletcher said. "You might not be able to profit from the mine, but you're not leaving this expedition empty-handed. You should be compensated for loss of earnings, at the very least."

"As you wish," uttered Fenris in a tone that told Fletcher he had no intention of bringing up the subject of payment, which only made Fletcher more determined that Fenris would be fairly reimbursed. Moving to the ropes, Fletcher halted and glanced up. From where they were standing, they couldn't see the others, or Torbal, who was being pulled up.

"At least let me _show_ you how grateful I am," whispered Fletcher.

Fenris also looked up, a languorous smile appearing as his eyes moved to Fletcher's. "Very well." He moved closer to the mage, who clutched his arms, pulling him close. "If only to spare your feelings."

When, after a few minutes, there was no sign of an elf or a mage climbing up the ropes, Varric peered over the edge and chuckled to himself. "There's a lot of water down there," he called down. "You two really should _come up for air_ , you know."

"Shut up, Dwarf," Fenris was heard to mutter. There was a short pause before the ropes were pulled taut.

** Viscount's Keep, guard barracks **

_"Another_ one?" Aveline exclaimed, pushing up off her chair. "Where was she found this time?"

"Darktown." Guardswoman Brennan sighed, watching as Aveline paced back and forth. "Same mutilation as the last one."

"How did this happen in the Undercity? There are hundreds of people down there! Are you telling me no one saw anything? Or knows anything?"

"Donnic and Filbert are questioning people now," Brennan told her agitated guard-captain. "They should have gone to bed hours ago, but they're gutted it happened on their shift. There's some templar sniffing around down there as well."

Aveline stopped pacing and laid her palms flat on her desk. "It didn't necessarily happen _in_ Darktown, _or_ last night. The woman found at the docks was starting to decompose. This poor cow was probably just dumped there."

Brennan shook her head. "No, Captain. This one was fresh. Said they could still smell the cologne on her, they did."

Aveline looked up. "Was she a whore?"

"No. Another respectable, middle-aged housewife."

"Shit." Aveline picked up her sword and shield, hefting them onto her back. "Let's get down there to relieve Donnic and Filbert and find out what this templar wants."

"But… what about the qunari, Captain?" asked Brennan, suspecting she already knew the answer.

"Bugger the qunari," was Aveline's succinct reply. Brennan repressed a snigger as they left the office.

"Guard-Captain Vallen," a supercilious voice drawled from behind them as they approached the stairs.

"Seneschal," Aveline replied crisply without turning around, picking up her pace.

"I was _not_ greeting you, Guard-Captain. I require your attention."

"Jumped-up little turd," she muttered under her breath before turning around. "What is it? I'm busy."

Taking his time, Bran slowly sauntered up to the two guards and straightened his tunic before addressing the captain. "I need not remind you that His Excellency is expecting the qunari delegation to arrive shortly."

"Your reminder is noted and appreciated, Seneschal." Aveline turned around and once again headed for the stairs.

"I also need not remind you that your presence is expected."

Aveline gritted her teeth as she turned around for the second time. "And, once again, your reminder is appreciated. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a nutter on the loose in Darktown."

"Then have your guards do what the city pays them to do." Bran sniffed, folded his arms and looked Brennan up and down. "For the captain of the guard _not_ to be in attendance during the qunari visit would be most… unseemly."

Bristling at Bran's condescending attitude, Aveline mirrored his stance by folding her own arms. "The qunari are a race of warriors who respect strength. _I_ suspect a guard-captain who sits behind a desk with her thumb up her arse would be unseemly to _them."_

Bran winced at her words as though he'd been struck. "Please, Guard-Captain. There is no need for such… rustic language."

"There's every need," she retorted. "I'll not have a lunatic running around the city chopping women's hands off while _I'm_ too busy following etiquette. Unless, of course, _you_ want to conduct the investigation in Darktown? From what I hear, you're well-acquainted with the place."

"I-I'm sure I don't know what you mean," spluttered Bran in indignation.

"I'm pleased we understand each other." Aveline headed for the stairs again, this time wearing a smug grin.

"But what am I to tell His Excellency?"

"You'll not like my answer to that," answered Aveline, already halfway down the stairs. "Might be too _rustic_ for those delicate ears of yours."

** The Deep Roads, uncharted section **

They were ready. The frozen path had been melted with Anders's magic and all but two torches had been extinguished: the two on the far side of the chasm, where the darkspawn would emerge. Anders's taint would push them forward, hopefully causing a few of them to fall over the edge, but the creatures wouldn't be fooled for long. No, for the plan to work, the darkspawn would need to be lured into the water, and for that to happen, they would need bait.

"How long?" Fenris asked Anders as Torbal put the finishing touches to his rope harness. Fenris would be lowered halfway down the wall of the chasm accompanied by a few wisps, making him, and the ropes, visible. Once the darkspawn started to descend, Fenris and the ropes would be pulled up, leaving the darkspawn as sitting ducks.

The trouble was, Fenris would also be a sitting duck for a short time. Although the elf had confidence in the protective magic Anders and Fletcher would bestow upon him, Fletcher didn't, and chewed his fingernails, constantly glancing at the lyrium tunnel behind them, which did nothing to calm his nerves.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Fletcher said to Fenris. "When we first met, I was angry with you for using us as bait. And now _you're_ the bait." A broken laugh spilled out of him.

"And our foes will be as unsuccessful now as they were then," Fenris assured him. "How long?" he asked Anders again.

"Fifteen minutes, maybe? They're not far."

Fenris smiled at Fletcher, squeezing his arm. "We're going to test the harness. I will return shortly."

Fletcher nodded silently while Varric moved next to him, launching into his repertoire of corny jokes in the hope of making his friend laugh.

Fenris walked to the edge, followed by Anders and Torbal, and looked down. "Are you going to tell him about the ogre?" he asked Anders quietly.

"I don't see the point. I know you don't like keeping things from him, but it won't be able to get into this chamber--it's too big. When the rest of the darkspawn are taken care of, we can deal with it then. I don't want Hawke losing his concentration while he's keeping an eye on you."

Fenris closed his eyes and groaned, reluctantly nodding. "Let us proceed," he said listlessly to Torbal.

After a few run-throughs, Fenris and Torbal were satisfied. No magic--save the wisps--had been used, though, for fear of depleting the mages' mana.

"All right, everyone in position!" Anders called out, estimating it would be less than five minutes before the arrival of the darkspawn.

The frontline fighters hid behind a barricade fashioned from sacks of food and other equipment, while the rest of the group, along with the nugs, stayed in the relative safety of the lyrium tunnel. Varric and Sebastian found comfortable positions and rested their weapons on the barricade, giving them a clear shot across the chasm; a few practice arrows and bolts confirmed they were in range. Isabela, Thirin, and a few of the humans--all skilled in throwing knives--were also on standby to pick off any darkspawn the archers missed.

The mages, both nervous for different reasons, were standing near the archers: Anders behind Varric and Fletcher beside Sebastian, where he'd have a clear view of Fenris as he was lowered down in the harness. Wiping his sweating palms on his robe, Fletcher glanced at Anders and felt a wave of resentment and anger wash over him.

"No," he whispered to himself, realising his proximity to the tunnel was evoking negative thoughts and emotions in him. "No!"

"Hawke?" Sebastian asked in concern. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he answered quickly before sighing. "No, no, I'm not. Sebastian, will you… will you keep an eye on me? The tunnel," he muttered, nodding at it.

"Join me, Hawke," invited the archer, holding an arm out. "The light of the Maker will shield us both." Strangely comforted by that, Fletcher moved closer to Sebastian, who placed a hand on Hawke's shoulder. "There is nothing to fear. We are all part of the Maker's grand design, and He will call us to stand at His right hand when it is our time." When Fletcher stared ahead without answering, Sebastian added, "But I do not believe our time is now. We _will_ prevail, have no fear."

"Will the light of the Maker shield Fenris as well?" Fletcher asked meekly.

"Of course, as will _you,_ guided by Him. Do not doubt your abilities, Hawke. If someone as cautious as Fenris trusts you with his safety, then I am certain you will keep him safe. _I_ wouldn't question Fenris's judgement, would you?"

"No." Bolstered by Sebastian's faith in him, Fletcher straightened up and took a deep breath. "Thank you. For humouring me."

"I wasn't."

"They're on their way," Anders warned, his fear not quite successfully hidden behind his brusquely-spoken words.

All talking stopped, the only sound to be heard the _clank_ of Bianca's gears. They waited. After a minute, the quiet clearing of a throat came from inside the lyrium tunnel, followed by a loud tut.

"There," whispered Sebastian, readying his bow as the first hurlock cautiously ventured onto the ledge.

"Don't shoot it," Anders advised. "Let's see if any of them are stupid enough to walk off the ledge."

The hurlock halted and waved its crudely-fashioned sword, quickly joined by several more of its kind, all of whom stared through the gloom directly at Anders's group.

"Don't worry, they can't see us," Anders assured the others. "It's my taint. They know I'm here, they're just wondering why I haven't attacked them, I guess."

"Well, I ain't standing 'round here waitin' for 'em to decide!" Torbal exclaimed and rose to his feet, placing finger and thumb in his mouth and emitting an ear-splitting whistle. "Hey, freaks! Why dontcha come over here and make friends with my axe?"

"And let's not forget Bianca!" Varric joined in, letting fly a bolt which whistled past the hurlock's ear. Enraged, the hurlock and some of its fellows charged forward, only to plummet over the ledge. Several splashes were heard, as well as shrieks when their bones fractured upon contact with the stone bed of the shallow stream.

Arrows were quickly fired in the direction of Anders's group but, as the darkspawn could not pinpoint their adversaries' positions, none of them met their target. Some of the darkspawn group--now five less in number–-slowly edged forward, stopping at the lip of the chasm, while others, having spotted the tunnel, headed straight for it.

"Here they come," muttered Fenris, sitting on the edge while Torbal prepared to lower him down.

"Target their archers!" Sebastian ordered. A volley of bolts, arrows and knives flew across the chasm, dropping four of their foes.

Finally, the darkspawn on the ledge retreated, while splashing was heard from below as the creatures in the water blindly thrashed around.

"Let's draw 'em out, Fenris," said Torbal, exchanging a nod with the elf. Before he was lowered down, Fenris turned in Fletcher's direction.

"Be ready."

"I'm right here, Fen," the mage answered from the darkness.

Anders crouched behind the barricade and summoned three wisps. "Don't show yourselves until Fenris tells you to," he ordered the tiny spheres of light, which winked out, drifting over the edge to follow the elf.

Fletcher's stomach twisted with each creak of the rope, but remembering Sebastian's words, he took a deep breath, his hands trembling as he readied himself to protect the man he loved.

A few more arrows were exchanged as Fenris was lowered down, but none of them were aimed at the elf. Several of the food bags were hit, though, rendering them inedible as the arrows might carry the darkspawns' taint.

A tug on the rope indicated Fenris was ready, so Torbal halted his descent by standing on the rope. Isabela, who was standing next to Torbal, helpfully wiped the sweat from the dwarf's brow and was rewarded with a hairy peck on the cheek.

Fletcher squinted, holding his breath as he waited for the tiniest spark of light to appear from below. As the light of the wisps slowly waxed, he concentrated on the stone and willed its strength and durability to protect Fenris. _"Robus Caementi,"_ he chanted, reciting a fortifying spell Anders had taught him. Fenris's grunt from below confirmed the spell had worked, and Fletcher released his breath in a relieved sigh.

"I am here, _Lusus Naturanum,"_ Fenris announced loudly as he was lit up by the wisps. "I am climbing up the ropes. Do you not have the intelligence to use them?"

A clamour erupted from the other side of the ledge as the darkspawn on the upper level charged toward the tunnel, leaving only one behind. Several arrows were fired at the elf and one glanced off his shoulder, puncturing the skin but not penetrating it, thanks to Fletcher's spell.

"Is that the best you can do?" the elf taunted.

"Shit!" Anders exclaimed as an orange glow originated from the lone darkspawn atop the ledge. "Emissary! _Get down!"_

Torbal ducked behind the barricade, keeping hold of the rope, as the fireball rocked their ledge, destroying more of the food sacks. Anders's retaliatory spell and Sebastian's arrow both missed the emissary as it threw itself to the ground and crawled out of sight.

"No!" Torbal growled. "The rope!" He pulled up the rope, which was still aflame where it had been severed by the fireball. "Fenton!"

"Fenris?" Fletcher yelled, rushing to the edge, Anders going after him. "Fenris!"

"He's alive, Hawke!" Anders grabbed Fletcher's arm and yanked him behind the rapidly-shrinking barricade. "My wisps haven't returned to me, and they've been dimmed. He's hiding."

"But-but he might be injured, burned!"

"He had the presence of mind to conceal himself, but I can't do what I have to do until he's out of the water. We need to stop them from going back up the tunnel, and we need to eliminate that emissary. I need you to focus, Hawke!"

"We'll take care of it," Sebastian called out as he loosed an arrow at the emissary, who was attempting to break cover. "Damn!" he cursed when the arrow missed, causing the darkspawn mage to once again retreat before Sebastian could nock another arrow.

"Fenris!" Varric shouted into the gloom. "If you can hear me, and if you're able, get out of the damned water, fast!"

Anders concentrated for a second. "He's in the tunnel! Or at least the wisps are… he must be with them!"

"Don't do it until you're sure, Anders!" pleaded Fletcher.

"I won't." Anders moved closer to the edge and listened to the splashing and guttural curses that came from the darkspawn as another arrow flew across the chasm, once again missing its target. He cupped a hand to his mouth. "Fenris! Let me know you're out of the water!"

"Got him, Choirboy," Varric said to Sebastian as the emissary again moved out of cover. Varric took aim, but lowered Bianca when the darkspawn mage staggered forward, dropping its staff, as black ichor pumped out of a gaping hole in its chest.

"Broody?" Varric shouted, beaming when Fenris emerged onto the far ledge, dropping to his knees as the emissary fell. "Ha ha! Broody to the rescue!"

"Right, everybody back!" Anders commanded. A few of the darkspawn, having followed Fenris, appeared on the ledge, but were quickly picked off by Varric and Sebastian, as well as a perfectly-aimed dagger from Isabela.

"Fenris! Are you all right?" Fletcher yelled across the chasm, ignoring Anders. The elf was now on all fours, but managed to raise a hand in answer before slumping onto his belly.

"Fenris!"

"Get back, Hawke!" Anders and Torbal dragged Fletcher away before Anders strode forward, pointing his staff downwards. "Take this, you bastards!" he snarled, sending arcing bolts of electricity into the water. Screams of outrage and agony rose from the darkspawn and reverberated off the walls, rising high up into the chamber before ending abruptly. An eerie silence then settled over the chamber.

"Fenris!" Fletcher cried anxiously, scrambling to his feet, running for the one piece of rope that had been left intact.

"No, I'll go!" Anders exclaimed. "You can't go in the water now, it'll be tainted! I'll freeze it in a bit but I need to see to Fenris first!"

Torbal hastily tied the rope around Anders's waist and, with Vonim's help, lowered the healer down. Anders quickly untied himself before wading through the water, which was black with the darkspawns' tainted blood, and staggered up the tunnel until he finally reached Fenris.

Fletcher watched with unblinking eyes, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest, as Anders conducted his examination, and felt the soft caress of healing magic being sent into the elf. "He's going to be all right," Anders shouted across. "He's got a nasty burn to his shoulder, and he was badly winded and bruised by the fall, but-"

A sudden boom rocked the chamber. Anders's head jerked in its direction, but he quickly turned his attention back to Fenris.

"What the hell is that?" Torbal demanded.

"Looks like our ogre's shown up!" shouted Varric over the rhythmic tattoo that thundered from the far side of the chasm.

"Ogre?" Fletcher's eyes darted to the far ledge and he walked forward, his body seemingly under the control of someone else.

Torbal stepped in front of the mage, blocking his path. "You heard Anders. You can't go in the water."

"Get out of my way, Torbal! Either lower me down, or I'll _jump_ down. Don't think I won't."

"Don't make me do this." Torbal reached for his axe, and Fletcher willed himself to partially enter the Fade, determining that Vonim was sneaking up behind him.

"Damn it, Hawke!" Varric shouted as Fletcher dived for the rope, spilling over the edge, the rope slipping through his fingers. For a heartbeat, he thought he would tumble to his death and then his fingers caught and held the rope tightly as he banged into the stone wall.

"Gah!" Torbal quickly stepped on the rope. "You stubborn bastard! Okay, have it your way! Hold on tight!" The rope was drawn taut as Torbal lowered Fletcher down before going slack as the mage entered the water.

"Don't get any water near your face or ears!" called Varric.

Anders's head snapped up as another shoulder charge from the ogre shook the chamber. "What? Who's coming up?" His face dropped when Fletcher appeared at the top of the tunnel. "Bloody hell, Hawke! What did I tell you? Did you get any water in your mouth? Do you have any cuts on your body? Answer me!"

Not hearing him, Fletcher glowered down the tunnel behind Anders, seeing only the monster that killed his brother. Another charge from the ogre sent dust raining down on Fletcher's head.

"You're not having my friends as well!" he yelled, and snatched up Anders's discarded staff.

"Hawke, no! Don't! _Don't!"_

Nearing the rear tunnel, Fletcher pointed both staves at the ogre's head, which was visible through the narrow opening. Calling upon his trusty flame spell, he sent a swirling funnel of fire into the beast, its power amplified by using both weapons in combination.

"Burn, you bastard!" Fletcher's eyes glittered with a savage red gleam, reflected from the fire, as he committed his last reserves of mana to the ogre's destruction.

A bellow, strident and piercing, filled the entire chamber as the ogre staggered away and crashed onto its back, flailing, unable to right itself as the intense flame consumed it.

Anders, having stabilised Fenris, jumped to his feet and wrestled with Fletcher for possession of his staff. "That's enough, Hawke! Now stop before you kill yourself!"

Fletcher broke free and, even as Anders tackled him to the ground, used his last iota of mana to inflict further damage and suffering upon the beast.

 _"Stop it!"_ Anders yelled, snatching the staves away and throwing them out of reach.

"You'll never hurt anyone again!" Fletcher roared, the image of Carver fleeting through his mind, before it was filled with blackness, and he collapsed, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robus Caementi = Strength of Stone
> 
> Lusus Naturanum = Literally, 'whims of nature'. Freaks, mutants, monsters.


	63. Past Imperfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You should not have endangered yourself for my sake!" snapped the elf, his voice quaking. "I am not worth losing your life over!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My humble thanks to Mary, without whom this story would be quite different, and not in a good way. You rock! :D
> 
> I'm quite astonished by the kindness of a lovely lady named Shaina, who drew a beautiful piece of artwork to accompany the story. Please take a minute to look at it, you'll find it on her deviantart page at:
> 
> xrenaix.deviantart.com/art/Lyrium-Glow-304040299 
> 
> She also filmed the process of drawing the piece, and recorded it on Youtube:
> 
> youtu.be/DgaEELhV13g 
> 
> I've thanked you a hundred times already, Shaina, but thank you again, sincerely.
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 7/1/2016

It took an entire day for the group to reorganise and transport their dwindling supplies across the chasm after defeating the darkspawn. Nearly half of their food had been destroyed or rendered inedible, but all agreed that the barricade had been necessary. That, however, did not make the fact the food situation was now dire any easier to swallow.

The underground stream had been temporarily frozen by Anders to allow safe passage, but once everyone was across, the darkspawn were left to rot--the group had neither the time nor the resources to destroy the tainted corpses.

A further problem presented itself once the group's remaining stock had been counted: the fight, and Anders's subsequent treatment of Fletcher, had exhausted their supplies of usable lyrium. For the foreseeable future, the mages would have to limit their mana expenditure and allow their reserves to replenish naturally through rest or sleep, but such a process could take hours, depending on how much mana the mage had used.

The most pressing matter, though, was the condition of Fenris and Fletcher. Fenris had fallen into the water belly-first, badly winding himself and sustaining severe bruising as a result. Anders had ruled out internal bleeding or fractures but hadn't been able to offer much in the way of treatment save rest. Therefore, Fenris had slept in a sitting position wearing an oxygen mask. He had since woken and been given a small meal, but in spite of his protestations that he was well, Anders had insisted he continue to rest. Fenris had followed his advice for the most part but had taken a few short strolls to stretch his legs, each time checking on Fletcher.

Anders had forcibly put Fletcher to sleep after he'd collapsed due to using his mana beyond its normal limits: 'casting on empty', as Anders had described it. Fletcher's actions had left him gravely incapacitated and weakened, but thankfully his body had shut down before his heart had given out, a consequence Anders had heard of in other mages who'd behaved as recklessly as Fletcher. Anders had stopped topping up his sleep spell several hours earlier to allow Fletcher to wake naturally. He would need to be given fluids soon, as well as food if he could manage it. As Fletcher began to stir, Anders and Varric talked while watching him from a distance.

"All I'm saying, Varric, is that no healer should have been able to defeat an ogre single-handedly. Without being disrespectful to Hawke, he's not even that accomplished a healer, and he'd admit that himself. That's not his fault, but he wasn't trained in a Circle. The point I'm making is that I, with my extensive training and experience fighting darkspawn, wouldn't have managed it. Even Bethany would have struggled, and she's a battle mage. Only a blood mage could have managed such a feat, and only after making several blood sacrifices."

Varric shrugged. "But he _is_ a blood mage, right? There's your answer."

"Yes, he is, but..." Anders let out an impatient sigh. "I've just explained. He didn't use blood magic and he certainly didn't sacrifice anyone."

"Then what do _you_ think it was, Blondie?" Varric lowered his voice and glanced at Fenris, who was standing stiffly at the far end of the small chamber they were in, his eyes fixed on Fletcher. "You think he lost it because he was thinking about his brother? Is that possible?"

"It's obvious he was very distressed, and in some circumstances a mage will unconsciously commit extra mana to a spell if they're emotionally overwrought. But… again, I don't mean to insult him, but he's just not that powerful, even _with_ a burst of adrenaline."

"Now come on. I've seen Hawke in action, and he's pretty darned impressive," replied Varric, a little defensively.

Anders held his hands up. "Don't get me wrong. He has terrific potential, but he needs to train, hone his abilities. I promised him that after the expedition, I'd mentor him while he helps me at the clinic. I suppose it's like what Hawke says about Fenris--he's very intelligent, but without being able to read, he can't expand his knowledge. Does that make sense?"

"I guess so," muttered Varric, still watching the grim-faced Fenris, who was slowly walking closer to Fletcher. "So what do you think caused it?"

"Well, this is a long-shot, but I'm guessing it has something to do with the new lyrium," Anders said quietly. "It's the only explanation I can come up with. It's just a guess, though. I'll need to take a sample with me and run some tests."

"How do you think it affected him, then?" asked Varric with a frown.

"I really don't know. I will tell you, though, that during the fight, I felt my own spells were more… powerful than usual. Much more."

The dwarf's face lit up. "Are you saying this is some kind of _super_ lyrium?"

"No. It's possible ordinary lyrium also has an amplifying effect in its raw form, it's just that most mages wouldn't cast around raw lyrium, mainly because they wouldn't be in full possession of their faculties. I didn't cast while we were in the lyrium tunnel. I had no need to, so I wouldn't know. I'm _speculating_ that the lyrium amplified Hawke's spell, but that's not necessarily a good thing, particularly to someone like him, who hasn't fully mastered control of his talents. This lyrium could actually be dangerous, simply because mages _would_ have control of their faculties while using it."

Varric gave Anders a dubious glance. "And this is the part where you _stop_ making sense."

"Well, _I_ know what I mean." Anders closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

"You okay, Blondie? Maybe you'd better get some rest. You haven't stopped since we caught up with you." Varric touched Anders's arm, steering him away.

"No, I'd better check on Hawke, first."

"Well, at least let me stand you to a cup of tea," offered Varric with another glance at Fenris, who was now standing over the bewildered Fletcher with his arms folded. "Something tells me a _chewing-out_ is imminent. Let's leave them to it."

"Yes, all right." Feeling like he would drop at any moment, Anders allowed himself to be guided to the rest of the group, where he sat down, keeping an eye on Fletcher and Fenris, while Varric rustled up some tea.

"Fen?" Fletcher, who was naked besides a pair of clean braies*, looked up, his brow furrowed with confusion, and flinched at the elf's hard expression. "What-what happened to my skin? And where's my robe?" He held up an arm, which was raw, bright pink, and covered in a thick, greasy emulsion of some kind, as was the rest of him.

"Your robe was incinerated," Fenris answered shortly, "and your skin is sore because Anders scrubbed you from head to toe in a solution of lye."

"But… I don't… why-why would he do that?" Fletcher mumbled, looking hurt and befuddled.

Fenris drew a stinting, tautly-controlled breath. _"Because_ you were foolish enough to wade through water which had been tainted by the darkspawn! Do you not remember?"

Fletcher blinked several times, his thought processes torpid after Anders's sleep spell. He concentrated as best he could, but could only offer a shrug in response, his mind a blank.

Exasperated, Fenris turned his back on Fletcher and huffed. "And the ogre? Do you remember _that?"_

"Ogre?" Fletcher's brow creased further and then it smoothed out, his face slackening as fleeting images of fire and darkness swept through his mind. "Maker… you-you fell! Are you all right?"

Panicked, Fletcher hastened to stand but was prevented from doing so by Fenris's command. "Sit down!" ordered the elf irately. "You are _supposed_ to be resting!"

Fletcher slumped, hanging his head, and Fenris groaned, regretting his harsh tone, but his guilt did little to quell his anger. "What were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice quieter but no less condemning. "You could have killed yourself!"

"I couldn't… I couldn't let it hurt you! You were injured, and..."

"You should not have endangered yourself for my sake!" snapped the elf, his voice quaking. "I am not worth losing your life over!"

"What? Now, just a minute!" protested Fletcher, his confusion giving way to his own anger. "You're not _worth_ it? What kind of talk is that? I would have done anything to protect you, and you would have done the same for me!"

"I would not have taken such a senseless risk! I gave you my word that I would not endanger myself needlessly!"

"Well I _didn't_ give my word!" Fletcher retorted, before the last of his fight left him and he closed his eyes, shaking his head, resigned to whatever Fenris had to throw at him. Fenris, however, failed to answer, his posture matching Fletcher's.

"Are you all right?" Fletcher quietly asked after a fraught moment.

"I'm _fine."_ Fenris released a gusting sigh and paced back and forth. "How... how do _you_ feel?"

"Oh, I feel all _kinds_ of things. Stupid, sore, _angry..._ the usual, you know?"

"Angry?" asked Fenris, taken aback by Fletcher's sniping tone. "Why are you angry?"

"Did _you_ know about the ogre? Because I'm pretty sure Anders did."

Another minute of silence passed between them before Fenris exhaled and cast his eyes to the ground. "Yes. I knew."

"Right. And don't you think it might have been nice for you to tell me? Or for Anders to tell me? So, you know, it wasn't such a horrendous shock for me? Just a thought."

Guilt overcame Fenris's anger and he folded his hands across his belly, looking Fletcher in the eyes. "Anders decided it would be better for you not to know. I agreed with him. In hindsight, it would appear we were gravely mistaken. Knowing how your brother met his end, we _should_ have warned you. No. _I_ should have warned you. This... this is my fault. I should not be blaming you."

"Oh, Fen…" Fletcher sat up a little and rested his head against the stone wall. "Look at us. We can't even argue properly anymore."

"I do not think it appropriate for you to make jokes after you almost died," Fenris replied tersely.

"I wasn't joking," said Fletcher sadly. "When Torbal brought that rope up without you attached to it, I thought _you_ were dead. In that moment, I _knew_ I'd failed to protect you. Just like I failed to protect Carver. When I heard about the ogre, I just… lost it. I'm sorry. I can't imagine how frightened you must have been to see me like that."

A low sigh came from Fenris, and he sat beside the mage.

Fletcher glanced at the elf and rubbed his face with his hands, wincing as he touched the tender skin. "He scrubbed my face as well?"

Fenris nodded. "He feared you had taken in the taint. He was… thorough."

"Tell me about it." Fletcher pulled his braies away from his inflamed groin, letting some air get to the skin.

"I held a towel over that part of you," Fenris assured him. "To ensure there was no… impropriety." A faint, wry upturn of one edge of Fenris's mouth immediately put Fletcher at ease, until he remembered Fenris had killed the emissary.

"What about you?" he asked nervously. "The emissary… you-you got its blood all over you!"

"Thankfully, my armour protected me. The downside is that my gauntlets and cuirass have had to be discarded. Anders told me that tainted water is one thing, but tainted blood is quite another. He would not take any chances. Losing part of my armour is a small price to pay," he conceded with a shrug.

"So you're safe?" Fletcher asked anxiously.

"Yes, as are you. According to Anders, we would have become symptomatic a short time after being exposed to tainted matter."

"Like Wesley Vallen," Fletcher mumbled.

"Anders examined your body for contusions and found none," the elf went on. "You were _very_ fortunate."

Not wishing to be drawn into another argument, Fletcher evaded Fenris's valid point. "So you lost your cuirass? But that means-"

"Yes. Aveline will have my intestinal tract for stockings."

"Guts for garters."

"I… beg your pardon?"

"She'll have your guts for garters. That's how we said it in Ferelden, anyway."

"Fair enough," commented Fenris, "but I believe _my_ version to be wittier."

"You're probably right." Fletcher tentatively reached for Fenris's hand, and the elf held it loosely, not wanting to cause Fletcher pain. "I wouldn't worry, Fen. I doubt Aveline is the kind of girl who wears stockings _or_ garters, anyway."

"I suspect you are correct." Fenris smiled faintly, inching closer to Fletcher, and glanced down at his own leggings. "My clothing also had to be destroyed. Now, I have no spares to change into."

"Lucky you don't wear underwear then, isn't it?"

"It is, indeed." Fenris leaned back against the rock and sighed. "You raised an interesting point earlier. Our arguments _are_ woefully short-lived these days, aren't they?"

"But that's good… isn't it?"

Fenris nodded. "I do not enjoy arguing with you. Not anymore."

"Nor do I," Fletcher said softly, "Even though I sometimes give you good reason to argue with me."

"Why did you do it?" Fenris asked in a reasonable tone. "What was in your mind?"

"I just…" Fletcher leaned forward, staring ahead, and shook his head before leaning back against the wall. "I've had something on my mind which I should have told you about, but didn't. It-it's nothing sinister. I mean, I haven't been keeping anything from you. Well, I have, but not in that way. I… oh, shut up, Fletcher, and talk some sense."

"Take your time. There is no rush." Fenris frowned, then, as a thought occurred to him. "Fletcher, is it connected with… your father?"

Fletcher's mouth fell open. "You… how did you know that?" he asked, astonished.

"I recall speaking with your sister when we were at the Dalish camp, the night you told me…" He cleared his throat and straightened up. "She said your father died shortly after your naming day. I have always remembered, in case you needed to… unburden yourself when the time came."

"You… really?" Fletcher was deeply touched by Fenris's thoughtfulness and compassion, and his lower lip wobbled. "You thought of that right after I'd told you I was a blood mage? You know, I've been worrying all this time because you haven't told me you love me. But... you do, don't you?" His face crumpled and he shook his head.

"No more _weeping,"_ Fenris said gently, his tone conveying a sliver of amusement. "You cannot blame the lyrium this time."

"Saw through my excuses, eh?" Fletcher whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he gave Fenris a thin, but genuine smile.

"Always." Fenris gave Fletcher's hand a gentle squeeze. "Talk to me. Unburden your troubles."

"Th-thank you." Fletcher was silent for a while as he gathered his thoughts, and both men looked up when Sheldon thoughtfully brought them a cup of tea before leaving them alone. Fletcher blew on his tea and took a few sips before he began.

"I'd had Father on my mind, yes. Carver as well. When Anders told me he sensed darkspawn, I feared we'd run into an ogre. I didn't know what I'd do if I faced another one. I thought… I thought I'd come to terms with losing Carver, that I'd forgiven myself, but there will always be something, deep down. A part of me that will always blame myself for his death."

"Like you blamed yourself for Dalton's?" ventured Fenris, determined that Fletcher would get everything off his chest.

"Yes." Fletcher hung his head and took a deep breath.

"And… do you blame yourself for your father's death?"

"No," Fletcher said decisively. "Although at the time, I was hard on myself because I wasn't _with_ him when he died." He sighed and looked at his and Fenris's hands, their fingers intertwined. "They said it was his heart and that it was very quick. I wouldn't have been able to save him, I know that now. He-he fell in the fields one day, while working. Huh. Carver found a way to blame me for that as well. The bastard."

"The fields?" A sudden surge of heat through Fenris's gut sent his breath rushing out, and Fletcher touched his arm, troubled by the elf's reaction and strained tone of voice.

"Fen? What is it? What's wrong?"

"I… don't know." Fenris's eyes widened as unease was carved deeply onto his brow. "When you mentioned the fields… I-I saw something. I think."

"Close your eyes," Fletcher said quickly. "Don't let it slip away. Concentrate!"

"I can't. It's gone."

"No, you have to think!" Fletcher urged firmly, clasping Fenris's arms. "This is important, Fenris! What did you see? Think!"

Fenris shook his head, panic in his eyes as his breathing quickened. "No… I-I can't…"

"Yes, you _can!_ Come on! The Fenris I know doesn't just give up!"

Fletcher looked on in dismay as Fenris bit his lower lip, his eyes darting left and right, his shoulders heaving. Fearing he'd pushed Fenris too far, he loosened his grip on the elf and softened his voice. "Fenris, I'm sorry. Please… let's just forget it. I'm sorry, love."

"There-there was an elf," Fenris communicated, his voice wavering. "In the fields. He looked like… his-his eyes…"

"What about his eyes? Who did he look like?" Fletcher asked softly, his stomach churning.

Wordlessly, Fenris released Fletcher's hand and pushed to his feet, his back to the mage as he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he uttered thickly. "I… we will speak later. I must…" Fenris looked back at Fletcher, not wanting to leave him but needing to be alone, almost asking permission with his eyes.

Fletcher struggled to his feet, accepting Fenris's proffered hand. "Go on." He nodded ahead. "We'll speak later. You know I'll always be here."

Fenris closed his eyes and brought Fletcher's hand to his lips, quickly kissing it before he exited the chamber, taking refuge in a quiet place not far from Fletcher and the others.

"What was that about?" Anders asked from behind Fletcher, having approached him after Fenris had left. "And why are you standing up? You should be sitting down."

There it was again: the same biting irritation that had taken hold of Fletcher in the lyrium chamber. Why was he still angry with Anders? He turned around, not sure if he was concealing it well, and not sure if he cared, either.

"Anders." Fletcher looked at the rest of the group, who were preparing supper. "When everyone's eaten, we'll set off immediately."

"Out of the question!" Anders laughed derisively, his hand slicing through the air, and he noticed the flare of Fletcher's nostrils, the tension in his shoulders. "You're still not well, Hawke. Both you _and_ Fenris need more rest."

"No! I'm _sick_ of this blasted place!"

"We all are, Fletcher," answered Anders smoothly, choosing his words carefully.

"Don't use your healer's voice on me! It won't work!"

"Sorry," said Anders, his voice reverting to normal as he held back a sigh. "Hawke… you know that we can't leave yet. Fenris was also injured, remember?"

"I know he was bloody injured! I was there, _remember?_ Are you saying I don't care about him?"

"You know I'm not saying that. You _love_ him. And that's why you know he has to rest. He loves you as well, and he'd be upset to see you suffering. You _know_ this, Hawke. You're not stupid."

Fletcher gasped, his fellow mage's disarming words taking effect, and his heart sank into his boots, feeling worried for Fenris and wretched for delaying the expedition. "Anders… I-I don't know what's wrong with me," he blurted. "I feel angry with you and I don't know why. Maker, you saved my life. I don't like this. It-it's a horrible feeling, like I'm out of control. I'm sorry."

Relieved, Anders exhaled and moved closer to Fletcher. "I've been there. The Deep Roads is a place I've tried very hard to forget. _Any_ mage is going to suffer down here. It was Oghren, with me," he said with a fond smile.

"Who? What do you-"

"The one I fixated on, the one I blamed everything on," Anders explained. "He was the mastermind behind the plot to _assassinate_ me," he said ruefully. "Ha, if you'd known Oghren, you'd know 'mastermind' is a contradiction in terms. He took it all on the chin, though. It just gave him more ammunition when I did come to my senses. I was known as 'Crazy Ol' Sparklefingers' from then on. Or 'Sparky the Nutjob', when he was in a more erudite mood."

"You mean…?"

"I've been through it, Hawke. Look, I don't mind if you take your anger out on me. I know it's not real."

"But… I don't want to," Fletcher mumbled, thoroughly ashamed of himself. "It just happens and I can't control it."

"I'm glad it's me, really," said Anders with a shrug. "I _understand_. If it had been one of the dwarves, you might be short a testicle or two by now. And that's because they like you."

Varric moved closer to the mages, clutching a book to his side. "Ah, Varric!" Anders exclaimed brightly. "I believe you wanted to interview the hero of the hour?"

"Yeah, I do, Blondie, so stop cutting into my writing time and step aside."

"You-you want to _what?"_ a confused Fletcher stammered.

"Don't keep him too long," Anders ordered.

"Yeah, yeah." Varric made a 'yap yap' gesture with his hand behind Anders's back and pushed in between the mages, steering Fletcher back to his little corner. "Siddown, Hawke," he invited, and Fletcher complied without arguing, though his eyes wandered across to where Fenris had exited.

Varric snapped his fingers in front of Fletcher's face and sat down next to his friend. "So," he said without preamble, opening his book. "When you were breathing fire at the ogre…"

"What? I-I wasn't-"

 _"Semantics_ , Hawke. Nothing but trifling semantics. When this story is read in a few ages' time, do you really think the reader will _care_ where the fire came from? Nah, so long as the fire's in there somewhere, it's not a lie, is it? Now, are you gonna help me write this story, or do I enlist the pirate to help me? You know how _that_ would go. You, she and the elf would wind up in a Rivaini sandwich while the ogre looked on… _touching_ itself."

"Varric!" Fletcher exclaimed, an incredulous laugh rushing out of him.

"Exactly," Varric said with an intense look at the mage, who noticed Sebastian discreetly slipping out of the chamber. "Hawke?" Varric prompted, and Fletcher, comforted that Fenris would have some company, looked at the dwarf, slightly more alert. "When you were breathing fire at the ogre…?"

Fletcher sighed, grateful to Varric for attempting to lift his spirits, and played along. "When I was breathing fire at the ogre," he started, while Varric waited, quill at the ready, for the mage to continue.

** The Alienage, Lowtown **

Merrill hummed softly to herself as she used the finely-bristled brush to loosen the more stubborn of the cobwebs. Today was a good day. At last, she'd succeeded in doing what they thought she couldn't. Now the clan _had_ to take notice of her. No longer would they fear or ridicule her. They would _finally_ understand!

Yes, today was a _very_ good day.

"Got you, you little scamp!" she said to the cobweb, poking out her tongue as she reduced it to a tiny tube of silk between finger and thumb. She resumed her delicate work, as well as her humming, only to be interrupted by a quiet knock at her door.

Carefully placing the brush down, she stood up and examined the Eluvian for a while, before she was distracted by a second, louder knock. Blinking, she walked to the door. "Aren't I the popular one today?" she said to herself. This would be her second caller today--the first had delivered the mystical Dalish artifact to her home.

Opening the door, she let out an exclamation. Hawke's mother was standing right there, on her doorstep! A proper lady, all posh and everything, and her place was _such_ a mess!

"Oh! I-It's Hawke's… um… Leand…no. Um… I-I'm not sure what I'm supposed to call you. Rats." Taking a deep breath, she straightened up and plastered a dignified, calm expression across her face. She was good at that, and it in no way made her look like she was bursting for a wee. Hopping from foot to foot _was_ considered dignified among humans, wasn't it?

"My dear, you must call me Leandra. I told you that the last time we met," the posh lady said kindly, moving the small basket she carried from one arm to the other.

"Oh, I know, but that was a while back, and I didn't want to be impolite or anything. Um, well, it's nice to see you… Leandra," she said with a giggle, realising with consternation that she really _did_ need a wee now.

"It's very nice to see you as well," answered the nice lady. "Merrill, I do hate to impose myself on you, but would it be all right if I came in? It _is_ raining rather heavily."

Merrill's face coloured as if she'd been struck and she jumped back, frantically ushering Leandra in. "I'm so sorry!" she cried, her stomach turning over. "What's wrong with me? I-I'm just not used to having visitors. Come on, there's a chair next to the fire." She led Leandra to her meagre fire before rushing into the back room, returning with a large towel.

"Tea?" she offered, thrusting the towel into Leandra's hands.

"That would be lovely, Merrill. But please don't go to any trouble for me."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all." Merrill's face dropped then, and she once again affected her dignified, solemn expression, belied by her burning cheeks. "I think I've just realised. I don't actually _have_ any tea."

Smiling, Leandra reached into her basket and produced a couple of small wrapped packages. "Fletcher told you me you drink so much tea you're constantly running out," she said tactfully, and handed Merrill the items. "We have far too much at home, so I thought I'd bring you some. I also baked too many cakes," she finished with a twinkle in her eye.

By the time Merrill had sufficiently thanked Leandra and finally got around to making the tea, almost half an hour had passed by. Merrill brought in cake and a house-shaped teapot on a tray, only to find Leandra examining the Eluvian.

"Oh! Don't touch that!" Merrill shrieked in panic, and clapped a hand over her mouth, almost dropping the tray as Leandra recoiled from the broken mirror. "I didn't mean… I'm sorry I shouted."

"You didn't," said Leandra politely. "What is this? It appears very old."

Merrill sighed, setting the tray down, and joined Leandra. "It's the Eluvian, an heirloom of my people. I wanted to fix it so the Dalish would have a piece of history," she explained proudly. "So much has been taken from us and all we have left are our stories. _This_ is real, something that old men can tell their grandchildren about and then actually _show_ them. It's very, very special."

Leandra detected sadness in Merrill's tone and watched the Dalish elf thoughtfully as she gazed at the mirror. "Your people entrusted you to restore this, alone?"

"Not _exactly,"_ Merrill replied awkwardly, twisting her fingers together. "They-they're not really as enthusiastic about it as I am." Pre-empting Leandra's next question, she shrugged. "They say it's… evil. All right, I know something bad happened a while ago. But that was because it was tainted by the darkspawn. I've cleansed it now."

"Oh, Merrill," Leandra said with concern, "I do hope you aren't involved in anything dangerous."

"It's _not_ dangerous," the elf insisted. "I purified it with a spell and it's completely safe. That's what my clan doesn't understand."

"How did you purify it? I've never heard of a spell that can remove the taint."

"I had to use blood magic for that," Merrill whispered.

"Oh… I… didn't realise," Leandra murmured quietly, her eyes moving to the door.

"My clan doesn't approve of it, but you would probably understand, what with your son and everything," continued Merrill, too late to register the alarm on Leandra's face.

"Fletcher? What does _he_ have to do with blood magic?"

Merrill gulped, breaking out in a cold sweat as it finally dawned on her that Fletcher had not told his mother. "Oh, I didn't mean… I-I meant because he's also a mage. Y-yes, a mage. Bethany, too. Th-that's all I meant. Um…"

Leandra paused momentarily before gracefully moving to the chair and returning the damp towel to Merrill. "Well, I must be heading for home. Thank you for having me, Merrill."

"B-but your tea…"

"I'm frightfully sorry, but I've just remembered an errand I must attend to." Leandra headed for the door without looking back, her tone of voice perfectly measured and civil. "Oh, yes… the reason I came to see you in the first place was to warn you that the templars are on the prowl. Be careful. And thank you again."

"I will," Merrill whispered, crushed, as Leandra closed the door behind her. With trembling hands, she placed the towel on her rickety table and took a few shaky breaths in an unsuccessful attempt to calm herself. "Oh, Creators!" she squeaked breathlessly, tears spilling down her cheeks. "May Fen'Harel take me! What have I _done?_ I have to-I have to put this right!"

Not giving herself time to think, she threw a few items of clothing into a small bag, along with the rest of Leandra's cake, and fled the house, her tears washed away by the driving rain as she ran through the streets.

Today was _not_ such a good day, after all.

** The Deep Roads **

Fletcher was still 'assisting' Varric with his account of the darkspawn fight when Sebastian re-entered the chamber, his eyes searching. When they met Fletcher's, the archer raised his chin a little, indicating Fletcher should join him.

"Excuse me, Varric, I'll be back later. Just carry on without me." With a helpful nudge from the dwarf, Fletcher shakily got to his feet, surprised by how weak he still felt, and meandered over to Sebastian.

"I believe he would welcome your company, Hawke," Sebastian told him with a nod down a small tunnel, the glow of Fenris's torch barely visible at the end of it.

"Thank you for talking to him."

"I didn't, much. I merely sat with him. After a while, he asked if I would send you in."

"Well, thank you anyway. You're a good friend to him."

"To you both." Sebastian turned and walked away, Fletcher's anxious smile following him. With a sigh, he started down the tunnel, coming to a halt when he found the elf, who was seated on a small rocky ledge, one hand hanging between his knees, the other braced against his thigh.

"Hello, Fen." Fletcher joined him on the ledge, first testing to see if it would hold his weight.

Fenris looked at Fletcher and smiled with his eyes only, before his gaze moved to the ground. "I owe you an apology. _Another_ one."

"Whatever you imagine you need to apologise for, you don't. Trust me." Fletcher reached for one of Fenris's hands and brought it to his mouth, gently kissing it.

This time, the smile gently curved Fenris's lips, and he began to move Fletcher's hand to his own mouth, but he hesitated, his smile quickly fading. "I had no right… you were confiding in me about your father. Whatever it is I _thought_ I saw, I should not have interrupted you, taken off like that. I am utterly selfish. _Please_ , Fletcher, continue. I give you my word I will _not_ abandon you again. I am deeply sorry for my actions."

"Selfish?" Fletcher snorted and brought his and Fenris's hands to rest against his thigh. "Look. My father died eleven years ago. What happened earlier, well, happened earlier. You had every right to be upset. We can speak of my father another time. I want to know what you saw. This is the first thing you've been able to recall clearly. This is _massive."_

Fenris looked up, his eyes slowly moving to Fletcher's, an unspoken question in them.

"Please," Fletcher prompted. "The elf you saw--who did he look like?"

"He looked like… me," confessed Fenris. Despite his reluctance to burden Fletcher, he was in fact desperate to speak. "Only older."

Fletcher released Fenris's hand and wrapped his arm around the elf's slender shoulders. "Do you think he may be your father?"

"I don't know," answered Fenris, quiet and uncertain.

"Describe him for me."

Fenris swallowed and squeezed his eyes closed, furiously concentrating. "Dark hair, the colour of treacle, with streaks of grey at the temples. Green eyes, identical to my own… it's almost as though I'm seeing myself, several years in the future."

"And what's he doing?" Fletcher asked, stroking Fenris's shoulder.

"He is looking directly at me… he's holding an implement of some kind. A sickle?" Fenris opened his eyes and frowned deeply before his eyes closed again. "I am uncertain."

"And what else do you see?"

A long pause followed and Fenris sighed, shaking his head. He then straightened up and opened his eyes, staring ahead. "Wait… the sun. It's a sunny day." A pained smile came across his face, and a noise similar to--but not quite--a laugh burst out of him.

Seeing tears in the elf's eyes, Fletcher pulled him close and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "I know this is difficult, Fen, but you must try to remember. Every little detail you can."

"Help me?" asked Fenris. "Keep asking questions. They… seem to help."

"I'll ask questions all night if needs be, dearest one," said Fletcher. Fenris, humbled and touched by Fletcher's care, took the mage's hand and returned his kiss. "Now," Fletcher prompted. "What was he wearing?"

More determined, Fenris nodded and once again closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Braies: http://historymedren.about.com/od/clothingandfabric/ss/underwear.htm#step2


	64. Foot and Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was a place Danarius and Hadriana could not enter, a place where I was in complete control. Nothing went wrong there and nothing unpleasant ever occurred. It was a complete fantasy, but… I needed it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary, thank you so much for taking time out of a busy Sunday to beta this chapter. Fiona the duck sends greetings to her namesake! :D
> 
> NSFW content in this chapter.

The next few days' travel through the Deep Roads came as a pleasant surprise to the group after the hardships they'd recently endured. The going was relatively easy with only a few narrow tunnels and one small gully to negotiate, while the remainder of their path took them through large, open chambers which were streaked with the 'new' lyrium they'd discovered. Sadly, though, there were few places Fletcher and Fenris could enjoy true privacy.

The twosome had recovered from their injuries and no longer slowed the group's progress. In fact, Fletcher reported a sense of physical well-being he hadn't felt since first entering the Deep Roads. He was still on the jittery side, however, and had occasionally snapped at Anders but quickly apologised. Anders had taken this in his stride and seemed to draw strength from his continued care of his fellow mage. On the third day of travel away from the lyrium tunnel and, much to Fenris's pleasure, Fletcher's laughter--something that had not been heard for a while--once again filled the chambers they walked through.

During private moments, Fletcher and Fenris had discussed the elf's recent memory of who they suspected was his father. Fletcher had continued to coax more details out of Fenris, but they'd reached an impasse: Fenris simply could not recall anything further than he'd already stated. Fletcher found it encouraging, however, that Fenris had been willing to discuss it at all, and had asked Fenris if he'd be interested in trying to remember other things, with Fletcher's help. Fenris had fallen quiet, then, and had promised to think about it, saying no more on the matter. Fletcher had not mentioned it since.

Anders and Fletcher had conducted several tests on the new lyrium, finding no discernible differences between it and the more familiar type of lyrium they'd encountered in the tunnel. Varric had followed their research with interest, finding their results encouraging. He stood over the two mages, who were seated on the ground as they experimented with powdered and suspended forms of their new discovery.

Without warning, there was a burst of flame from a small pile of powder Fletcher had set alight. "Hey! Watch the eyebrows, Hawke!" Varric protested as the flame began to die down.

Ignoring him, Fletcher gasped and nudged Anders, who was crushing some ingredients in a mortar. "Look at this!" he exclaimed excitedly, pointing at the pale violet flame.

"Ah! I think we've found our difference," Anders said, shuffling closer for a better look. "Ordinary lyrium burns with a white flame," he explained for Varric's benefit.

"Are you saying this stuff's flammable?" Varric glanced around nervously. "Are we safe to light fires in here?"

"Yes, of course," replied Fletcher, inviting Varric to sit next to them. "I added some other agents to the powder to make it combustible."

"Oh, I knew that," Varric claimed with an easy laugh as he sat next to the mages. "So what does a purple flame mean?"

"I'm not sure," Fletcher answered, and Anders, also uncertain, shrugged. "We're going to have to break it down into its component parts and conduct further tests on each component. Isn't it exciting?"

"Sure," muttered Varric flatly, stifling a yawn. He then leaned closer to Fletcher and whispered, "Are we gonna be able to sell this stuff or not?"

This time, both mages shrugged. "So far, it appears to be identical to ordinary lyrium," Anders explained, "but something sets it apart, and we need to know what that _something_ is. We can't sell it if it's unsafe."

Fletcher nodded his agreement. "We're guessing this particular lyrium is much older than the rest of it. Not one section we've examined has so much as a chip in it, like it's never been touched, and the section we first found it in was uncharted."

"And what about this section?" Varric asked.

Anders produced his maps, pointing to the section they were in. "From this chamber to the Planasene Forest exit _is_ mapped, but look around--there's no old camping equipment here, no bits of wood for fires, no anything, in fact. In all preceding chambers, we've found some evidence that others have travelled through or camped there. I'd say this part of the Deep Roads hasn't been explored for a very long time, if ever, unless those that came down here were particularly tidy."

Varric raised his eyebrows. "Or didn't want anyone to know they were here."

"The only ones who _would_ have been down here at any time are the wardens or the darkspawn. I wonder if the wardens know about the 'new' lyrium as well?"

"Don't _you_ know, being a warden?" Fletcher asked, and was surprised at Anders's loud burst of laughter.

"It's like this. I'm the warden equivalent of that annoying acquaintance you haven't seen for years, who when you bump into him, you nod politely and exchange pleasantries but all the time you're looking for an escape. And when you're finally rid of him, you go and slag him off to all your friends and have a good laugh at his expense. The bloody wardens wouldn't tell _me_ what time it is."

"Don't mince your words, Blondie," joked Varric. "Listen, I don't care who, if anyone, knows about the lyrium. No one's attempted to mine it or lay claim to it. If the wardens know about it, they blew their chance. It's ours."

"It might be ours, but we still need to know if it's safe," Fletcher warned, laughing at the dwarf's disappointed expression. "Now toddle off and let us get on with our work," he said with a grin.

Varric huffed and pushed himself to his feet. "Fine. But if it's bad news, I don't wanna know. Tell it to Bartrand and lie to me, okay?"

"Through my teeth," Fletcher promised with a wave at the dwarf, who was walking away, shaking his head.

"Let's take a break from this," suggested Anders. "How about we discuss Fenris? Although I don't really know where to start. Do you know much about the markings? How they got there?"

Fletcher sighed and leaned back on his hands, crossing his ankles. "The markings weren't supposed to be there. The lyrium procedure went wrong, and the markings were the result. _Fenris_ was an experiment as well, just like this lyrium."

"What do you mean, an experiment?"

"I don't know how he did it, but Danarius injected lyrium into Fenris's veins and then boiled it using magic. The aim was to burn it into Fenris's blood vessels," he recited with bitterness in his voice, seeing Anders's mouth fall open from the corner of his eye. "Fenris was _conscious_ during this, by the way."

 _"What?_ How the bloody hell did he survive that?"

"The trauma to his body caused several of his blood vessels to collapse or disintegrate, which in turn caused the hot lyrium to break through to his skin. That's probably what saved him. I daresay the lyrium didn't quite reach boiling point before it... bled out of him."

"And that's what caused the markings?" Anders asked, receiving no response from Fletcher, who was staring into space. "Maker! I can't even…" Anders placed his hand over his coat above where the templars had branded him and touched Fletcher's arm, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Yes, that's what caused the markings," replied Fletcher, noticing that Anders had placed his hand over his chest. "Maybe now you can see why Fenris hated mages and magic when we first met, just like you hate the templars. Both of you were held against your will and both of you were abused, tortured, and made to feel like nothing. _Now_ do you see, Anders?"

Anders's hand slowly moved away from his chest to rest in his lap, his brow creased. "These markings," he began quietly, "have you had a good look at them?"

"I haven't examined them, if that's what you mean. To be honest, I'm afraid of hurting him. He's in constant pain because of them. He _did_ tell me it wouldn't hurt if I touched them, but he might have said that to reassure me. I… have touched them, but only briefly."

"Do you think he'd consent to an examination? From you, I mean. I doubt he'd want _me_ gawking at him," Anders said airily, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yes, I think he'd let me," said Fletcher thoughtfully. "What do you want me to look for?"

"I don't even know, just something different from normal. What sets the markings apart from the unaffected skin? _Are_ there any parts of him that don't have the markings? Not that I mean to be personal or anything."

"The soles of his feet are unmarked, but because he went barefoot for so long the skin there is incredibly tough. The upper part of his face, the nape of his neck, plus a few other areas are unmarked."

"Does he have markings on his shoulders?" Anders asked, and Fletcher nodded. "I'd concentrate on the nape of his neck, then. You'd have the marked skin and the unmarked skin close to each other."

Fletcher shook his head. "He wouldn't like me doing that."

Anders frowned a little, but decided not to ask why. "What about the soles of his feet, then? Are there markings on his legs?"

"There are markings on the upper part of his feet, ankles and all the way up his legs."

"Well, could you remove the hard skin? Might make walking a bit more comfortable for him as well. Kill two birds with one stone."

"I could, couldn't I?" Fletcher said, a smile slowly forming. He searched his pack and produced a small knife and a couple of pots of ointment. "Great idea, Anders. I'll be back a bit later." He stood up.

Anders picked up his mortar and pestle. "I'll carry on with this, then." Fletcher nodded and turned away. "I… might have been wrong," Anders admitted quietly, and Fletcher turned around. "…About Fenris, I mean." He shrugged casually and started to pound the ingredients.

"We all make mistakes," Fletcher said warmly before leaving his friend to his work.

After much searching, he found Fenris in a secluded niche off the main chamber, where he was feeding stale biscuits to Tufty and Sprinkles, Bethany's book about Ferelden lying next to him.

"Having fun?"

Fenris, startled by the mage's appearance, sat up straight and shooed the nugs away. "You have had enough for today," he told them sternly. "Be off with you."

"Fenris," Fletcher said lightly as he sat next to the elf. "Drop the meanie act. You're not fooling anyone."

Fenris attempted his most menacing expression, but in truth he was so relieved that Fletcher was more himself, he couldn't maintain it, and his mask slipped. "It is no act," he claimed, tossing the rest of the scraps onto the ground. The nugs wasted no time in devouring them. "I am as mean as they come."

"Riiiight," Fletcher drawled with a wink. Fenris shook his head, smiling with his eyes, and pushed himself up a little more, stretching his back.

"I made a discovery this morning," Fenris declared, pointing at Sprinkles. "Call to him."

"Sprinkles!" Fletcher said in a sing-song voice, but as usual the nug ignored him, as he did everyone. Fletcher tried again in a more commanding voice, but to no avail.

"Watch this." Fenris tapped the ground next to his leg several times. To Fletcher's astonishment, Sprinkles turned around and looked in their direction. Fenris tapped the ground a few more times, and Sprinkles walked over to him and sniffed his hand.

"How did you do that?" asked Fletcher, laughing in amazement.

"I trained him."

"When?" Fletcher asked sceptically.

The elf shrugged. "I did not really train him. I have suspected for some time that he cannot hear anything."

"What, you think he's deaf?"

"I believe so." Fenris then tapped the ground on his opposite side. Sprinkles leapt over his legs and started sniffing his other hand. "See? He feels the vibrations when I strike the ground."

"What a clever little elf you are!" Fletcher exclaimed, ruffling Fenris's hair, and was surprised by the strength of the shove that sent him onto his side. "Cute as well," he added, slowly sitting back up with a glance at the two nugs who were now snuggling next to Fenris's legs.

"I am _not_ cute," insisted Fenris, unable to keep the amusement from his voice as he smoothed his hair into place. He was so delighted to see the smiling, teasing Fletcher again that he found it difficult to maintain his cool façade for long, at least in front of Fletcher.

"No, not much." Fletcher flashed a cheeky grin at the elf and took his hand, placing it on his lap. "Fen? Anders and I have been talking about your markings. I'd like to examine them, if you'd be comfortable with that."

Fenris grunted quietly and nodded. "What are you looking for?"

"I'm not sure. To be honest, Anders and I don't know what we're dealing with. You're a non-mage who's somehow connected to the Fade in a way other non-mages aren't, if that makes sense. Neither of us has heard of such a thing. It shouldn't even be possible. We need as much information at our disposal as we can get, and an examination is the first and most basic step. A beginning."

"I will co-operate in any way I can. After all, you are doing this for my benefit. Where would you like to examine me?"

"Listen, before we start, I want you to know that I can't make any promises. I don't want to give you false hope."

Fenris cocked his head and smiled in the lopsided way Fletcher loved. "The fact you are even _willing_ to help me is heartening. I do not expect miracles. I will do whatever I can to assist. Both of you."

Fletcher's hand brushed Fenris's cheek and he gently kissed the elf's lips. "If it's within our power, we'll help you as well. Now… let's have a look at those feet of yours."

"Ever the romantic, I see," remarked Fenris dryly, wiggling his toes as Fletcher shuffled towards his feet. "How can I resist a request like that?"

"I'll have you know I'm _very_ romantic." Fletcher grinned, removing Fenris's slippers and giving one of them a long, deep sniff. "Aah… shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

"I stand corrected," Fenris choked out between peals of laughter. Fletcher placed the slipper down and watched, his heart singing, until Fenris had regained control. "Fletcher," Fenris murmured, his voice soft, "I have missed you. Sorely."

"I know." Fletcher clasped one of Fenris's feet and stared down at it, sighing heavily. "I want you to know how sorry I am for all the shit I've put you through. Not just in the Deep Roads, but..."

"No." Fenris leaned forward and reached out, brushing a stray curl off Fletcher's cheek. "None of that. Life is too short, dear Fletcher."

 _"Dear Fletcher_. I like that." A halting smile quickly bloomed into a fully-fledged simper, and Fletcher hung his head, feeling heat rise into his cheeks.

"Then henceforth that is how I will address you," Fenris said. "Dear Fletcher."

"In company as well?" Fletcher asked cheekily, his head snapping up. "In front of all that lot out there?"

"When the sun and the moon rise together, perhaps. Until then, not a chance."

"Fair enough. And henceforth I will call you Fen-Fe-"

 _"Not_ if you value your life, you won't."

"Huh." Fletcher pouted and again stared down at Fenris's unclad foot. "I take back what I said earlier. You _are_ mean. As mean as a dragon who's just lost his job, his wife has run off with the dragon next door, and he's just got really, really drunk and is itching for a scrap. And he's got really bad piles as well."

"Then all is well in the world," Fenris drawled, his eyes alight with mirth.

"I see." Fletcher sniffed, feigning hurt. "All professional. I get it." He reached for his small knife and held it next to Fenris's foot, clearing his throat dramatically. "Messere Elf, I am going to give you a foot job. Let's see how _professional_ you are after that."

"A foot job? What does that mean?" Fenris frowned warily at the knife.

"Oh, it's purely for research purposes. But I can't promise that you won't be a drooling, babbling mess by the end of it."

"Why?" Fenris asked suspiciously.

"Have you never had a foot job and foot massage before?"

 _"Obviously_ not. Wait… foot _massage?"_

Nodding, Fletcher held one of Fenris's feet still, brandishing the knife in his other hand. "A drooling, babbling mess," he repeated with a disconcerting smile.

"Wait-" Fenris began hastily.

"Hold still," Fletcher reprimanded sternly, "or I won't be responsible for missing toes."

"Sadist," Fenris grumped.

"You won't be calling me _that_ when I get to the foot massage. Oh, no, ser. Now stay very still."

Fenris watched with a doubtful sneer as Fletcher started chipping away at the tough skin on the soles of his feet, ensuring he did indeed keep them very still. After a while, the constant ache he'd felt in his feet, which had almost become like background noise over the years, eased, as did his sneer. He stopped Fletcher a few times so he could flex his feet, his eyes lighting up when doing so didn't induce shooting pain in his heels.

Fletcher then went to the main chamber and returned with some water, which he used to wash the elf's feet with, ignoring Fenris's insistence that he could do it himself. "This is all part of the service," Fletcher said. He finished the podiatry session by gently massaging a basic cooling balm into Fenris's feet, an action the mage noted caused Fenris's breathing to quicken somewhat. Was he turned on by this? Fletcher decided not to ask, but to observe Fenris very carefully. "Better?"

"Yes, much." Fenris released a shaky sigh and sat up again as he'd started to slouch. He then curled his toes first up, then down. "I feel the air on them. It's... very pleasant." He cleared his throat.

Keeping his expression impassive, Fletcher lifted one of Fenris's feet, cradling it in both hands. "The air on them? Like this?" He bent forward and gently blew along the foot, causing the elf to sharply retract his leg and squirm.

"Do not-do not do that!"

"Are you sure?"

Fenris slowly lined his feet back up, watching Fletcher carefully, and scratched his arch with the big toe of his other foot. "Not so… sudden," he uttered, biting his lip momentarily.

 _Bingo,_ Fletcher thought.

He reached for the same foot, bringing it close to his mouth. "Well, how about something like this, then?" Fletcher moistened his lips and softly pressed them against the inner arch of Fenris's foot, feeling a fine tremor travel down the elf's leg. Looking up, he noticed with satisfaction that Fenris's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. "Again?" Fletcher asked. Fenris gasped as Fletcher once again lowered his lips, this time bringing both his thumbs around to caress the arch.

"Ooooooooh..."

"I think he likes that," whispered Fletcher. "More?"

Fenris could only shudder in response, his head lolling back, his fingers clawing at the ground. Fletcher decided to press home his advantage and ran his tongue the entire length of Fenris's foot, his own stomach clenching as Fenris screwed his eyes closed and whimpered.

"Fletcher," the elf rasped breathlessly, "are we... alone?"

"There's no-one around, I promise." Fletcher began sucking and nibbling the elf's foot before taking the big toe into his mouth, his lips moving up and down it in a highly suggestive way while his thumbs continued their massage. Fenris's eyes were agog at the spectacle, his body almost completely limp. Fletcher slid one of his hands to the elf's leg, slowly moving it upwards to curl his fingers around the one part of Fenris that was decidedly _not_ limp. "Do you want me to...?"

"Please," moaned the elf. "I don't think I can take any mmm..."

Fletcher glanced over his shoulder, ensuring no-one was close by, before facing Fenris. "Can you be quiet? I'll make it quick."

The elf nodded rapidly, looking down as Fletcher pulled at the waistband of his breeches, Fenris lifting his bottom to assist. Fletcher was upon him instantly, hungrily taking him into his mouth. Fenris held his own mouth tightly closed, the occasional mewl escaping as Fletcher worked his magic. In less than a minute Fenris was brought to a shattering--and silent--climax.

Fletcher quickly pulled Fenris's breeches back up before snaking an arm around his back and assisting him to sit up. Fenris flopped against him, completely boneless, and looked into Fletcher's eyes. They started to laugh, both feeling very naughty indeed.

Fenris brought a weak hand up to Fletcher's face and drew him near, but Fletcher pulled his mouth away from the elf's. "Uh... I don't think you want to kiss me, considering what I've just swallowed."

Fenris continued to chuckle. "Perhaps you're right. Later?"

"Definitely later."

"Fletcher," Fenris began, his hand moving to Fletcher's thigh, "would you permit me to... reciprocate?"

A crash of pots and pans with an accompanying curse from the main chamber brought them back to reality. Fletcher sighed. "That's a very tempting offer, but I think we've pushed our luck enough for today on the privacy front. You can have that one on me, dear Fenris. Anyway, I'm supposed to be examining your foot." He kissed the elf's brow and gently released him. "Sensitive feet," he muttered just loudly enough for Fenris to hear. "Duly noted… for research purposes. When we're out of here, Fen, and when we're truly alone, I'm going to give you the night of your life."

Their eyes met, and Fenris nodded. "I…look forward to that."

"That makes two of us."

"If it helps with your research, I also have sensitive ears," Fenris murmured with a shy smile.

"I did notice that before. It's all tucked away up here." Fletcher tapped his temple. "Any other sensitive areas I should know about? Besides the obvious?"

Fenris snorted softly and held one foot up while Fletcher began a proper examination this time. "Until you and I had been together, I did not know of _any_ sensitive areas. Perhaps… we will discover more in time?"

Fletcher smiled and kissed the top of Fenris's big toe. "You can count on that. Now stop talking smutty and let me examine your foot. Honestly, some elves have one-track minds."

"But you were the one…" Fletcher burst out laughing at Fenris's look of annoyance and the elf shook his head, smiling as he rolled his eyes.

"Now, let's see…" Fletcher's expression grew serious and he gently trailed his fingers along Fenris's heel and ankle. "May I?" he asked when he reached the markings.

"Of course."

Fletcher ran one finger lightly over one of the silver-white scars, watching Fenris's expression at all times. "Is this uncomfortable for you? Does it hurt when I touch them?"

"Not exactly. It is more… tender than painful."

Nodding, Fletcher slowly continued his examination and asked Fenris several questions pertaining to the markings, but did not mention the actual lyrium procedure. He knew all he ever wanted to know about that.

"How's the book going?" he asked, gently setting Fenris's foot down, scribbling a few notes before examining the foot again. "I see you've been reading Beth's book a lot."

"As you suggested, I have been reading one sentence at a time, breaking up any difficult words into sections, and enunciating them aloud. I have found this method to be very useful. I have reached page four."

"That's great! Would you like to read to me a bit later on?"

"I would be happy to, although you may find my reading style somewhat halting at first."

"Well, that's only natural. Your confidence will grow with more practice. The fact you already have the vocabulary is a huge help. When you reach one of those difficult words and pronounce each syllable, you already known the word and what it means, and it'll stay in your head because of that. Even so, you've progressed so much more quickly than I ever expected. You should give yourself a huge pat on the head."

Fenris looked at one of his hands and then moved it to the top of his head, where he patted it twice.

"There you go! And now that your reading's improving, we can work more on your writing," Fletcher said with enthusiasm.

"I _am_ grateful," said Fenris, "but I am not certain why I would need to write. Reading, I can understand, but…"

"There are several reasons why you should learn to write." Fletcher grinned, and Fenris knew that this was not going to be an entirely serious answer. "Firstly, you could write love letters to me… or cheeky little notes telling me _exactly_ what you plan to do to me at day's end. Because I have plenty of _those_ in store for you, now that you can read." He glanced at Fenris, who was doing his best not to smile. "You could write papers, stories…anything you like. I used to write stories back in Lothering. Just silly ones, you know, for the little kids in the village."

A kind smile warmed Fenris's features. "I can imagine you doing that. The children must have been very fond of you."

"Beth and I used to babysit them once a fortnight when their parents went to the village dance. I'd regale them with heroic tales of derring-do and Beth would bake biscuits and make lemonade. I think Beth and I loved it even more than the kids did."

"That sounds quite wonderful," Fenris said, his eyes misting over. "I… wish I could have known you when you resided in Lothering."

"So do I, Fen." A look of sadness befell Fletcher as it occurred to him what Fenris must have been going through while he was telling silly stories to the local children.

"I have also devised stories, in a fashion," Fenris confided, noticing the change in Fletcher's demeanour. "But instead of writing them down, I have kept them here." Fenris again tapped the top of his head.

Fascinated, Fletcher halted his examination. "Really? What sort of stories?"

"You might think me a fool," Fenris began with a diffident shrug.

"Never." Fletcher set down Fenris's foot and crawled over to him, sitting beside him. "Please tell me."

A nervous laugh stuttered out of Fenris's mouth, and he grimaced slightly as Fletcher clasped his hand. "When I was a slave, I had very little time to myself. After receiving my markings, and when I was alone at night, I invented stories in my head and placed myself into them. I suppose it was a means of escape. I invented a whole other life for myself." Fenris glanced anxiously at Fletcher then, and seeing that Fletcher was _not_ laughing as he'd expected, he continued. "I had a companion and a house of my own, with a small garden. I would retreat there when things became… too much. Foolish, I know."

"No." Fletcher clutched Fenris's hand tighter, exhaling heavily. "That's not foolish at all."

"I did not mean to cause you anguish," said Fenris softly.

"No, you didn't. I-I'm glad you had somewhere to escape to. It makes complete sense. It probably kept you sane."

Fenris nodded slowly and released Fletcher's hand, snaking his arm around Fletcher's back. Fletcher wrapped his own arm around the elf's shoulders, pulling him close. "It did. It was a place Danarius and Hadriana could not enter, a place where I was in complete control. Nothing went wrong there and nothing unpleasant ever occurred. It was a complete fantasy, but… I needed it."

"Would you tell me about it?" Fletcher asked, "If it's not too private to talk about?"

Fenris hesitated, worried that Fletcher would make light of his story, but he dismissed that thought when he saw the sincerity in Fletcher's eyes. "I have never spoken of this with anyone, but I will share it with you if you wish. What would you ask of me?"

Fletcher considered this for a moment, and then he smiled faintly. "Tell me about your companion. What was he, or she, like?"

Fenris sighed, a wistful look in his eyes. _"She_ was always there, at the house. I do not know where she came from. I conjured her from my imagination. She was an elf, of course, young, with dark hair. There was nothing… sexual between us--at the time, I had no interest in _that_ \--but there was affection and mutual respect. When I retreated into this world, I would pretend that I had just arrived home after a day's work." He snorted and glanced at Fletcher, who lowered his eyes and tightened his grip on the elf's shoulder.

"She kept the house and cooked for me," Fenris continued. "There was always a sumptuous meal waiting when I 'arrived home'. We talked about many things. I enjoyed her company, and she mine. After we had eaten and cleared away, I went outside and tended my herb garden, and would bring her a posy of flowers before we locked up for the night. We slept in the same bed, but only for warmth. We would hold each other and watch the moon rise in the sky until we fell asleep. Her name was Amica, meaning friend."

"She sounds like a very special friend indeed," said Fletcher, his voice thick and hushed. "Do you still visit her?"

"I have not visited her for quite some time," Fenris replied, stroking Fletcher's chest with his free hand, "but I will never forget her. She helped me a great deal."

The couple shared a thoughtful silence for a minute or two. "Thank you for telling me that," Fletcher eventually said. "I feel like I've really got to know you while we've been in the Deep Roads. The real Fenris, I mean. The side of yourself that you keep hidden. I feel quite privileged."

"Thank _you_ for listening," replied Fenris. "I have also learned much during our journey... about the kind of man you are, what it means to trust, and what it is to have a true companion. A _real_ one."

Fletcher kissed Fenris's nose and patted the elf's knee before sitting up straight. "You know something, Fen? I think we're really good together. _Really_ good."

"I agree," Fenris replied, kissing Fletcher's cheek in return, before the mage sat up and moved back down to Fenris's feet.

"And now, I have an examination to conclude."

"Fletcher," Fenris whispered, "thank you for... the first examination. It was..." He heaved a sigh, unable to find the words.

"You're welcome." Fletcher grinned and winked at the elf. "Now hold still. This won't hurt a bit."

~o~O~o~

"Just slow down, Merrill!" Aveline shouted, exasperated, as the Dalish elf almost disappeared out of sight. _"Merrill_! I'm wearing armour! I can't move as quickly as you!"

A small head peered around a tree and Merrill stepped out, waiting for Aveline, Donnic and the others to catch her up. "I-I'm just worried that they'll all be gone when we get there, that's all."

"I doubt very much that dead bodies would get up and walk," Aveline said, struggling to catch her breath.

"Merrill," Donnic interjected, hoping to distract the elf long enough for her to slow down. "Why don't you tell us again what you were doing out here? You just barged into the office, screaming, 'Murder!' To be honest, you didn't make much sense after that."

"Oh, right," she muttered. "I just panicked, you see. When I found them… oh, it was horrible!"

"What was horrible?" barked Aveline, before sighing. "What were you _doing_ here in the first place?"

"Oh. Well, I came looking for Hawke. He showed me the site not long before they all set off. I remembered roughly where it was. I hoped maybe they hadn't gone too far in, or that they hadn't started yet."

"But it's been over a month."

"I-I know. I'm daffy, all right? I know that. But it doesn't matter why I came here. The fact is, there are five dead bodies lying outside. The cave. You know, where they went in?"

"Yes, I know." Aveline sighed as they got underway, more slowly this time. "Was there anyone there that we know?"

"Oh, no. They were all dwarves. They all had big bushy beards and little legs. Oh, and big axes, too. That's how I _know_ they were dwarves, you see."

"Thank you for that," replied Aveline with a morose look at Donnic, whose lips twitched. "Right. Lead the way, then. _No_ running!"

"A-all right. It's this way."

She led them through the woods on the outskirts of Kirkwall until they arrived at a wide clearing, where two empty wagons, some small carts and several pieces of mining equipment were scattered about.

"Over there." Merrill pointed eastward, and the small group followed the trail of equipment and detritus that led to a system of caves. As they approached the largest of the caves, Merrill stopped, refusing to go any further.

Aveline, Donnic and two of their fellow guards strode over to the cave mouth while Merrill stayed back, anxiously twisting her fingers, watching as Donnic bent over a prone dwarf who was lying outside the cave.

"No, Donnic! Don't touch him!" Aveline commanded abruptly. Donnic stood up, shooting a questioning glance at Aveline as she rushed to his side. "Shit. Shit. Shit!" she cursed.

Donnic, seeing something in his captain's eyes he hadn't believed possible--panic--steered her away from the others, first telling them to investigate inside the cave, but not to touch the bodies. "Captain? What is it?" he asked, guessing she was concerned for Hawke and his group.

"Nothing," she answered shortly. "Come on." With grim determination she quickly moved to the cave, her features hardening as she surveyed the four other bodies that were lying inside, noting their pallid, translucent skin, the blackened veins beneath and the liver-coloured lesions that peppered their bodies. "It's the taint," she declared confidently. "Donnic, I want you to go back to town and round up as many guards as we can spare. I want _all_ of our scouts. Wake them if necessary. Hunter, Ryan, get yourselves around the pubs. I want as many able-bodied men as possible. They can arm themselves but make it clear we won't tolerate any trouble. They'll be paid something out of the Keep's coffers. No templars. Get to it. Bring back torches, food, fresh water, rope, the works."

"Right, Captain," answered Hunter. He and Ryan immediately headed away from the clearing.

"Don't mention the taint at this stage," Aveline called after them. "No point in causing a panic. We'll tell the civilians when they get here, and they can choose whether they want to help or not."

"Captain," Donnic said quietly, noticing that Aveline hadn't paused for breath. "Is it wise to expose so many people to the taint?"

"They _can't_ catch it unless they come into contact with darkspawn or tainted blood!" she exclaimed impatiently.

"Are you certain?" he questioned sceptically. "How can you be so sure? How do we know it isn't in the air?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped, and Donnic frowned fiercely at her. "And don't give me that look, Guardsman! I've seen someone die of the taint, all right? Do you really think I'd be so reckless with people's lives?"

"All right," he said defensively. "I only asked, you know. I didn't know you were experienced with this kind of thing."

"Well I am, so unless you intend to stand here questioning my orders all day long, those guards aren't going to round themselves up, are they?"

Only the rustle of trees could be heard as the wind picked up. The two guards stared at each other, their hair whipping around their faces. After a minute, Donnic sighed. "Aveline… are you all right? This isn't like you."

Her mouth opened a little and she drew a sharp breath, Donnic's concern almost undoing her. Then, for a split second, his features arranged themselves into those of her dead husband and she blinked, finding herself gawking at Donnic once again.

"Aveline?"

Releasing her breath in a burst, she screwed her eyes closed and pressed her lips together in a hard line. "I _gave_ you an order, Guardsman," she said quietly, but there was no mistaking the steel in her voice.

Donnic nodded, his expression turning dour. "Fine, _Captain_. Forgive me for caring. I won't make that mistake again."

He turned on his heel and marched out of the clearing, catching up with his counterparts. Aveline squeezed her eyes even tighter and then opened them wide, the image of Wesley not leaving her even as she stared down at the bodies.

"It can't happen again. It can't. It just _can't."_ She imagined knocking on the door of Leandra Hawke and informing her that she'd had to kill her son.

"Merrill!" she shouted. The elf, despite standing a hundred or so metres away, almost jumped out of her skin. "Help me find some kindling. These bodies need to be burned. Don't worry, you won't have to touch them."

Quickly nodding, Merrill scampered over to the trees and began searching for fallen branches. Aveline watched her for a moment and released a deep sigh, her heart pounding.

"I won't let it happen again," she vowed, and slowly walked over to Merrill, placing a hand on the elf's shoulder. "You did the right thing," she said, her voice softer. "Come on. I'll give you a hand."

With worries of her own, Merrill threw herself into her task and the two women worked in silence.


	65. More Questions than Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One of my wards has been disturbed," Anders whispered to them, pointing to one of the tunnels leading off the chamber. "About two hundred metres, dead ahead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for your expert beta. I'm sending you a big fluffy pillow and a mug of hot chocolate! :-)

By the time Donnic, Hunter and Ryan had returned--with several civilians in tow--the tainted dwarves had been tied up and dragged away from the cave mouth, where they burned in a heap. The acrid foetor of charred flesh greeted the new arrivals, some of whom placed scarves or handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses.

"I'm afraid you'll have to get used to it," Aveline called out as she strode over to them, leaving Merrill standing next to the cave, looking lost. "This is a rescue mission. There are more than twenty men still inside and we're not just going to leave them to rot. I should warn you that we may find more bodies, and they'll have to be burned as well."

"They done got tainted, then?" one of the regulars from the Hanged Man asked loudly. "We 'ad bets going in the pub. Some bet that none of 'em would return. _I_ bet that they _would,"_ he declared proudly, and then his face dropped as he realised he might have lost his stake.

"You tryin' to give _us_ the taint?" another accused. "I ain't risking that, no matter 'ow much you pay us!"

 _"Nobody_ is at risk of the taint unless you touch a tainted corpse or come into contact with blood," Aveline shouted over the outcry that followed, and waited for it to die down before resuming. "All we need is for you to carry and bring back equipment or possibly to support any injured we find. The guards will go on ahead and scout the caves. You will _not_ be put at risk, and you'll be paid for your time. If anyone doesn't want to participate, say so now." She turned towards her guards. "That goes for you as well. I won't order any of you to do this. There are risks even before we take the tainted bodies into account."

All of the guards agreed to stay but some of the civilians, not convinced by Aveline's assurances, declined and headed back for town. Prior to their leaving, Donnic slipped them a few coins for their trouble, before walking over to Merrill. "Do you want to go back with them, Merrill? I know Benny and Walter. They're decent blokes and you'll be safe with them."

Merrill glanced nervously at the six men who were already on their way out of the clearing, and then at the cave mouth. "No, I came here to see Hawke. I-I need to talk to him. I'll come with you lot, if that's all right?"

"Of course you can," he said kindly. "Don't get worrying, I'm sure Hawke has been in tougher scrapes than this. And he has Fenris to keep an eye on him. They'll be fine." Gesturing ahead, he led the fretful mage to where Aveline was already organising the guards and civilians, apparently having recovered from her panicked state.

"Scouts at the front," she directed. "I'll go ahead with you. Civilians take the rear, you'll have the rest of the guards close by. Merrill, you'll stay with them. Make sure you stick together. No sneaking off for a piss or if something shiny catches your eye. We will _not_ be wasting time coming to look for you, so make sure you let everyone know if you need to stop for some reason. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain," answered the guards and a few of the civilians. The rest nodded or grunted their agreement.

"And where do you want me?" Donnic asked Aveline with a frown.

"You'll head back to the barracks and deputise for me," she ordered without looking at him.

Quickly moving to her side, he spoke in an undertone to prevent the others from hearing. "I've already asked Bradley to deputise," he began, preparing himself for a dressing down as Aveline turned towards him.

"You had no right to do that, Guardsman," she hissed quietly, her displeasure obvious. "I already had you in mind to take over for me. Bradley doesn't have the experience-"

"Neither do I," he retorted, and pointed at the cave mouth. "My friends are in there and if you think I'm going back to the barracks to shuffle papers around while they're possibly dead or dying, you can think again."

He heard her sharp intake of breath and saw her fists clench at her sides. "A _word_ , Guardsman," she uttered, walking away from the group.

Taking a deep breath to quell his irritation, he followed, and when he caught up with her, he didn't give her a chance to speak.

"Bradley is perfectly capable of running the guard in your absence," he began. "I know he was employed by Jeven but he's solid. I really don't see what the problem is."

Aveline folded her arms, her jaw jutting forward. "The _problem,_ Guardsman Hendyr, is that you seem to be making a habit of countermanding my orders or even anticipating them. Do you have a problem working for a woman, is that it? Do you not think me capable? Or are you after my job? If so, then take it to the Viscount. I don't have time for games or power struggles."

"Maker's sake, woman, will you pull your head out of your arse for a minute and _listen_ to me?" he exclaimed angrily.

 _"What_ did you just say to me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Will you pull your head out of your arse, _Captain?_ Is that better?"

"How _dare_ you!" she yelled.

"I was trying to help you!" he asserted, his face flushed. "You looked upset earlier and when you told me a friend of yours had died of the taint, I wanted to have everything in place for you when I returned! Maker, Aveline, can't you just accept a bit of help?" He looked away, sighing. "It wasn't my intention to undermine you. I'll admit--at first, I did wonder about working for a woman. I was brought up traditionally and I've been used to taking orders from men. But I don't feel that way anymore," he confessed, his voice softening as his anger ebbed away. "You're the best captain we've ever had, even the older guards say so. I'm proud to work for you, and I wouldn't want your job for the world. Maker knows _I_ couldn't hack it."

A confused frown appeared on Aveline's face but the set of her jaw remained firm. "That still doesn't give you the right to take it upon yourself to appoint a deputy, not to mention the countless other times you've just _assumed_ things. I must have respect, Donnic. Without it, the whole thing falls apart."

Noting that she'd used his given name, Donnic kept his stony expression in place but smiled inwardly. "It's not because I don't respect you. I respect you more than anyone. It's because I'm a pig-headed bastard. You've probably noticed that."

"You'll hear no arguments from me on that score," she replied sternly, folding her arms tighter.

"Look, Aveline... Captain. Have I ever done anything that placed anyone in danger? Or embarrassed you? I know I take decisions upon myself sometimes, but it's only to take some of the load off you. Isn't that supposed to be my job as your second? If you want a spineless yes-man, you'd better find someone to replace me, because I'm not that man. I informed Seneschal Bran of what's happened, and of Bradley's temporary appointment. He wasn't best pleased, but what can you do?"

"Is Bradley aware of the problem we're having with disappearing women?" she asked warily, eyes narrowed.

"Absolutely. He said it will be his top priority. And, in case you're wondering, I told Bran exactly what he could do with his _disapproval_. Just to save you the trouble, you understand. Watching him turn puce and his eyes almost pop out gave me _no_ pleasure whatsoever."

Keeping her arms folded, she turned her back on him and was quiet for a minute. Donnic watched her carefully, looking for signs of increased or decreased tension. Eventually, her shoulders dropped slightly and she exhaled. "Well, now you really _have_ gone too far," she remarked, turning to face him, her voice and expression unreadable. "Outraging Bran is the _captain's_ privilege, not yours."

One of Donnic's eyebrows formed a perfect arch, and the minute quirk of his lips made her stomach quiver. She gulped, her brow wrinkling as guilt and confusion flooded her.

"You're right," he admitted with a slight bow. "I should have left that… unpleasant task to you."

"Yes, you should," she agreed, unfolding her arms and rolling her shoulders with a sigh.

"Captain… you have to understand. Fenris is down there, as well as Hawke, Sebastian and Varric. They're my friends. Could _you_ stay away? Honestly?"

She closed her eyes momentarily and her shoulders drooped further. Opening her eyes, she looked to the side, and Donnic was struck by the sadness he saw in them. "No, I suppose not."

"I _do_ respect you, Aveline," he said in a quiet, soft voice, "and for what it's worth, I'm sorry about your friend."

"Friend? What friend?"

"The one who died of the taint? The one you told me about earlier?"

"Oh… _that_ friend." She stared at the ground, her nostrils flaring as she debated whether she should confide in Donnic or not. Her mouth, however, seemed to acquire a will of its own and the words came tumbling out. "He was my husband, actually."

For a moment, Donnic was dumbstruck. It had never occurred to him that Aveline might have been married, and she'd never mentioned a husband or much of anything about her life in Ferelden, for that matter.

"Shit, I'm… shit, Aveline. I'm sorry. I didn't know," he mumbled, completely at a loss. Should he do anything? _Say_ anything? _Other_ than 'shit'? He cursed again, this time under his breath.

"Of course you didn't, I never told you." She shrugged, the sadness not leaving her eyes as she turned away from him.

"Aveline, wait." Donnic touched her arm and she halted, but didn't face him.

"Not now, Donnic," she murmured, a dogged edge returning to her voice. She walked away, leaving him to stare after her. "I hope you're all ready because we're going in now," she declared to the others in her most commanding captain's voice. "Scouts, Donnic, up front with me. Merrill, you'll stay with the other guards and civilians."

Under Aveline's direction, the new expedition group moved into their positions. The five scouts--who wore minimal armour but were highly skilled in tracking and survival--were each given a torch and went ahead. The rest of the group, with Donnic and Aveline at its head, followed behind in double file, every second pair carrying a torch.

They found nothing of note until, after a few hours' travel, they reached a large chamber. Aveline told her group to halt while she and Donnic, along with the scouts, investigated the tunnels and passages leading off. When complete, they met to compare notes.

"There was a collapse in the large western tunnel," Hunter reported, "but they didn't go down it. There are no footprints in the dust or signs of activity beyond the collapse. It looks like something heavy, possibly a body, was dragged from the large tunnel down one of the smaller ones. We've found a recently bricked-up section. It's possible someone was interred. That's how the dwarves 'bury' their dead."

"Could it have been a human?" Merrill asked fearfully as she joined them.

Donnic shook his head. "No, Sebastian would have insisted any humans be cremated, I would think. Does anyone know the funeral rites of elves?"

"Only of my kind," offered Merrill. "The Dalish are buried and a tree planted in the soil above them, but that wouldn't apply to Fenris, if that's what you're thinking. I doubt he'd want to do that. Not that you can plant trees in here, anyway."

"Looks like it was one of the dwarves, then," Aveline surmised. "Do we know how many dwarves and humans went on the expedition?"

"Fenris was the only elf, I know that for certain," said Donnic. "I remember Hawke telling me there were around twenty-five or so in total, and there were more dwarves than humans. That's all I know."

"They all went down one tunnel," said Gabrielle, another of Aveline's scouts, as she pointed north-east. "The freshest footprints lead that way and there are seven sets leading back up to the surface."

"Seven?" Aveline asked. "But we found only five dead dwarves."

"They're quite distinct, Captain," replied Gabrielle. "There's plenty of dust in this chamber, and the prints are easy to make out. There are your five dwarves, but another two sets appear to be human or elven. They tend to have narrower feet than dwarves."

"So two of the expedition party went up to the surface?" asked Aveline. "Two non-dwarves?"

"Yes, and recently," Gabrielle answered. "I'd say the prints are no more than a week old."

"So why haven't they shown up in Kirkwall?" Donnic asked no one in particular, getting no answers.

"Maker, I hope…" Aveline rubbed her forehead and then took a deep breath. "Right, we're wasting time here. Let's get down that tunnel. Gabby, I want you to take Nash and two of the civilians and conduct a thorough sweep of the area surrounding the caves. When you're finished, one of you head back to town and start making enquiries. We don't know which members of the expedition they are, but they might be spending money, boasting of their exploits, you know? And I want a guard rotation set up on the surface--two people on guard at all times. I'll send someone to liaise with them at regular intervals. If they don't hear anything after a week, you'll need to inform the Viscount. Lieutenant Bradley is in charge at the barracks. Apprise him of everything."

"Right away, Captain." Gabrielle bowed and headed for the main group. "Nash, choose two civilians. We're going back to the surface."

"Scouts, let's go," Aveline ordered. "Everyone else fall into line."

They made fast progress through the next tunnel, as it had already been cleared of debris and made safe by Fletcher's group. After stopping for a light meal they continued, finally emerging into another, much larger, chamber. Aveline once again sent her scouts ahead to reconnoitre the adjoining tunnels.

"Captain! We've found something!" Hunter called out. Aveline and Donnic strode over to him, quickly halting when they nearly tripped over a body. "Four more of them," Hunter told them grimly. "All dwarves again."

Sighing, Aveline crouched down and examined the bodies closely, but didn't touch them. "Wait a minute… only one of these dwarves is tainted! Bring more torches!" she ordered. "In fact, everybody light one. I want this chamber searched from top to bottom. Tell them to watch where they're walking."

Donnic saw to that and before long, each person in Aveline's group had spread out, covering most of the chamber. While the scouts investigated the tunnels, Aveline and Donnic discussed the dead dwarves.

"Looks like they were in a fight," Donnic guessed. "One of them has multiple stab wounds and the others didn't fare much better. They've all been sliced up, even the tainted one."

"And yet there are only two daggers between them," Aveline replied, noting the different weapons the dwarves carried. "Three of them have axes, all of which are still strapped to their armour. None of them have wounds that could have been inflicted with an axe. What's going on here, Donnic?"

"It _could_ have been one of the other dwarves, or a few of them," he guessed. "Varric told me they're a cut-throat bunch, particularly where money's concerned."

"Maybe. But I still want to talk to those two who went up to the surface, more than ever now. They've a lot to answer for."

"Captain, may I speak to you over here?" called another scout, nicknamed Bear due to his large build.

Leaving the bodies, they walked to the far side of the chamber, where two of the scouts were waiting next to a huge pile of rubble. "What is it, Bear?" Donnic asked.

"We've found another two collapses on this side of the chamber," said the scout, waving his hand to indicate the second one, several metres away. "We've also found this." He walked to the outer edge of the collapsed tunnel and pointed at a small blackened section of the stone. When he ran his fingers over it, they became coated in fine, black ash.

"What's that?" Aveline demanded.

"Sulphur." Bear bent down and picked up a few tiny, yellow crystals from the ground and showed them to Donnic and Aveline. "This collapse didn't occur naturally, Captain. Explosives were used."

"There could be people trapped inside!" Donnic exclaimed.

"How long will this take to dismantle?" Aveline asked Bear.

"I'd strongly advise against that, it's too dangerous. The only way to clear this is with a few small explosions, detonated from a distance. If we attempt to clear it by hand, we could bring the whole lot down on our heads."

"Crap," she muttered. "Do we have any explosive agents with us?"

"No, but I saw several sulphur deposits on our way in. Hunter and Corporal Knight are good with explosives. They'll come up with something. We'll need charcoal as well."

"Get to it, then," she commanded, "and we'll burn some wood in here. Also, send someone up to tell Gabby that if our mysterious twosome are found, they're to be held at the barracks for questioning." Bear bowed and headed over to Hunter at speed. "Good job," she called after him. "Blast it, Hawke, what have you got yourself into?" she mumbled, and Donnic detected a note of panic creeping into her voice again as he stared at the collapse, cursing himself for not volunteering to join them. Aveline also looked at the collapse for a moment before clearing her throat and turning away from it. "Everyone, make camp and take a break," she ordered loudly. "When the scouts return, we'll be collapsing these… well, collapses. And then we'll need to get our arses into gear."

"There's plenty of dried food here, Captain," called out Guardsman Boyce, who was taking stock of the supplies that had been left behind. "Plus a lot of fresh stuff that's spoiled."

"And lyrium potions," Merrill murmured, her voice barely audible as she sifted through several sacks. "Healing balms, poultices… why would Hawke and Anders leave _these_ behind? They spent ages crafting them!" she added on a rising note, her own sense of panic apparent.

"Why indeed?" Aveline wondered quietly, clasping her chin as she looked at her second. "Maker, Donnic, I hope we're not too late."

He nodded gravely, hoping that his earlier reassurances to Merrill had not been premature. "So do I. Come on, you need your rest as well."

"Rest. Right. As if I'll be getting any of _that."_ With one last look at the collapsed tunnel, they joined Merrill and began to break up crates for kindling.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher's group continued to make slow but steady progress through the Deep Roads but, eleven days after they'd encountered the darkspawn, the food situation had reached critical levels, and a meeting was called between those aware of the problem. Until now, the rest of the group had been kept in the dark to prevent panic or fighting over resources.

While the others were sleeping, Varric, Fletcher, Anders, Thirin, Sheldon and Fenris gathered around a small fire some distance from the others, setting their torches down. Sheldon who, along with Thirin, cooked the majority of the group's food, began.

"The grain's finally run out," he quietly told the others. "We'll have enough for porridge in the morning, and that's it."

"How's the nug situation, Thirin?" asked Fletcher.

A low growl rumbled out of the elderly dwarf and he shook his head. "Not good, Hawke. Besides your mascots there are five left, three of which are expectin'. So that leaves us with four eatable ones, but hell, even if we put your mascots in the pot as well, we'd barely get a bone each to chew on."

"Let's not be hasty," Fletcher said, his heart sinking at the thought of Tufty and Sprinkles having to be eaten. "How far along are the pregnant nugs?"

"Maybe three weeks," answered Thirin, "but that's a guess. We've got a week at the very least before they start birthin'. The sows are eatin' more than you are, elf," he said with a nudge to Fenris's arm, "but they need it. And when those nuglets are born--and there'll be several of 'em--the sows will need twice as much food to produce milk. We just don't have enough, Hawke. Even if we were to eat em' right away, that's it--they're gone in one meal."

"We do have enough dried milk to last another week," Sheldon added, "but that's probably not suitable for nugs, and we need it more than they do."

"What else do we have?" Fletcher said.

"Deep mushrooms are abundant down here," Anders replied. "They contain some protein. Not as much as meat, obviously, but it's something. And they'll help keep us regular now the grain's almost gone. Trouble is, they're not very filling."

"And that is assuming everyone _likes_ mushrooms," Fenris pointed out.

"I'm afraid it's no longer about what people like," Anders answered solemnly. "It's about survival."

"What about the hardtack?" queried Fletcher.

"Gone," Sheldon said sourly. "They've been eating it with their tea like biscuits."

Fletcher groaned and covered his eyes with one hand, massaging his temples. He felt Fenris's hand rest on his back and the elf sat forward a little. "How long before we reach the surface?" he asked Anders.

"I don't even need to look at the maps to tell you that. Three weeks at least. And _that's_ if we aren't delayed by anything."

"We can't do it," Sheldon muttered with a sigh. "We don't even have enough for a week. We can't live on mushrooms for three weeks, and I doubt they're abundant enough to feed all of us for that long. To think how much food we left behind…"

Fletcher stood up and ran his fingers through his hair, keeping his hands atop his head as he turned his back on the group and paced. "Fuck. We bring everyone down here promising them riches and now we'll be lucky to get out alive. And what if we do? We'll be too bloody weak to make it back. How long back to Kirkwall, Varric? Six weeks? Some so-called _leader_ I turned out to be," he said bitterly, his voice quaking.

"Hey, this isn't your fault, Hawke," Varric asserted, the others nodding in agreement. "If it'd help, I'd put Bartrand on a damned spit, but the bastard would probably poison us. Blondie? Didn't they teach you a roast chicken spell at that tower of yours?"

"I'm afraid I was out when they were teaching _that_ one," he answered glumly.

"Then it's Blondie's fault, Hawke, not yours," teased the dwarf, while Anders nodded, managing a thin smile.

Fenris stood up and moved to Fletcher's side. "We must deal with each day as it comes," he advised his lover. "Today is already over. That is one day closer to our goal. We will deal with tomorrow similarly, and the day after that. Take heart--we do not yet know what tomorrow will bring." Fenris placed his hand on Fletcher's arm and smiled warmly at the mage, who sighed and nodded.

"Let's get our heads down," said Varric, pushing himself up, and the others followed, leaving Fletcher and Fenris alone. Fenris stroked Fletcher's arm a few times before returning to the fire, where he began to heat some tea--at least they had plenty of that left.

"You're not afraid of death, are you?" Fletcher asked Fenris quietly, still facing away. Fenris looked up and watched Fletcher as he slowly turned around. "I mean… you've been through so much in your life," the mage went on. "This is just a wrinkle to you, isn't it?" he whispered. "You're so brave. I wish I could say some of that had rubbed off on me, Fen, but I'd be lying. I'm _frightened_. I'm worried about Mother and Beth, the people here with us. I'm…" He shook his head, words failing him.

Fenris stood and gently took Fletcher's hand, guiding him to the fire. "Sit," he instructed calmly.

With a rueful glance at the elf, Fletcher sat upon the ground and poked at the fire with a stick. Fenris sat beside him and shuffled closer, placing his hands in his lap as he looked at the fire.

"You are correct, death holds no fear for me," Fenris confided. "That is not because I am _brave_ , however. It is just… most of the life I remember was spent not hoping for more than making it through the next hour. Since meeting you, though…" Fenris removed the stick from Fletcher's hand and placed it on the ground, taking both of Fletcher's hands in his. "Today marks exactly one hundred and twenty nine days since we first met. Yes, I _can_ count that high." A short burst of laughter from Fletcher made Fenris smile, but the mage didn't return his smile, or look up. Fenris released one of Fletcher's hands and rested his own on the mage's shoulder. "During that time, I have lived what feels like a hundred lifetimes," the elf murmured, his forehead coming to rest against Fletcher's temple. _"You_ have given me a life to live. I know it was not always easy, but I give thanks for every moment we have shared, good _and_ bad. You… you mean the world to me."

A hitch in Fenris's voice, as well as his sentiments, undid Fletcher, and he wrapped his arms around the elf, pulling him close, burying his face in Fenris's hair so he would not see his tears.

"It-it's so unfair," Fletcher faltered, ruffling Fenris's hair with a sharp exhalation. "I've waited my entire life for this--what we have--and now… I don't want to die. There are so many things I want us to do, so many things I want to say to you, show you."

"I do not welcome death," Fenris whispered against Fletcher's neck, "but if that is what is written for us, I am fully reconciled. If we _are_ to die, dearest Fletcher--and we do not yet know that for certain--then I am content to die at your side."

They sat silently for a while, listening to the faint crackle of the fire and sharing the other's warmth, committing each second to memory. After a while, Fenris moved back a little and glanced away while Fletcher wiped his eyes.

"Fletcher," Fenris said in a hushed tone, "there is something… something I have been meaning to say to you." He turned back to Fletcher and hung his head slightly, unable to look him in the eyes. "This is… not easy for me," he confessed, his voice wavering as he drew a shallow, halting breath. "I have never before spoken these words, so know that I mean them with every fibre of my being." He slowly looked up, his eyes finally meeting Fletcher's. The mage held his breath, his mouth slightly open.

"Fletcher Hawke, I…I..."

"Hawke! Fenris! Get back here! Someone's coming!" Anders shouted from outside.

"Darkspawn?" Fletcher called back.

"No! Hurry!"

Fletcher groaned. "I'm sorry, Fen."

The elf pushed up to his feet, holding a hand out. "Let us be quick," he advised, almost appearing relieved by the interruption as he pulled Fletcher up.

"Hold on," Fletcher said, moving in front of Fenris and bringing his hands to the elf's face. "I love you, too."

Fenris's eyes lowered and he nodded before Fletcher stole a brief but sweet kiss. "Come on," urged the mage, taking Fenris by the arm and leading him into the main chamber, where the previously-sleeping group had been roused.

Anders, who was standing next to Varric and Sebastian--both of whom had their weapons loaded and ready--beckoned the twosome to him.

"One of my wards has been disturbed," he whispered to them, pointing at one of the tunnels leading off the chamber. "About two hundred metres, dead ahead."

"Could it be an animal? Where are the nugs?" asked Fenris, glancing around, seeing Tufty and Sprinkles were curled up next to one of the fires.

"No," Fletcher said. "We can make our wards more or less sensitive. Anders and I usually set our wards to detect only large animals or people. There's very little in the way of wildlife down here, anyway."

Finding no further questions that he deemed relevant enough to ask, Fenris, along with the others, continued to stare at the tunnel. A deathly hush fell over the chamber as they waited, the only sound to be heard the creak of Sebastian's bow as it strained in his hands.

After several charged minutes, the soft glow of torchlight became visible further down the tunnel.

"Stop right there!" Anders commanded, holding his staff ready. "Announce yourself, or you _will_ be fired upon! We are not defenceless!"

"My name is Lieutenant Donnic Hendyr of the Kirkwall Guard," announced a deep voice, a chorus of sharp gasps reverberating around the chamber in response. "My fellows and I are conducting a search and rescue mission."

"Donnic?" Fletcher laughed out loud, both confused and overjoyed. "It's Hawke! We're here! Come through!"

The rapid clank of armoured boots was heard as several guards and civilians spilled into the chamber. The beaming lieutenant made a beeline for Hawke, shaking his hand firmly. "It's good to see you safe, Hawke," he boomed, looking around and releasing Fletcher's hand when he set eyes on Fenris. " _Fenners!_ You've led us a merry chase, you bastard!" The elf was swallowed in a hug and jolted by several firm slaps to the back, but he laughed long, ecstatic that he and Fletcher had been given more time together.

Finally managing to push his ebullient friend away, Fenris shook his hand. "What are you _doing_ here?" he asked. "You are the last person I expected to see, yet your timing could not have been better. We are almost out of food."

"Food? We have plenty of that. Men!" he shouted, "get some stew going in that big pot. We have dried meat, spuds, veggies, all sorts," he said to Fenris, turning back to him.

"I don't suppose you have any roast chicken on you?" Varric asked as he arrived beside Donnic. "I could really use some of that right now."

"I'm afraid we're out of chicken, Varric," chuckled Donnic.

Varric sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Then I guess _stew_ will have to suffice. You took your time, didn't you?"

"Sorry about that," said Donnic with a grin, which was matched by Varric's, and they also shook hands before Donnic went to see Sebastian while fending off a dozen questions from the rest of the group.

When the greetings were finished, Donnic took Fletcher, Fenris, Varric and Sebastian aside. Fletcher also invited Anders to join them.

"You have Merrill to thank for this," Donnic told the confused men. "She was upset over something and came looking for you, Hawke."

"What?" Fletcher gasped in panic. "Has something happened to Mother? Beth?"

"No." Donnic held his hands up. "Aveline called on them before we came out here. Apparently there are templars sniffing around Lowtown, but they're managing." Relieved, Fletcher thanked him and asked him to proceed. "Well, it appears that Merrill thinks she's upset you over something. She wouldn't tell us what it was, and I'll let you sort it out with her. She ran to the expedition site where she found five dead dwarves, and she came straight to the barracks."

"Dead dwarves?" a few of the small group mumbled, their confusion deepening.

"Aveline and I conducted a brief investigation. The dwarves at the site were all tainted, but we found more within--who were not tainted but _were_ dead. Looks like there was some kind of fight."

"Doesn't surprise me," said Varric, rolling his eyes. "Some of those dwarves would have drowned kittens if there were a few coins in it for them."

"Right," Donnic drawled, and he was quiet for a moment. "If you'll excuse me, everyone, I need to speak to Guardsman Fenris for a minute."

The others stepped back and talked among themselves as Donnic led Fenris away. "Fen," he whispered, "how many of your group are unaccounted for? We found two collapsed tunnels not far in. They'd been collapsed with explosives. We had to blow through them to get past."

"I am aware of the collapses," Fenris informed him, leading him over to Bartrand, who was seated on the ground, scowling at them.

"Hey, are you his boss?" Bartrand growled at Donnic. "I wanna report mistreatment and abusive handling of a prisoner! And he ain't even got proof I _did_ anything! He's beaten and threatened me more times than I can count! And these ropes are making my wrists bleed! What you gonna _do_ about it, Grizzly?"

"Who's this, then?" asked Donnic with a disinterested glance at the dwarf.

 _"This_ is the architect of our near-demise," snarled Fenris while Bartrand cowered, holding his hands in front of his face.

Donnic scoffed at the sight. "Save it, Dwarf. I've seen all kinds of acting, and I don't think the Royal Theatre Company will be losing much sleep over yours."

"I knew you assholes would stick together!" Bartrand stormed. "That knife-eared bastard beat me! Just look at my neck!"

 _"If_ he beat you, then I'm sure he had good reason," Donnic said, leaning over the dwarf. "And if you don't let him speak, you'll get another beating from me! Now shut up!"

Several other voices--including Varric's--echoed his threat. Bartrand wisely backed down, muttering under his breath.

"He collapsed the tunnels," Fenris resumed. "He claims otherwise, but I do not believe him. His partner, Angrim, admits his own complicity in the scheme and has fully co-operated with me."

"Fine," muttered Donnic, lowering his voice. "Let the magistrate deal with them when we return. I'm more concerned with the two humans who left your group and went back to the surface. Despite a search, we haven't been able to-"

"Humans?" Fenris interrupted. "No humans have left the group since the start. They are all here, and all accounted for. To which humans are you referring?"

"Our scouts found two sets of human boot prints leading from the tunnel where we found the dead dwarves. Aveline and her group are investigating that tunnel right now. Merrill went with her."

A look of sudden fear came into Fenris's eyes, and he quickly led Donnic over to Anders. "Are the darkspawn still in the vicinity of tunnel eight?" he demanded of the mage.

"No, I can no longer sense them," Anders assured them, the two guards breathing a sigh of relief. "Wait a minute…" Anders stared, open-mouthed, at Donnic for a second as cold realisation hit him. "How long ago did you go through the water? You _did_ cross the chasm, didn't you? You must have! There's no other way through to here!"

"Water? _What_ water?" a puzzled Donnic asked while Anders scrabbled for his maps to see if an alternative route existed. "Oh, that water," Donnic said after a moment. "We did cross a frozen lake at the bottom of a chasm, just after we'd gone through a horrible tunnel full of raw lyrium. Luckily someone had placed a warning marker there. We might have fallen to the bottom otherwise."

The colour drained from Anders's face and he did a double-take at Donnic. "What did you say? _Frozen?_ Are you _sure?"_

"Yes, quite sure," answered Donnic with a frown. "We walked across it. Are you all right?"

Without answering, Anders rushed up to Hawke, who was stealing some dried meat, and grabbed him by the arm.

"Anders? What's the matter?" he asked, crumbs falling from his mouth as he straightened up.

"The tainted lake is _still_ frozen!"

"What? Don't be daft! It can't be!"

"Donnic just told us! He and his men walked across it! It _must_ be frozen. If they'd gone through the water, some of them would be showing signs of the taint by now. How can it still be frozen, Hawke? I'm not committing any mana to it!"

Fletcher stared at Anders, allowing his words to sink in. "That's not possible."

"Well, apparently it _is_ , now. I don't… I don't understand."

"I guess it really _is_ super lyrium, huh?" chirped Varric, who had sidled up to the mages.

Fletcher cast him a sour look. "The thing I really hate about short people is that they sneak up on you without warning and eavesdrop."

"I haven't dropped any such thing," the dwarf quipped. "Look. You two have done all your experiments and found nothing dangerous about the new lyrium. If it turns out to be _super lyrium_ , then-"

"There's no such thing as super lyrium!" Anders protested before glancing around, ensuring no one had heard his outburst.

 _"If_ it turns out to be super lyrium," Varric repeated, "just think of the money we'll make! And it'll be one in the eye for your beloved Chantry, huh, Blondie?"

"I suppose so." Anders sighed. "What do you think, Hawke?"

"I couldn't give a rat's arse about lyrium, super or otherwise. I want a bowl of stew--make that five bowls-- and then to get out of here. We have a long trip home. It took Donnic and his people twelve days to reach us. That'll give us plenty of time to figure this out. Agreed?"

"Why did it only take them twelve days?" asked Anders. "We've been down here for nearly five weeks."

"Because we'd spent entirely too much time lugging equipment, making tunnels safe and dealing with collapses, that's why."

"Let's all have something to eat, a quick rest, and then we'll get going," Donnic ordered. "We need to liaise with Aveline's group and put our findings together."

"I'm going to see how the stew's coming along before Hawke gets his hands on it," Anders said, leaving Varric and Fletcher alone.

"You okay with the super lyrium thing, Hawke?" asked the dwarf.

"At the moment, Varric, all I care about is getting home to a nice warm bed. You do what you like." He slapped his friend's shoulder, and they slowly walked towards the rest of the group. "We can't call it super lyrium, though. Might attract the wrong kind of attention."

"Hm," mused Varric. "Ol' Torbal said we could market it as a precious stone. We need to think up a name that sounds like diamond, or ruby, or sundonium. Any ideas? I'm fresh out. Near-death experiences will do that to a man."

"I do have an idea, as it happens," Fletcher whispered conspiratorially. "But don't tell Bartrand, whatever you do."

"I like this more and more, Hawke," Varric enthused.

"Well, it's thanks to you that we came on this expedition in the first place," Fletcher said, Varric waving a hand dismissively. "How about a name dedicated to my favourite dwarf? Something like… Tethracite?"

"Tethracite?" chortled the dwarf. "Why, that's just perfect! You're not just a pretty mage, are you?"

"Careful, Varric," warned Fletcher. "Fenris is just over there, you know. I'm afraid you missed your shot at me a long time ago."

"And glad I am to hear it," muttered Varric with an exaggerated shudder. "Put it there, _partner."_ The two friends shook hands, and looked up as Fenris called to them.

"I have… 'liberated' Donnic's hip flask," Fenris announced, standing at the head of the group and waving the tin container. "I cannot hold these men off for much longer."

"Sounds like a plan, Broody." Varric smiled as he and Fletcher joined the elf, the delicious aroma of stew and potatoes wafting through the air.


	66. Nervous Energy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You stink," Fletcher whispered.
> 
> "So do you." Fenris pushed him away, but Fletcher took hold of his hand.
> 
> "Let's leave together, Stinky."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for beta-ing another long chapter with patience and skill and for alerting me to nonsensical BE :-) Pyjama (pajama?) power!

Ten days or so after Donnic had found Fletcher's group, they arrived back at the chamber where the tunnels had been collapsed. The group had camped for short periods only, wanting to waste no time in returning to the surface. Only when they'd reached the chasm and the lyrium tunnel had their progress slowed. Anders had insisted on taking further samples of the lyrium in the chasm and of the still-frozen water, which had started to thaw as soon as some of its power source was chipped away.

Fletcher, nervous about travelling through the tunnel again, advised that he, Fenris and Anders be kept well apart from each other, a suggestion easily accommodated as the group was now much larger. Anders, along with Fenris, volunteered to have their hands bound in a show of solidarity. Fletcher had been subdued the first day after emerging from the tunnel, but after constant reassurance from Fenris as well as a bawdy tale or two from Varric and Isabela, his ebullience soon returned, and the group's spirits rose with each step closer to the surface.

As some of the group took a short break in the chamber (the rest of them having returned to the surface), Donnic liaised with the scouts that had accompanied Aveline, who were still investigating the collapses.

"Captain's gone back up to the surface," Bear told him. "We found a couple of survivors down the tunnel and they've been taken to the barracks for questioning."

"What about the two humans?" Donnic asked. "Any sign?"

Bear shook his head. "We followed their tracks up to the surface, but we've had heavy rain since they were here and the trail ran cold about a quarter of a mile away. The only thing we know for certain is that our twosome headed away from Kirkwall, but they might have returned later. We're looking for either a human male and female, or a human male and an elf of undetermined gender. One human male for certain."

"What makes you so sure about that?"

"The second set of prints were considerably smaller than the others but still adult-sized. They definitely weren't dwarf prints, though. That's about all I can tell you, Lieutenant."

Donnic exhaled and thought for a moment. "This is a long shot, but is it possible dwarves could wear human-sized shoes? To throw us off their scent? I'm just trying to explore all avenues."

"No, Lieutenant. Dwarves have a low centre of gravity and as a result, their feet have to be very wide to keep them balanced. Their feet are also shaped differently to humans' and elves'. The thought that they could squeeze those things into human-sized shoes--and especially elf-sized shoes--is laughable. Begging your pardon, of course."

Satisfied, Donnic nodded. "That's very helpful. Well done. What else did you find besides two survivors?"

"Just a couple more dead dwarves. We've checked with Varric and Hawke, and everyone's now accounted for, which doesn't explain the owners of the two sets of footprints. Whoever they were, they weren't part of the expedition. One last thing. The captain's confiscated several sacks of precious stones, which are locked up at the barracks. She said there are three expedition investors and they should decide how the bounty's distributed."

"One of those investors is under arrest," Donnic said with a glance at Bartrand, who glared back at them from where he was standing, hands tied, a short distance away. "Fenris believes he was responsible for collapsing the tunnels. Bartrand had a co-conspirator who's admitted his part in collapsing one of the tunnels, but both deny collapsing the second, claiming _they_ were trapped inside it by the group that went down the other tunnel. They say a dwarf named Gaar was responsible."

"Gaar was one of the survivors," Bear informed him, pausing as Fenris walked up to them. "Good to see you in one piece," Bear said, shaking hands with the elf before resuming. "We have Gaar at the barracks, Fenris. Donnic tells me he's being blamed for the second collapse?"

"That is what Bartrand claims," answered Fenris, "but I would not take _his_ word over that of a pond lizard."

"See, this is interesting," Bear mused. "We've examined both tunnels thoroughly, and we've determined that different explosive agents were used to collapse each one. The first one--the one you were trapped in, Fenris--was collapsed using a compound of sulphur, charcoal and potassium salts. All of those components can be found down here, and are in keeping with what we know of dwarven explosives. The second tunnel, however, is something of a mystery."

"Explain," Donnic said.

Bear led his fellow guards to the entrance of tunnel seven, which had been cleared of debris. "We can't determine how this was collapsed. There are no traces of any known explosive agents around the site of the collapse, besides those we used to open it back up."

Donnic and Fenris crouched down to take a closer look, Donnic looking up at the scout. "Let's suppose for a minute that our two mystery humans, or non-dwarves, anyway, were responsible for this. Could they have covered their tracks? Removed all traces of explosives? And how do we know it wasn't a natural collapse?"

"We know it wasn't natural because there _was_ an explosion, only the blast pattern extends _behind_ the debris, indicating massive force from the front. Dwarven explosives are just not that refined. This explosion was controlled and concentrated in a way I've never seen before. I'm stumped, Lieutenant."

"Could… magic have been responsible for this?" Fenris asked in almost a whisper.

"I'm not willing to discount anything." Bear sighed in exasperation. "I'm at a loss, really I am."

Fenris stood up and looked around until he spotted the two mages, who were standing together, quietly discussing the new lyrium. "Fletcher! Anders!" he called.

"Yes, Fen?" asked Fletcher, walking up to him with Anders.

"Are you able to determine if magic was used to collapse this tunnel?" asked the elf. The mages looked at each other, frowning. "Are you?" Fenris asked again.

"You don't think it was Gaar, then?" Fletcher said.

Donnic shook his head. "It's looking more and more like it wasn't dwarves at all, and we definitely know it wasn't any of your original twenty-seven. These were two people from the surface."

Fenris remained silent but turned away from them.

Fletcher and Anders moved inside the mouth of the tunnel and laid their hands on the stone. "You might want to move back, Fen," Fletcher warned. "We're going to open the Fade."

"I will stay," the elf insisted, turning back slightly. Fletcher looked at him for a moment before nodding and closing his eyes.

A prickling sensation, followed by burning, skittered along Fenris's markings but he bore the pain, determined not to worry Fletcher. After a few moments, Anders muttered, "Shit."

The mages moved away from the stone, and immediately Fenris's discomfort eased. Fletcher quickly went to his side, a look of concern on his face, but Fenris dismissed it with a nod and a forced smile that wouldn't have fooled a village idiot.

"Definitely magic," Anders announced gravely. "It was used quite a while ago, but we can feel its echo."

"What kind?" Fenris demanded abruptly.

"I don't know for sure," mumbled Anders with a shrug, "but it wasn't a healer, and it was definitely someone with a Circle education."

"How do you know that?" asked Bear.

"The magnitude of the spell would be beyond the capabilities of someone like Hawke, for example. No offence, Hawke. It takes years to refine your spells enough to concentrate that amount of force into such a small area."

"I think we can narrow it down a bit," Fletcher offered with one eye still on Fenris. "It was someone with a command of Primal or Force magic. No other kind could have done this amount of damage to solid rock."

"I agree," Anders said. "There could have been more than one mage, actually."

Fletcher cringed as he noticed Fenris's jaw tighten. "No more than two, though, right?"

"No more than two, unless they flew in here," Bear confirmed.

Fletcher continued to watch Fenris as he slunk away from them. After waiting a minute, he left the others to their discussion and followed the elf. "Talk to me," he softly encouraged as he moved beside Fenris.

The elf stared blankly ahead, opening his mouth as if to speak before closing it and shaking his head.

"Why don't we go up to the surface?" Fletcher suggested. "Aveline's group is up there. The place is swarming with guards. It's _safe_ , Fen. No slaver is going to tackle that lot, unless they're particularly stupid. That _is_ what you're afraid of, isn't it?"

Fenris slowly turned to Fletcher, his eyes full of uncertainty. "You… you understand?"

"I've understood all along. You felt safe down here but now we're venturing back to the surface, you're worried. I've been prepared for this for the past few days. I'll bet you've been keeping it all to yourself, but when we determined a mage had collapsed tunnel seven, well, that was it--the old fears returned. I know it doesn't look good, but think about it. _If_ a group of slavers had come after you, would they really have tried to kill us all without looking for you first? And why were there only two of them?"

"Perhaps more lie in wait on the surface," Fenris murmured before shaking his head, realising how paranoid he sounded.

"Do you know who I think it was? A jealous rival of Bartrand's. We've all seen ample proof of how avaricious some dwarves are."

"Then... how do you explain a mage's presence?"

"There are apostates out there who do mercenary work. You're looking at one of them. The dwarves probably paid a mage to do it."

The elf placed his hands on his hips. "Why would _dwarves_ , who are experts in demolition, employ a mage?"

"So the dwarves aren't implicated? There could be any number of reasons. It's a lot more likely _that_ happened than two slavers came down here just to find you, but instead they tried to kill everyone. Don't you think?"

Fenris shrugged before his shoulders sagged.

"You need some fresh air," Fletcher advised, "unless you've changed your mind about us living in that grotto for the rest of our lives and dining on nothing but nug?"

"If only that were possible," Fenris said quietly.

Fletcher raised a hand to caress Fenris's cheek, the elf looking into his eyes. "We've got to go up there sometime. And... on a selfish note, I'd quite like to get the hell out of here."

Fenris let out a morose sigh. "Of course. Forgive me. You, of all of us, would want to see the back of this place. Come."

In silence, Fletcher and Fenris walked through the last tunnel leading up to the surface, feeling the air quality improve as they progressed. Finally nearing the end of the tunnel, they shielded their eyes from the glare of the sun, waiting several minutes for their eyes to adjust. They halted, Fletcher placing his hands on Fenris's shoulders.

"We made it, Fen," he declared. "We've come a long way, in more ways than one. This expedition was made bearable by having you with me, and by the closeness we've found. I never want to come down here again, but I'll look back at a lot of it with fondness, too. Thank you for coming with me."

"As if you ever had a choice," quipped Fenris, visibly moved by Fletcher's words.

"Come here," Fletcher whispered, pulling Fenris close. They stood in a tight embrace for a minute or two before Fletcher moved his mouth next to Fenris's ear, grinning at the elf's sharp intake of breath. "You stink," he whispered.

"So do you." Fenris pushed him away, but Fletcher took hold of his hand.

"Let's leave together, Stinky."

"Yes," Fenris replied with a slight smile, knowing Fletcher was trying to cheer him up. "We will leave together, noisome one."

"Good comeback."

"True, but it lacked the piquancy of 'Stinky'," Fenris commented dryly.

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but…" Fletcher kissed Fenris's temple and, together, they walked towards the light.

As they stepped out of the Deep Roads and onto the surface, Fenris's hand tightened around Fletcher's. "Look around," Fletcher said, pointing ahead at the other expedition members, who were busy setting up their final camp. "Our friends are here. Sebastian and Isabela are out hunting, and if we're lucky we'll be having a nice roast boar for lunch. If not, a couple of sparrows. It doesn't matter. What's important is that today, we're celebrating with all of our friends around us. Lots and lots of _well-armed_ friends, Fenris."

"I understand," Fenris replied. Fletcher was telling him they were well protected, but a sliver of anxiety lingered on the periphery of his thoughts.

"And we'll return to Kirkwall when it's dark," Fletcher assured him. He then leaned closer to Fenris and lowered his voice. "I've just spotted Aveline. Do you want to talk to her, or would you like to hide in my pack?"

Fenris placed a hand over his chest where his cuirass should have been and forced his smile wider. "I should speak with her and declare myself ready for duty. Come with me?"

Fletcher released Fenris's hand and they walked up to Aveline who, far from preparing to celebrate, was pacing as she reeled off a list of orders to some of her subordinates.

"Aveline!" Fletcher greeted her. "Good to see you!"

She stopped what she was doing and managed a quick glance at them. "Oh, there you are. Good," she said hurriedly in a flat tone. "Guardsman Fenris? Where is your cuirass?"

The couple exchanged a confused glance, nonplussed by her reaction to them. "It was tainted, if you must know," Fletcher said protectively, put on the defensive by Aveline's brusque tone. "He saved our lives by killing an emissary, and his armour had to be discarded. But it's good to know he's _alive_ , isn't it?"

"You… fought darkspawn?" Aveline asked, her voice quieter.

"Well yes, it kind of comes with the terri-" Fletcher stopped dead as their eyes met and, for a second, they were transported back to Lothering.

Aveline hung her head and sighed. "I _am_ glad to see you're both safe," she confessed. "I… have a lot to do, that's all," she said, her tone becoming more urgent. "Fenris, I'd appreciate your help."

"At your service, Captain," he declared with a bow.

Before she dragged Fenris away, Fletcher said his piece. "All right, but as soon as Sebastian and Isabela return, we're celebrating. _All_ of us."

"Whatever you say, Hawke." She walked away from them. Fletcher waited until she was out of earshot.

"Keep an eye on her, Fen. She doesn't seem herself."

"I noticed."

"You go. I'd better see what Merrill was after me for." He kissed his fingers and let his hand lightly brush Fenris's arm. "See you in a bit."

Fenris touched his arm and smiled at Fletcher before going after Aveline.

Fletcher stretched his arms and sighed contentedly as he took several gulps of clean, cool air, the sun warming his skin. He then went for a stroll around camp. Before long, he spotted Merrill sitting against a tree, her eyes almost popping out of her head when she saw him approach.

"Oh, lumme," she muttered. "He's coming. All right… you can do this. You've had plenty of time to practice." She started to stand, but Fletcher held his hand up to stop her and then sat beside her.

"Merrill," he began warmly, wrapping an arm around her and beaming. "Whatever you think you've done to upset me, I don't care. You saved our lives, do you know that?"

"They keep telling me that, but it wasn't really me. It was the guards!"

"No. The guards wouldn't even _be_ here if it weren't for you. Do you realise you've just become a heroine? _My_ heroine?"

She laughed nervously and then gulped, straightening herself up. "You-you might not say that in a bit. I-I-I've done something really stupid, Hawke."

"It can't be that bad, can it?" Fletcher asked sympathetically. "Come on, spit it out. You'll feel better for it."

"Oh, cripes. Will I?" She paused, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Fletcher looked on, trying to hide his amusement, as a look of fierce determination came over her. "All right. I-I went to see your ma. No. No. That's not right. She came to see _me_. Didn't she? Yes. She did. It was raining and she got wet so I gave her a towel. Erm, well, we had a nice chat, and she brought me some tea. Oh, and cake. I-it was really nice…"

"Merrill," Fletcher softly remonstrated.

"Sorry," she said before gulping again. "The-the thing is, we were-we were talking about… about blood magic," she finished on a whisper. Fletcher raised his head, watching the activity about camp, and Merrill noticed his small frown. "I-I think I might have… put my foot in it," she mumbled, and felt tears stinging the back of her eyes.

"How?" he asked quietly, still not looking at her.

"I got the Eluvian," she chattered, her voice rising in pitch and volume with every word. "I-I was explaining it to your ma, and that I needed to use blood magic to cleanse it, and-"

"You _what?"_ he exclaimed, his head snapping round to face her. "Oh, Merrill! That thing's not dangerous, is it?"

"No, it's not!" she insisted. "I know you warned me about it, but I know what I'm doing, all right?"

"Where is it?" Fletcher demanded. "Please don't tell me it's at your house! You need to get rid of it!"

"I'm not getting rid of it!" she argued. "I thought you of all people would understand! That was what I said to your mother, and I…" She trailed off as Fletcher gawked at her, and she gawked back before her face creased and she looked away, brushing a tear off her cheek.

Fletcher took a deep breath. "Merrill, what exactly did you say to her?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

"I-I might have _hinted_ something."

"Please, just tell me," he urged, fighting to steady his voice in the face of his rising panic.

She nodded, grateful that he wasn't shouting at her. "I told her I'd used blood magic on the Eluvian and she was shocked but I didn't know that until later on when I started thinking and I said to her that I was glad she understood, and she would, having you... understand, I mean, and then she asked me what I meant by that and what did you have to do with blood magic and I sort of realised then that maybe she didn't know and I tried to make it better but I'm not sure I did because she seemed a bit nervous but she was also calm and it was hard for me to tell because I was in such a panic, you see."

She finally stopped for breath and looked anxiously at him. He was again staring ahead, his expression betraying nothing.

"How did she react? Did she say anything?"

"She… she left. She was nice and everything, but I don't know if she left because she'd found out I was a blood mage, or-or that you were. Or both. I-I just went into a blind panic and ran all the way here. I hoped maybe you'd still be around the surface or not too far in. I wanted to warn you… I didn't know what to do!" she squeaked. Fletcher sighed, squeezing her shoulder as she dabbed at her eyes. "I'm so stupid! I didn't _know_ you hadn't told her! Your sister knows so I just assumed… I'm so sorry, Hawke. I really, really am."

"No, you didn't know," he said evenly. "It's not your fault, Merrill." Heat prickled at his cheeks and chest, but not wanting to distress Merrill further, and unable to force a smile, he forbade his face or voice from showing any sign of emotion.

"It-it isn't?"

He shook his head and stood up, holding his hand out to her. Warily she took it, and Fletcher pulled her up. "How were you to know?" he reassured her. "Look, if you hadn't done that, we'd all be dying of starvation right about now."

"But you've got to go home and explain it all to her!"

"At least I _can_ go home. She probably would have found out sooner or later, anyway. It's better that she does, rather than for her to be arranging her son's funeral, or even worse, never knowing what happened to me." He placed his hands on Merrill's shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Merrill, you _saved our lives_. I will _never_ be able to repay you for that. Think of the good that's come of your actions. A lot of these people owe their lives to you."

"R-really?" she stammered.

"Really. And you're still my heroine." He wrapped his arms around her and she folded her arms against his chest, releasing a wobbly sigh. "Lucky me. I get to hug two elves in one day," he murmured before releasing her and thumbing the last traces of tears off her cheeks.

She sniffled. "I'll bet the other one was Fenris."

"I'm not at liberty to say," he teased, his face feeling like it would crack as he strained a smile, which Merrill very slowly returned. "Why don't you go and join the others? They're preparing a feast. Well, with what we have left, anyway. I'll join you shortly. I just need to nip into the woods."

"You want me to come with you?" she offered blithely. "You wouldn't want to get lost or anything."

"Not really. I don't think you'd want to see what I'm going to do."

"Oh, you're…? Oh, got it. I-I'll leave you to it, then. Have a good one. I-I mean… you know what I mean. I'll just… I'm going. See you in a bit."

"See you in a bit," he replied, and waited until she'd darted away before he sighed and trudged towards the woods. Finding a quiet spot away from camp, he leaned against a tree and slid to the ground, placing his hands over his eyes.

"Shhhit." He groaned loudly, his stomach doing somersaults.

~o~O~o~

Bethany saw her mother coming up the steps following a visit to a friend in Hightown, and opened the door for her.

"Bethany!" Leandra trilled before her daughter had chance to speak. "I have some marvellous news!"

"So do I, Mother," said Bethany with a sly smile.

"Oh?" Leandra entered the house, closing the door. "You first then, dear."

"Oh no, Mother. _You_ first."

"You spoke first, Bethany, it's only right that you take your proper turn."

"No, I didn't, you did! We'll be here all blooming day if we keep on like this, Mother. _You_ go first!"

They laughed, and Leandra sighed. "Very well, dear. Martha told me the templars have captured two escaped mages. That was why they were about town, and _that_ is why they've suddenly disappeared. This means you can finally go out, Beth! We can visit the market together after lunch!"

Bethany's face brightened. "That's wonderful news, Mother! I'd love for us to visit the market together. And you never know, we might bump into your friend now the templars are gone."

"Oh, Martha isn't visiting the market today."

"You _know_ which friend I mean," Bethany teased. "Don't think I haven't noticed the disappointment on your face when you've come home lately. The sighs, the lovesick coos…"

"You do exaggerate," Leandra chuckled. "Now, what is _your_ good news?"

"Oh, I think it can wait, Mother. Wouldn't want you to get the vapours through too much excitement." With a waggle of her eyebrows, Bethany headed for the kitchen.

"Don't you dare!" Leandra gave chase and, spotting the letters in Bethany's hands, tried to grab them from her. "What have you got there?" Bethany pushed herself into a corner, tightly clutching the letters to her chest, and wriggled as Leandra wrapped her arms around her. "Do you think I don't remember your weakness?" Leandra threatened, her hands moving to her daughter's ribs.

"No! No tickling! All right, I give up!"

"Are you certain, dear?"

Bethany's torso jerked as one of Leandra's fingers poked her side. "Here! Have the flipping letters, then!" Bethany shoved them into Leandra's hands, feigning a scowl as Leandra cackled in triumph. "Read the sealed one first."

"Ooh, this looks very official," said Leandra, smiling and laughing with Bethany as she unfolded the paper and began to read, first clearing her throat:

_From the office of His Excellency, Viscount Dumar._

_Messere Leandra Hawke of Lowtown,_

_You have been granted an audience with his Excellency, Viscount Marlowe Dumar. Your appointment is scheduled at two bells on the afternoon of 14 Cloudreach. Kindly produce this letter at the entrance to the keep upon arrival, and please, do be punctual. As you will appreciate, his Excellency's time is at a premium._

"Should you wish to cancel the appointment, blah blah blah," Bethany finished. "That's two days from now, Mother. You can finally petition to get the family estate back!"

"And it only took five months for my appointment to arrive!" chirped Leandra, folding the letter closed. "Well, I'd better get my best dress pressed and ready. Will you help me, dear?"

"I will!" Bethany grinned. "Now read the other one. One of the _guards_ brought that one."

"The guards?" Anxiety wrinkled Leandra's brow, but when she saw Bethany was still smiling, she hurriedly opened it and began to read:

_Ma Hawke and Bethany,_

_I'm on my way back to the expedition site from the barracks. Hawke and his friends are well and will be home soon. Take this for now, I'm sure there will be more where that came from. Matthieu in Hightown gives the best prices._

_-Aveline_

Leandra's hand flew to her mouth and she stared at Bethany, tears springing to her eyes. "My boy is safe," she whispered.

"Of course he is." Bethany wrapped an arm around her mother's shoulders. "That's not all. It looks like they did very well on the expedition." Moving to the table, she picked up a small pouch and handed it to Leandra.

"What's this?"

"Open it and see."

Leandra carefully pulled the strings loose and squinted at the contents, before crossing to the window for a better look. She gasped as the sun fell across her hand and a glimmer of multi-coloured light winked out from the pouch.

"Are these…?"

"Oh, yes. Eight of them," Bethany confirmed, moving to Leandra's side. "Never mind getting your best dress ready, you can buy a _new_ one. As many as you like, in fact."

"I could have my betrothal ring re-set," said Leandra with a wistful sigh. "I lost the stone when we were fleeing Lothering."

"Whatever you want, Mother. Now, how about a trip to Matthieu's?"

~o~O~o~

Sebastian and Isabela returned with a roe deer and several rabbits, which were quickly butchered and put on to roast, and a large pot of root vegetables--foraged from the surrounding forest--was boiled. Almost everyone had ventured to the surface by this point, although Varric, Torbal and a few others remained below to make plans for their mining operation away from twitchy guard ears.

Bartrand and Angrim had been taken to the barracks under guard but the mood around camp was far from relaxed: Aveline was a curt, uncommunicative whirlwind of nervous energy, who after running out of jobs to give to her guards, set them unnecessary menial tasks. Fletcher had dealt with his own nervousness by refusing to acknowledge it at all--he'd stuffed himself full of food and fallen asleep in the full glare of the sun. Fenris, still wary of the possibility of slavers making an appearance, had performed several security sweeps of the camp perimeter along with Bear, who had gladly accompanied the elf just to get away from Aveline.

Having noticed the looks on the faces of those Aveline was sending to take stock of equipment, or to tidy up litter, Donnic approached her. "Captain? Maybe you should get some food and sit down for a bit?"

"I'm fine," she mumbled, facing away from him.

 _"You_ might be fine, but look at the rest of them, they're knackered," he argued. "We came here to rescue them. They're rescued. All this fussing around is not our job. Varric doesn't want the site tidied up, anyway. He said he's going to sell some of the mining equipment and needs it left here so he can bring buyers to see it in action."

"And you've encouraged him to do that, have you?" demanded Aveline. As she turned to face him, he noticed how drawn her face looked. "In case you hadn't noticed, Guardsman Hendyr-"

"Back to Guardsman Hendyr, is it?"

"In _case_ you hadn't _noticed_ , someone tried to kill them all! Until we determine who that was, _no one_ is coming back to this site. I'm declaring it out of bounds, under threat of arrest."

"Oh, it's good to see you're not knee-jerking or anything," he retorted sarcastically. "For all we know, it could have been a couple of apostates who took shelter and heard noises, thinking it was a wild animal, and so collapsed the tunnel to protect themselves."

"Nice work, Guardsman!" she exclaimed with equal sarcasm. "That's _entirely_ plausible, isn't it?"

"It's a lot more plausible than two people, alone, killing half the expedition's contingent. Those dwarves were mostly tainted, and the ones that weren't probably got into a fight. You know what the dwarves are like. We won't know anything until we've questioned the witnesses, anyway, so all this speculation is pointless for now."

"Fenris seems to be concerned enough," she said, pointing out the elf, who was stalking along the edge of camp, sword drawn.

"That's because he thinks the slavers are after him, and you've done _nothing_ to set his mind at rest," Donnic hissed, his ire rising. "Look at everyone! They're all running around like headless chickens! These men and women are _exhausted_ and so are you. Tell them to take a break, Aveline, or I'll show you up and do it myself."

"You know something, Donnic? You're right! You _are_ a pig-headed bastard!"

"I'm waiting."

She glared at him for a moment and muttered through gritted teeth, "You and I are going to have a _serious_ talk when we get back to the barracks, Lieutenant."

"I'd expect nothing less, Captain," he answered calmly.

With an infuriated grunt, she stomped away from him to the centre of camp. "Fenris! Everyone, come and take a break. We'll eat and then we'll get back to Kirkwall. _After_ a rest," she added at Donnic's arched eyebrow before glowering at him.

Amid a chorus of thanks, the guards and civilians descended on Sheldon and Thirin for food. Donnic looked at Aveline, gesturing towards the queue. "You as well, Captain."

Ignoring him, she huffed and took her place in the queue.

Fenris postponed his search for slavers and walked up to Fletcher, whose face had turned pink in the sun, and nudged him with his foot.

"Eh? Wha?" snorted Fletcher, his hands covering his eyes as the sun stabbed into them.

"You are starting to cook, yourself," commented Fenris, sitting beside the mage. "Do not forget that I have claimed your belly for my own. It should be almost done now." He prodded the mage's protruding gut.

Fletcher sat up quickly, pushing Fenris's arm away. "Hands off, Elf, we're not starving anymore." Fletcher clutched his belly, then, as it churned at the thought of having to face Leandra.

Misunderstanding, Fenris shook his head. "That fact will not save you, nor does it negate my ownership. One day it will be mine... Mage."

Fletcher knew they were both hiding their anxieties with humour but he played along, just relieved to see Fenris smiling. "And your legs will be mine, Fen."

"I believe the bargain was for _one_ leg."

"Two," Fletcher said behind a cough. Fenris stood up, looking down at him and shaking his head.

"I am going to fetch some food. On my legs, _one_ of which still belongs to me."

"Bring me some back, Fen?" Fletcher asked cheekily. "I would get up but I'm soooo full and sleepy."

"You have had quite enough," remonstrated Fenris, "although it is written in stone that my leftovers will find a home. Somehow." He began to walk away, but stopped when Fletcher clutched his wrist.

"Fen," said Fletcher softly, "you look lovely in the sunlight, you know. I'd almost forgotten how beautiful your eyes are."

An embarrassed chuckle escaped and Fenris slipped his arm free. "After I have eaten, _you_ are going to sit in the shade for a while." As he walked away, though, Fletcher caught a brief smile and fancied he saw a spring in the elf's steps.

~o~O~o~

After changing into one of Leandra's dresses and leaving her staff at home--just to be on the safe side--Bethany, along with Leandra, stepped out of the house, taking a moment to let the wind ruffle her hair. They descended the steps, Bethany a little nervously at first but, after not spotting a single templar in Lowtown, she began to relax. Leandra seemed pensive, too, and they walked in companionable silence, occasionally remarking on the weather.

When they reached the foot of the steps leading to Hightown, however, Bethany noticed a frown creep onto Leandra's face.

"Are you feeling all right, Mother?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, fine," mumbled Leandra, and she was quiet for a moment. Bethany watched her discreetly, knowing something was coming.

"Darling," Leandra began casually, "is Anders a blood mage?"

"What?" Bethany replied, keeping her tone light, but her heart started pounding without her knowing why. "Why do you ask that?"

Leandra sighed, and they started up the steps. "I've been thinking about the letter that templar left with us. The one for Fletcher and Anders? You see, the two apostates that were captured were blood mages, so I've heard. The templars seem to be clamping down lately and I'm concerned for them both when they arrive back home. I'm also wondering about the deal that was mentioned in the letter."

Bethany wondered why Leandra had only asked about Anders, but didn't call attention to the fact, a slow sense of dread warming her chest. "Anders has evaded capture so far, Mother. He and Fletcher will be working at the clinic from now on, and they're well-protected down there."

"But the templars do patrol Darktown, don't they?"

"I'm… not certain. They patrol the Coast, but as far as I know they only appear in Darktown when new refugees have arrived. I suppose they don't want to lower themselves any other time." She watched as Leandra nodded thoughtfully. "They'll be safe at the clinic, don't worry. There are many hiding places in Darktown, and I don't think the templars are even aware of the clinic."

They continued up, and Leandra stopped halfway to catch her breath. "Merrill's a blood mage, isn't she?" she stated. "Did you know that?"

"I'd heard," answered Bethany, her dread creeping up into her throat and her voice. "There are a few apostates hiding away in the Alienage. She's also quite safe there if that's what you're worried about. I don't think the templars sully their boots very often in the Alienage, either."

"She doesn't _look_ like a blood mage though, does she?"

"No, I suppose not."

"But what _does_ a blood mage look like, anyway?"

"Shall we get going, Mother? It appears as if rain is on the way."

"All right, dear," said Leandra calmly. They continued up the steps, Bethany trying very hard to steady her breath.

"Here we are!" Bethany gushed once they'd reached the top of the steps. "The market looks quite busy today, doesn't it? Why don't we get these diamonds changed," she whispered, "and then we can have a spend-up."

Leandra gave her a curious glance which made Bethany's stomach flip. "Good idea, darling. I don't know what I'm so worried about. I know how close you and Fletcher are, and that you'll always protect him. And he you, of course. Now, where is this… Matteus's?"

"Er, Matthieu's," Bethany said hurriedly. "This way." Leandra took her arm, the older woman's face a mask of tranquillity.

After selling the diamonds, the two excited ladies embarked on a spending spree. Bethany was greatly relieved that there was no more talk of blood magic but she remained on edge, fearful of the reasons for Leandra's sudden curiosity.

Laden with parcels of new clothes, trinkets for the house and food for Fletcher's return, they wandered into the market before returning home.

"Do you want to look at the earth stars today, Mother?" asked Bethany with a gleam in her eyes.

"I suppose we could," Leandra replied. Bethany laughed at her mother's attempt at nonchalance. Leandra also laughed and they strolled, arm-in-arm, to Jade's Emporium.

After perusing the weird and wonderful assortment of items on display for a while, Leandra nudged Bethany's arm. "Don't look now, dear, but my friend is walking over. Don't look at him!" she scolded when her daughter looked up.

To Leandra's horror, Bethany released her arm, making a beeline for the tall man whom she recognised from Leandra's previous description.

"Good day to you," she greeted him, holding out her hand. "You must be Quentin."

"Do I know you, my dear?" he asked kindly, taking her hand and giving it a gentle shake.

"Good afternoon, Quentin," Leandra said, moving to Bethany's side, causing Quentin's face to light up. "This is my daughter, Bethany. As you can see, she isn't shy."

"Well, how lovely to make your acquaintance, my dear!" Quentin smiled, lifting Bethany's hand and kissing her knuckles, his eyes lingering on her hand for a moment before he released it. "But surely the two of you are sisters?"

"You were right, Mother, he _is_ a charmer." Bethany laughed as Quentin took Leandra's hand, also kissing it, but not letting it go.

"Leandra, I must apologise for my absence of late," he said apologetically. "As you must be aware, some of us," he went on with a glance at Bethany, "have needed to exercise caution recently. I am delighted to see the two of you together. May I stand you both to a cream tea? You look as though you have worked very hard today," he commented with a charming smile, pointing to their purchases.

"I'm… not sure I should," Leandra mumbled. "My son is away at the moment, but will be returning shortly."

"But of course," answered Quentin with a bow. "Forgive my forwardness. Of course you must speak to the head of your family before going out in public with a strange man."

"Listen to you two," Bethany scoffed. "This isn't the dark ages, you know, and you won't be stoned for having a cup of tea and a scone together! Come on, I'm starving!"

Quentin did a poor job of hiding a chuckle behind his hand. "Well, this _is_ a conundrum. Whatever I do, I risk offending a charming and lovely lady."

"Nonsense! Mother's dying to sit down and have a cup of tea," Bethany argued. "And, seeing as Fletcher's still away, I'm declaring _myself_ temporary head of the family, and I give my permission for you to take tea with Quentin, Mother. Come on, the tea rooms are not far."

"Far be it from me to defy the head of the Hawke family, temporary or otherwise," said Quentin hopefully. Leandra shook her head at her daughter, forcing the edges of her mouth down. "May I assist you?" he offered. Bethany gleefully handed him two of her parcels, snatching a further two from Leandra.

"You're a gentleman, Quentin. Lead the way," Bethany directed. Quentin bowed and headed away from them, glancing back to make certain they were following.

"He's very nice, Mother," whispered Bethany. "Now stop being so silly. He's asked you to take tea with him, not marry him. Fletcher would say the same thing. We've got to go with him, anyway, he has our shopping."

"Bethany Hawke, you are much too confident sometimes," Leandra scolded.

Bethany stared at her until she turned away, hiding her smile. "Yes, and it's a good job I am, else you two would still be standing awkwardly talking about mushrooms. Or carrots. Don't get worrying about Fletcher. I think he'll like him."

"Really?" asked Leandra, unable to contain her excitement.

"Ha!" sniggered Bethany. "Got you!"

"Really, Beth," Leandra chuckled, and they started to follow Quentin.

"Now, we're going to take tea with him, and, when Fletcher's settled at home, we'll arrange a meeting, and Quentin can formally request to court you. He's a shoe-in. Fletcher will love him, I promise."

"Do _I_ have no say in this?" Leandra demanded with unconvincing sternness.

"No," joked Bethany. "We're coming!" she called ahead to Quentin, who was waiting for them.

Shaking her head and laughing, Leandra took Bethany's arm and they followed Quentin to the tea rooms.


	67. Business as Usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There was never a chance of me leaving. And that was not only because I had given my word to stay. It was because… well, you know why."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for your thorough beta, which was possibly done under the influence of several strawberry daiquiris. ;)
> 
> The Anso section was suggested by - and written for - Wandering Lily, whose support and enthusiasm for the story is greatly appreciated. I hope you like it, Lily!

After a meal and a few toasts to the Deep Roads (most of them full of expletives), the group started to break up camp before heading home. Almost everyone pitched in, eager to leave the site, although two notable exceptions were Varric and Isabela, who'd managed to avoid doing any real work for the duration of the expedition. This did not come as a surprise to anyone; what _was_ surprising was that Fletcher--who'd always pitched in when the need was dire, albeit reluctantly--was working like a dervish, sweat cascading down his brow and neck as he darted from person to person, offering help.

Even Fenris, who'd thus far been preoccupied with camp security, noticed this. He'd also observed that Merrill looked even more nervous than usual, and he remembered that the two mages had spoken before their meal.

Once Fenris was satisfied that no intruders lurked in wait around the camp, he approached Fletcher and watched him for a while until the mage was left alone.

"Am I to assume you're working off the prodigious amounts of food you've consumed since our return to the surface?"

Fletcher stood up, blinking sweat out of his eyes, and drew his sleeve across his brow. "Hm?"

Fenris's eyes lingered on the mage as he considered his next words. "Fletcher… is something troubling you?"

"I just want to get home, Fen, that's all." Fletcher turned away and reached into his pack, extracting a thin, clean robe, leggings, socks, towel and a bar of soap. He then turned back to Fenris and sniffed at his armpit. "Phew! I think _I_ should be called Stinky, not you! I'm going down to the stream. See you soon."

Fenris watched Fletcher carefully until he'd disappeared into the woods, his eyes narrowed. He nodded to himself, his hypothesis confirmed. Not only had Fletcher evaded answering his question directly, he'd also not invited Fenris to scrub his back or something similarly suggestive.

Something _was_ troubling him.

Fenris's eyes slowly moved to the Dalish blood mage, whose skittish movements and body language were even more pronounced than usual. He walked in her direction, mindful of the fact that Fletcher considered her a friend, and that her actions _had_ saved their lives. The question was, why?

"Merrill," he greeted her stiffly in his most formal, non-confrontational tone.

She dropped the small bundle of twigs she'd been holding and spun around, her eyes like saucers. "Oh, h-hello, Fenris. How-how are you? I'll bet you're glad to be out of there, aren't you?"

"There?"

"You know, the Deep Roads?"

"Yes."

She gulped, starting to feel hot under Fenris's unblinking gaze. "Um… did-did you need me for something?" she asked hesitantly, looking around, not seeing Fletcher anywhere. What did Fenris want with her?

He inclined his head, not taking his eyes off her, Merrill watching him warily as he straightened up. "I extend my gratitude to you. Your quick thinking averted a disaster."

"Oh… well, you-you're welcome, Fenris. I… should probably carry on. With what I'm doing, I mean." She bent and gathered the twigs she'd dropped, her muscles tensing as Fenris softly cleared his throat.

"What brought you here, anyway?" he asked as casually as he could. "This is rather an inhospitable place for such an… extemporaneous visit."

"A-a what?" She stood up, twigs retrieved, and faced in his direction but didn't look at him, her cheeks drained of colour.

"Forgive me," he said with what he hoped was a warm smile. "I am merely curious as to what circumstances precipitated your visit here?"

"Uh…" Merrill clutched her twigs so tightly one of them snapped. Her eyes darted around until they found Isabela, who was standing some distance away, still busy doing nothing. "Oh! _There_ she is! She'll be wanting her, um, twigs." As if led by an irresistible force, she gravitated towards the pirate, quickly looking back at Fenris. "Sorry, don't mean to be rude! We-we'll talk later!" She then sprinted to Isabela, who looked happy, if surprised, to see her.

Fenris immediately faced the woods, determined to know what the two mages had been keeping from him. Merrill's guilt was written all over her face. She'd obviously delivered disquieting news to Fletcher, Fenris surmised. He would have to exercise caution. It wouldn't do to charge in, demanding answers. But still, he could not help feeling slighted that Fletcher had not confided in him.

Looking around, he could see that much of the work was done, and he was not needed. Catching Donnic's attention, he thumbed towards the woods, informing his friend that he was going to the stream, which was not far away. He drew his sword, knowing it was unnecessary, but he liked the weight of it in his hand.

Upon reaching the clearing leading to the stream, he sheathed his sword and watched Fletcher from a distance as he bathed. Gradually, he moved closer, using the trees as cover. In the Deep Roads, Fletcher had enjoyed bathing and often broke into song while washing. This time, though, he silently and apathetically moved the soap over his head, pausing to sigh before ducking under the water and slowly rising to his full height, not even bothering to slick his hair back. A fine spray bursting from Fletcher's mouth signified another sigh.

Feeling guilty over his annoyance that Fletcher and Merrill had been keeping something from him, Fenris felt his heart sink, and he longed to show himself and offer comfort. This, however, was a private moment. Fletcher had sought solitude, and Fenris had no right to intrude on that.

Did he?

Fenris recalled his own words to Fletcher in the Deep Roads: _We will face it together._ He also remembered the countless times Fletcher had offered him solace and comforting words--even when Fenris had not welcomed them--and how much they had helped. He and Fletcher had been through so much together, and although Fletcher had never once tried to change Fenris, the elf knew he was a better person because of it. Because of Fletcher.

He didn't just have a _right_ to go to Fletcher... he was desperate to go to him. He stepped out of cover and walked to the water's edge, pausing before kicking off his slippers and entering the water.

Hearing a gentle splash, Fletcher turned around, moving his hair out of his eyes. "Fenris? What are you doing? You'll get wet! You don't have any spare clothes." Fenris was already waist-deep in the water before he'd finished his sentence and Fletcher waited until the elf had waded up to him. "What are you doing?" he repeated, his tone softer this time.

"You missed a spot." Fenris took the soap from Fletcher and twirled his finger, indicating that he should turn around. Fletcher did so, and Fenris splashed him with water before working up a lather in his hands and moving them over Fletcher's back. When satisfied he'd done a thorough job, he placed the soap under his arm and scooped up a few handfuls of water, rinsing the mage.

When nothing else happened for a moment or two, Fletcher turned around and smiled as a bare-chested Fenris was scrubbing his shirt with the soap. "You have finished using the soap?" Fenris queried. Fletcher nodded and took the soap back while Fenris swirled his shirt through the water. He then wrung it out and cheekily draped it over Fletcher's shoulder before submerging his upper body, while Fletcher rubbed the soap between his palms.

Fenris straightened up and moved closer to Fletcher, allowing the mage to wash his chest. He then raised his arms, meshing his fingers atop his head, as Fletcher worked on his arms and armpits.

"You carry woe on your shoulders and brow," Fenris said once Fletcher had finished, promptly turning his back on the mage. Automatically, Fletcher moved to Fenris's side, only for the elf to once again turn away from him. "Would you wash my back, please?" he asked.

"Are you sure?" stammered the flummoxed mage. "I didn't think you'd like me to..."

"I trust you. Please proceed."

Fenris waited, hearing nothing at first, and then after a few moments there was an exhalation and the sound of soap being rubbed between palms.

"I'm… going to touch you, now," said Fletcher. "Is that all right?"

"Of course."

"All right, then… here goes." Fletcher very gently touched Fenris's back with his fingertips and slowly placed his palms against the elf's skin. "Is this all right? Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, Fletcher. I trust you," he reiterated.

"Thank you," breathed the mage, and he began to move his hands in a circular motion.

"Do you trust _me?"_

Fletcher's hands stopped moving. "You know I do."

"Then… will you share your troubles with me? We may no longer be in the Deeps, but I am still your confidant for as long as you wish it."

Fletcher sighed, placing his hands on Fenris's shoulders. The elf slowly turned around. "I'm sorry," said Fletcher. "I didn't mean to shut you out. Of _course_ you know something's wrong." He sighed again, removed his hands from the elf's shoulders and turned away slightly, one hand on his hip.

"What did she say to you?" Fenris asked quietly, laying one of his hands on Fletcher's arm. The mage turned back to him. "Why did she come after you?"

"I didn't want to tell you because, well, apart from my little meltdown in the Deep Roads, things have been going so well for us and I didn't want… I didn't want you to be reminded… of what I am." Fletcher hung his head and shook it.

"Do you mean… a mage?"

Fletcher looked up, meeting Fenris's eyes. "Not only that."

Fenris nodded, his expression neutral. "Ignoring the fact will not change it. I know the man you are now, and I accept you made a mistake in your youth. Tell me."

Fletcher felt a weight lift from his shoulders and he smiled gratefully, gently clasping Fenris's arms and stroking them. "Merrill… Merrill _hinted_ that I was… at what I am to Mother. She couldn't say for sure whether or not Mother worked it out, but judging from Mother's reaction, I have to assume she did. If you haven't guessed already, I've never told Mother. She has quite enough to worry about with two apostate children. I just didn't want to add to that."

Fenris's mouth tightened and he cupped his chin, frowning. "That _is_ troubling news. Do you intend to go home immediately upon our return?"

"I don't know what to do. I'm almost as nervous about telling her as I was about telling you." Fletcher released the elf and turned away, slowly walking to the bank of the stream.

"I will go with you," Fenris said.

"You don't need to do that."

"I am with you." The elf went to Fletcher's side, taking one of his hands. "I have accepted your status and your Mother will also accept it. It may take time, but she will not forsake you. You should also consider the possibility that she does _not_ know."

They reached the bank and Fletcher quickly towelled himself off before passing the towel to Fenris. "Here," he said, giving his spare leggings to the elf. "They're a bit long, and way too big, but I don't need them. I have a robe. Just lace them up tight and turn them up."

"Thank you," said the elf, gratefully accepting Fletcher's gift.

"Are you suggesting that I _don't_ say anything to Mother?" Fletcher asked as they began to dress. "I kept it from you and that didn't work out well. I almost lost you."

Fenris pulled on his still-damp shirt, assuring Fletcher that it was a warm night and it would dry quickly. "I would not advise withholding the truth, no." He paused, shaking his head. "I do not like what you are, but it has nothing to do with _you_ as a man. I had known you for barely three months when I found out. Your mother has known you for your entire life. She will also accept it."

Having dressed himself, Fenris moved very close to Fletcher as he tied his robe. "And you didn't almost lose me," the elf confessed. "There was never a chance of me leaving. And that was _not_ only because I had given my word to stay. It was because… you know why." He shrugged one shoulder, looking at the ground.

"Yes, I do know." Fletcher gently grasped Fenris's chin and raised his head. "Thank you, Fen." He lowered his head, brushing his lips against the elf's, his hands cupping Fenris's chiselled face. Fenris held Fletcher's forearms and they stood, nose-to-nose, cherishing some rare time alone. "Let's go home," Fletcher whispered, "and see what's what. And when all of this is sorted out, you and I are going away somewhere for a few days, just the two of us. I'm sure Aveline won't expect you back at work immediately."

"That sounds nice," uttered Fenris with a lopsided smile. "But let us… 'sort things out', first."

Fletcher grinned at him and they gathered the rest of their belongings before heading back to camp. As they entered the woods, Fletcher looked up at the crimson-flecked dusk sky.

"It'll be nice tomorrow," he commented, feeling more optimistic.

~o~O~o~

By the time the group reached Kirkwall, night had fallen. Before splitting up, Fletcher and Varric addressed the human workers (most of the dwarves having remained behind at the site) and arranged a meeting at the Hanged Man the following lunchtime whereupon they would be paid for their services. Aveline and Donnic made their way back to the barracks, separately, while Sebastian, after escorting Merrill home, visited the chantry. Anders returned to the clinic, extracting a promise from Fletcher to call on him the following day. Varric accompanied Fletcher and Fenris, eager to see his Sunshine.

As for Tufty and Sprinkles, they had been left at the expedition site on Torbal's insistence, the newly-appointed foreman having decided that perhaps they _were_ lucky mascots, after all. Tufty had attempted to follow Fenris, resulting in several admonitions from the elf, but it wasn't until Fletcher promised the nug he would return, that Tufty, apparently satisfied, relented. After Fenris had warned to inflict severe pain upon anyone mentioning the incident, he and his quietly sniggering companions went on their way.

It was only then they realised they hadn't seen Isabela since leaving camp, but it was not out of character for her to sneak away, and Fletcher remarked that she'd soon find them when she wanted paying.

With the good company of Varric and Fenris, Fletcher's spirits rose further with each step towards home. With them, he felt protected, but he knew a time would come when he would be alone with his mother, but he pushed that thought aside, not liking the effect it had on his stomach.

"There might be some squealing," he warned his companions, his stomach fluttering despite feeling relaxed. Fenris placed his hands over his ears in preparation and smiled warmly at his lover, silently assuring him that all would be well. Varric cleared his throat and quickly sniffed at his coat, checking that he smelled reasonably fresh, as Fletcher rapped at the door.

A curtain moved. Fletcher braced himself, having no idea that his family already knew of his imminent return.

The lock clicked, and the door was opened by a man who looked familiar but whom Fletcher couldn't place for a second. He was clean-shaven, his grey hair was slicked back and he was wearing what appeared to be brand new clothes. Fletcher squinted and then grinned broadly. "Uncle Gamlen?" he exclaimed in surprise.

"Fletcher," said Gamlen gruffly, offering his hand to his nephew.

Fletcher shook it and said in a quiet aside to Fenris: "It's a step up from 'boy', anyway," before his words were drowned out by an ear-splitting clamour from the rear of the room.

"Welcome hoooome!" squealed Bethany and Leandra. The three new arrivals laughed, wincing slightly, and waited until the ladies had calmed down before greetings were made. Many hugs were exchanged, and a few tears shed.

Wearing beautiful new dresses, the mother and daughter ushered the men into the living room which had been trimmed with handmade bunting in celebration of Fletcher's return. They were seated at the table--Fenris nearest the fire as his shirt had not quite dried yet--and wine was poured for them as the ladies went into the kitchen.

"Have we come into some money, Uncle?" Fletcher asked cheerily, his insides tickled by warmth as he looked around the modest dwelling. He was still worried about the inevitable discussion he'd have with his mother, but so far she'd shown no signs of knowing anything. "And how did you all know when we were coming back?"

"One of _your_ friends dropped in a note and a bag of gems," Gamlen said to Fenris, who responded with a puzzled frown.

"Ha! Was that a carrot-topped, freckle-faced friend by any chance?" Varric joked.

"She was… rather _orange_ , yes," Gamlen replied awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do with himself, unaccustomed to entertaining guests.

"That is the guard-captain of Kirkwall you speak of," Fenris reprimanded both men.

"His boss," Varric clarified for Gamlen's sake.

"Good old Aveline." Fletcher grinned, nudging the elf's arm. "I'll have to thank her when I see her. Well, you look very smart, Uncle. Why don't you join us?" Fletcher pulled out a chair for the older man.

Gamlen let out a harrumph and then picked up a stack of letters from the table behind him, which he placed in front of Fletcher. "Yes, I will in a minute. I'll, erm, see what those two are up to."

"These are all for me?" Fletcher asked in dismay.

"They have your name on them, don't they? News has travelled fast. I expect most of them are begging letters. Don't let anyone con you," he warned, waggling his index finger before sighing and disappearing into the kitchen.

"He's not good around lots of people," Fletcher explained good-naturedly as he sifted through the letters. "Right, you two have just become my secretaries." He split the pile into three and doled the letters out. "Any written in crayon or blood are to be disregarded."

As Gamlen predicted, most of the letters were from people who'd heard about the return of the 'expedition heroes', asking for money. Fletcher instructed that they be put aside so he could read them when he had more time--there might be some genuine cases.

"Couple here from the Chantry," Varric said, passing the letters to Fletcher.

"And another here," added Fenris, recognising the Chantry's seal. "And _this_ one bears the seal of the Viscount's office."

Eyebrows raised, Fletcher took the letters and read them as the other two sifted through the remainder. "Oh, this one's from Sol at the Gallows reminding me to let him know if we found any interesting plants or fungi in the Deep Roads… and _this_ one is from Emeric. Remember him? We rescued him from those thugs. He says he has a new lead in his investigation." Fletcher pocketed that one and moved to the third letter bearing the Chantry's design.

After a minute, Fenris looked up from his sorting when Fletcher hadn't elaborated on the third letter. "What is it?" he asked, noticing Fletcher's concerned frown.

"Due to a change in circumstances, any previous arrangement between us is hereby rescinded. You are advised to exercise due caution and not to draw unnecessary attention to yourselves. I trust that I can count on your discretion in this matter, as you can count on mine. KCC."

"KCC?" asked Fenris.

"Knight-Captain Cullen," Fletcher answered flatly, slapping the note onto the table. "That treacherous bastard! After all the work we did for him!"

"I'd be more concerned about this 'change of circumstances', Hawke," Varric noted, glancing at the kitchen door. "What do you suppose that means?"

"Anders needs to know about this," said Fletcher gravely. "I wouldn't put it past him to stroll into the Gallows and wave his riches in the Templars' faces! Shit!" He started to stand but stopped when Fenris grabbed his arm.

"You are _not_ going to Darktown at this hour."

 _"Anders_ has gone to Darktown at this hour!" Fletcher objected. "For all we know the Templars might be waiting there for him!"

"Settle down," Varric said, standing up as he gestured for Fletcher to sit. "Just give me a minute."

The dwarf left the house and returned ten minutes or so later. "I knocked on Jed's door across the way, sent his two teenage boys over to Darktown. Big, strapping lads, they are. They know Blondie and they can handle themselves."

"Are you certain they will be safe?" asked Fenris.

"Sure. They know every rathole and hiding place there is to be had. I told them to bring back his response. When I said there was a sovereign each in it for them, they took off before I got chance to finish my message, and had to call them back! Don't worry, Hawke, they're good kids."

Fletcher exhaled and patted the dwarf's broad shoulder as he sat down. "Yes, I know. Thank you. We're going to have to be careful. If these people," he said, pointing at the begging letters, "know of our return, then you can bet the Templars do as well. Great."

"Put it out of your mind for tonight, if you can," counselled Fenris. "You are safe here. I will stay with you."

"Thanks, Fen." Fletcher gave a genuine smile but still his heart thumped erratically. Hearing the creak of the kitchen door, he hastily gathered his letters together--including the unread one from the Viscount's office--and shoved them into his pack.

"Dinner's almost ready," Leandra announced as she and Bethany brought in two huge bowls, one filled with roast potatoes and the other with mixed vegetables. Gamlen followed behind, carrying cutlery and napkins.

The table was set, and before long it was groaning under the weight of several platters and bowls, a huge shoulder of roast pork as its centrepiece. As the head of the family (although that was sometimes disputed by Gamlen), Fletcher carved the roast and refilled everyone's goblet or tankard with wine. Raising his own tankard, he looked around the table and smiled.

"To my family. Dearest Mother and Sister… and Uncle, of course. My wily, witty friend," he said to Varric.

"Don't forget handsome," added the dwarf.

Fletcher bowed deeply. "My apologies. Handsome as well." He then turned to Fenris and raised his tankard higher. "My companion and confidant," he said, knowing anything mushier than that would embarrass Fenris. The elf dipped his head and raised his own goblet in salute.

"I'd like say a few words as well," Leandra ventured, Fletcher taking his seat after she'd risen. "I know it isn't the custom, but tonight is special. You are correct, Fletcher, when you say our family is here. It gives me a great deal of pleasure to see a full table, and my children so happy, thanks to Varric and Fenris. Thank you, both, for making my dear son and daughter so contented." She laughed, then, and cleared her throat, looking bashful. "Well, that was all I wanted to say." She sat down amid affectionate laughter.

"Now we just need to find someone for Mother and Gamlen," Fletcher said.

Another throat was cleared, this time with less subtlety and more volume. "Actually, Brother, we might be halfway there," said Bethany, waggling her eyebrows.

"Oh?" Fletcher's eyes darted between Gamlen and Leandra. Noticing that Gamlen had folded his arms and Leandra had hung her head, smiling, he turned fully to his mother. _"Oh?"_

"Seeing as the cat's got Mother's tongue, _I'll_ tell you," Bethany interjected, pleased with herself. "Mother met a gentleman at the market one day, and has been back there every day because _apparently_ we keep running out of vegetables."

Varric chortled, Fenris smiled slightly, but Gamlen folded his arms even tighter. "She doesn't know anything about him, and he disappeared for almost a week with a completely unsatisfactory explanation, as far as I'm concerned."

"Don't be so hysterical, Uncle!" scoffed Bethany. "He took us for tea yesterday, Fletcher, and he was a perfect gentleman. And we know plenty about him."

"What's this about him disappearing?" Fletcher asked in a serious tone.

Leandra explained. "There _is_ a reason for that, Fletcher. Two blood mages escaped from the Gallows a while ago. Several templars were posted around here and Hightown during that time, and Beth was unable to go out. He's a mage, Fletcher. His name is Quentin."

"An apostate?" Fenris asked with concern before sighing and shaking his head. "I… pardon me. I did not mean anything."

"Your elf is right to be concerned," Gamlen said to Fletcher, prodding the table with his finger. "The last thing this family needs is _another_ apostate. I'm sorry, Leandra, but I'm not going to skirt around the issue like everyone else seems to be."

"First of all, Uncle, he is not _my_ elf, and he is called Fenris!" Leandra touched her son's arm and he took a deep breath to calm himself. "I think I'd better meet him, Mother, if you have him in mind as a suitor."

"I do," she declared with a defiant look at Gamlen.

Fletcher nodded and chewed on a mouthful of meat and potatoes for a minute before swallowing. "I'm going to be quite busy over the next few days, and I might not be here much. I don't mind you seeing him in the meantime, Mother, but I do want to talk to him and satisfy myself that he's suitable for you."

A smile passed between mother and daughter. "Of course, Fletcher," Leandra said. "Let me know when you're available, and I'll arrange it."

Fletcher, milking his position as Head of the Family because he was hungry, nodded and declared an end to that particular topic of conversation, before thanking Leandra for the feast and inviting everyone to tuck in. When finished, he, Gamlen and Varric had a second helping. His belly finally full, Fletcher burped, excused himself and pushed himself back from the table slightly, sighing in contentment. "Listen, everyone. We discovered a resource in the Deep Roads and Varric is setting up a mining operation. At the moment it's hush-hush, so don't tell anyone."

"What kind of resource?" Gamlen asked.

"A blue precious stone," said Fletcher, looking Gamlen in the eye. He didn't mind telling half-truths to his uncle, but he might have struggled with his mother. "We think we'll make some decent money out of it, don't we, Varric?"

The dwarf nodded with an easy smile. "Yeah, but we'll need some workers who are prepared to be away from home for weeks at a time. You interested?" he asked Gamlen, who had sat forward.

"That depends," the middle-aged man said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Is the work dangerous?"

"It'll be as safe as we can make it," Fletcher said. "We've heard all about that slave-driver Hubert and the Bone Pit. We'll be doing things properly. We have some money to put behind the venture, now, and we'll be employing only dwarves and experienced Fereldans, to give them the work. I told Varric you have experience working in a mine, and I know how much you hate it at the docks. What do you think?"

Gamlen's brow creased as he considered the offer. "What are your terms?"

"We thought a starting wage of ten sovereigns a week, plus food will be provided on site and the hours are negotiable, but once you've agreed, you'll be expected to honour your hours unless you're ill or there's an emergency at home, for example. Otherwise there will be too much disruption. We also plan to pay a bi-annual dividend to the workers based on profits and how much time they've put in."

"That's… quite generous," Gamlen conceded, nodding.

"Pay peanuts, get monkeys," supplied Varric. "If you want in, though, there is one more thing. I hate things like this, but we'll be asking each worker to sign a non-disclosure agreement. I'm sure you know, Messere, that most mining operations are subject to sabotage from rival outfits. We want as few people knowing about this as possible, for as long as possible."

"I'll sign it," Gamlen agreed. "I, um… well, thank you. I'll give notice at the docks tomorrow morning." He shook Varric's proffered hand and, when Fletcher offered his own, Gamlen even cracked a smile. "I can't _wait_ to tell my gaffer to stick it."

"Varric and I will be your gaffers now," said Fletcher. "How do you feel about that?"

"For ten sovereigns a week I'd work for anyone, even you, boy."

"Then welcome aboard," Varric said, while Fletcher rolled his eyes.

Fenris quietly cleared his throat. "I…also have someone in mind, if you would consider it?"

"Well, sure, Elf. Who is it?"

"Do you remember Anso?" he asked Fletcher, who frowned and shook his head. "He is a dwarf who aided me a great deal upon my arrival in Kirkwall. He acted as my eyes and ears during that time and ensured my anonymity. He is trustworthy and hard-working. He is also responsible for our introduction, Fletcher."

"Yeah, you know, Hawke?" Varric reminded him. "We thought he'd led us on a wild goose chase when we found the empty chest?"

 _"That_ Anso!" exclaimed Fletcher, his eyes lighting up. "Yes, I remember him! He thought the sky was going to fall down on him, didn't he?"

"Indeed," said Fenris. "I believe that he would welcome the opportunity to work beneath the surface. I would also welcome it, for it would keep him out of harm's way. Some of those he deals with are of dubious character to say the least. It would please me to see him rewarded. I owe him."

"And so do I," said Fletcher, gazing lovingly at the elf. "Without him, we never would have met, would we?"

Nauseated groans came from Gamlen and Varric, while Bethany and Leandra chuckled. Fenris turned pink and squirmed a little before shaking his head.

"And I know just where he'll be tonight," said Varric. "I've seen him scurrying into the Hanged Man after the sun sets. Poor sod's even _more_ afraid of the sky when it gets dark."

"Would you like to pay him a visit, Fen?" asked Fletcher. "We could walk Varric back and catch Anso while we know where he is. We won't be gone for long," he assured Leandra.

"What about the Templars?" Fenris asked.

"The Templars haven't been around for a few days," Bethany reassured him. "I've been out with Mother, and we didn't see a single one."

"Still, I would advise circumspection," the elf recommended. "I _could_ do with a walk, though." He rubbed his tiny paunch, legacy of the huge meal he'd eaten.

"I'll go and get changed. Excuse me, Mother." Fletcher rose from the table and headed into his and Gamlen's room.

"Look in the wardrobe," Leandra called out as Fletcher closed the door. "Beth and I bought you some new clothes."

"Oh, thank you, Mother!" he shouted back. When he'd changed and re-entered the room, he was wearing new black boots, black trousers (which were quite close-fitting), and a grey short-sleeved tunic. "I love them! Even the trousers fit well!" He walked to Leandra's side and hugged her before standing in front of Fenris and giving him a twirl. "Well, Fen? Not very magey, is it? How do I look?"

Fenris cast a cursory glance over the outfit and nodded. The tight trousers and tunic highlighted the fact Fletcher had lost more weight, and it suited him. "Fine," he muttered, clearing his throat as his eyes roamed over Fletcher's biceps. "It looks… fine."

"Oh, don't, I'm filling up here!" Fletcher teased, knowing very well what Fenris _truly_ thought of his outfit. "I'll leave my staff here, all right?"

"Very well," agreed Fenris, rising with Varric, glad of the opportunity to talk about something other than how tight Fletcher's trousers were. "Thank you for the delightful meal," he said to Leandra with a bow.

"We've missed your cooking, Ma Hawke," Varric joined in with a bow of his own. "Sunshine, you could learn something from your mama."

"Cheeky wretch!"

Varric ducked to avoid the thrown potato and picked it up, tossing it back to Bethany. "Sunshine, I'll call for you in the morning. We'll visit the captain, sort out the workers and then," he declared with another bow, "I am all yours, dear lady."

"Lucky me," said Bethany tartly before laughing and going over to Varric, sending him on his way with a kiss to the cheek. "Don't get them into trouble, Varric. We want them home at a reasonable hour. You've had them to yourself for quite long enough."

Goodbyes were exchanged, and the three men walked to the Hanged man without incident. Fenris went ahead as usual, occasionally glancing back at his companions. One time when Varric wasn't paying attention, Fletcher could swear that the elf winked at him, but conceded it could have been the low light playing tricks on his eyes. And then he decided that he would _choose_ to believe it was indeed a wink. When they reached the Hanged Man, Fletcher felt on top of the world.

Having ascertained that no Templars lurked within, Fenris called Fletcher inside and they were soon besieged by well-wishers offering drinks and seats at their tables. They gladly accepted the free booze and Varric and Fletcher held court for a time, while Fenris remained taciturn and watched the entrance, offering occasional nods and grunts for the sake of politeness.

"Fletcher," he said quietly, nudging the mage. "He's here."

They looked to the door while Varric continued spinning tall tales to his friends, and watched as the nervous-looking dwarf blundered into the pub, mopping his brow with a handkerchief and sighing once the door had closed.

"Catch you later, Varric," Fletcher said to the dwarf, who waved his hand and carried on recounting his story, not wanting to lose his stride.

"Let me do the talking," Fenris said to the surprised Fletcher. "And… play along."

"Always happy to play with you, Fen-Fen."

Fenris halted and folded his arms, while Fletcher shrugged, offering an insincere snicker of an apology. "If that is how you want to play it… Fletch-Fletch."

"Wh… Fletch-Fletch? That's bloody awful!"

"And _so_ is 'Fen-Fen'. But I am prepared to admit I may have been unappreciative of your unique and special brand of humour. So I have decided to emulate you, for the sake of us reaching a better understanding… Fletch-Fletch."

"I don't think I like my new nickname," Fletcher whined.

"Quiet," ordered Fenris as they neared Anso, pleased that he'd shaken Fletcher out of his silly mood. He would need the mage to be serious for a minute. They arrived behind the dwarf, who was looking anxiously at the night sky through one of the windows. Fenris softly cleared his throat and stepped closer. "Anso?"

"Gyeargh!" Anso yelled, whipping around to face them, his face almost purple with shock. "Why would you _do_ that?" He panted, clutching his chest. "I thought the sodding world had come to an end!"

"Good evening," Fenris greeted with a bow, his mouth curving slightly.

"F-Fenris? Is that _you?"_ asked the wide-eyed dwarf.

"Indeed it is," replied Fenris in a serious tone, affecting a scowl. "I have been looking for you. We need to talk."

Anso's face dropped and he looked at the elf warily, saying nothing.

"You are responsible for finding this… _mage,"_ Fenris uttered darkly, grabbing Fletcher's arm and pushing him forward. "Since that night, he has not left my side."

"Yes, I'm stuck with him, now," Fletcher griped, catching on.

"It is thanks to _you_ I met him, Anso," Fenris went on, struggling to keep a straight face. "Would you care to explain yourself?"

"Now, j-just wait a minute! You told me to find a capable man!" Anso blathered before glancing at the window again and pulling the drapes closed, shutting out the redoubtable surface world. "And that's what I did. If he's still hanging around, you can't blame _me_ for that! C-can you?"

"I can and I _do,"_ the elf said, his smile finally betraying him, but the anxious dwarf didn't seem to catch on. "Not only did you find me a capable man, but a companion… and a confidant," he continued with a fond look at Fletcher. "I have only one thing left to say to you, Dwarf."

Anso closed his eyes and nodded solemnly, preparing to meet his fate with stoicism and fortitude.

"Thank you, dear friend."

"U-uh?" Anso stammered, his eyes flying open as Fenris grabbed his hand, warmly shaking it, and then the grinning mage also shook it.

"Sorry for the ruse," Fletcher said. "Fenris has rather a cruel streak, don't you, dear?"

"R-ruse?"

"Forgive me," said Fenris, feeling a little guilty, "but I could not resist it. Hawke and I have become… close friends. Without you, Anso, my life would be very different."

"As would mine," echoed Fletcher. "Thank you, truly."

"Okay," Anso mumbled to himself, "the sky has finally crashed down and caved your head in. That's fine. You knew it would happen one day…"

Fletcher smiled. "The sky is still there, and as beautiful as it always was, but I appreciate that you don't share our love of it. I have a proposition for you, by way of thanks, if you're interested."

"Uh… I g-get that you're grateful and all," said Anso, holding his palms up, "but I'm really not into that kind of thing. T-Thanks all the same."

Fletcher looked confused for a moment before glancing at Fenris, who was wearing a puckish grin. "Oh, no! I didn't mean that!" Fletcher laughed and slapped Anso's shoulder, causing the dwarf to jump back almost a foot. "No, I have a job for you, if you want it," he offered, lowering his voice. "I'm starting up a mining operation in a secret location. We could do with a man like you, and I'm offering a permanent job as a sub-foreman. You'll be in charge of your own crew and, more importantly, you'll be off the streets. The pay is-"

"Fifteen sovereigns a week," Fenris cut in.

"Yes, _fifteen_ sovereigns a week," Fletcher repeated with a surreptitious glance at the elf. "What do you say, Anso? There'll be other dwarves there, and some of them are even talking about taking residence down there. You'll be comfortably off, away from all the gangs, and you'll have all the dank, dark caverns you can handle. We really are very grateful to you, and I hope you'll accept."

"Are you certain the sky hasn't caved _your_ head in, Human?" Anso asked suspiciously.

"Yep." Fletcher made a fist and knocked on his head. "It's still intact."

"Is he serious?" the dwarf asked Fenris, who nodded in encouragement.

"All the dank, dark caverns I can handle?" Anso clasped his chin and blinked rapidly. "If-if this is a genuine offer, the-then I…"

"It's genuine, friend," said Fenris. "Fletcher will be here tomorrow morning with Varric. Meet them here."

"By lunchtime tomorrow, Anso, you can kiss the surface goodbye, if that's what you want. I hope we'll see you then," Fletcher finished.

Fletcher then stepped back, just in time, as two strapping young men pushed past him, shouting hasty apologies as they squeezed through the crowd.

"They're Jed's boys," Fletcher muttered, watching them move towards Varric.

Finally reaching the dwarf, one of the teenagers whispered something in Varric's ear. The rogue called an abrupt halt to his storytelling session, dragging the two young men into a corner, where an intense-looking discussion ensued.

"I don't like this," whispered Fletcher. Fenris took a deep breath, preparing for flight or battle.

After a minute, the two lads were sent on their way with a sovereign each. Varric slowly made his way over to Fletcher, worryingly devoid of expression.

"All right, let's have it," Fletcher said, bracing himself.

"The boys found Blondie, but there's a problem," Varric uttered quietly. "When he got back, the Templars were all over the clinic, and he's had to set up someplace else. Thankfully the refugees bundled him away before he was spotted. The tinheads must have had a tip-off, Hawke."

"Can we trust the word of those youths?" queried Fenris.

"Yes, I know their family," Fletcher said, concern etched on his brow. "They've been to Anders for treatment, and wouldn't lie about this. Is he safe?" he asked Varric.

Varric shook his head and sighed. "He is for now. The place he's at is so filthy and diseased the Templars won't set foot there, but he can't stay down there, can he?"

"No, he can't," Fletcher agreed in a grave tone. "We'd better get down there and sort something out for him."

"No." Fenris placed a forbidding hand on Fletcher's chest and shook his head. "I will go. _You_ will remain here."

"No, Fenris-"

"He's right, Hawke." Varric sighed. "It's too great a risk. And Broody, a guard of Kirkwall won't get much information out of the refugees. I'll go with you. Let's head out." He removed a key on a chain from around his neck and passed it to Fletcher. "Hole up in my room. We'll be back. Come on," he said to Fenris.

"But…" Fletcher began.

"No buts," Fenris decreed as he headed for the door with Varric. "Do _not_ argue."

Fletcher's shoulders slumped. "Fine. Just be careful, all right?"

"I always am."

Fletcher watched, frowning, as they slipped out. "Well, Anso?" he said with a sigh, turning back to face the dwarf. "How do you fancy getting drunk?"

"G-good idea," replied his new drinking partner, following Fletcher to the bar.


	68. Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I really like what you've done with the place, Blondie. I hear brown is very 'in' this season."
> 
> "This place is not fit for pigs," Fenris muttered in disgust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to Per Ardua Ad Astra! \O/
> 
> Today marks exactly one year since chapter one was published on AO3. To celebrate, and as a thank-you to everyone who's read and supported the story, I will be publishing two chapters today. I'm grateful beyond words to all of you for sticking with Fenris and Fletcher's tale so far, and I hope you'll continue to do so! :D
> 
> I also need to say a special thank-you to two very dear friends of mine. Mary, who has been my beta-reader since chapter 23, your contribution - in ideas, suggestions and the countless hours you've spent correcting my ramblings, debating British/American English and curtailing my overzealous use of 'over' and 'of' - has made this story so much more than I could ever have hoped. Thank you for everything. I'm so grateful, I'll even let you have first dibs on SC!
> 
> And Carrie, our brainstorming sessions and your suggestions have also significantly shaped this story. Thank you sincerely, and have a fantastic trip across the US!
> 
> I'd also like to say thank-you to Wandering Lily - whose enthusiastic PMs never fail to bring a grin to my face, and have inspired a few great ideas - and to RenaiNoUmi for her wonderful artwork. Thank you both for your generosity.

Upon Fenris and Varric's arrival in Darktown, the dwarf sought out a few well-known 'regulars': refugees who'd resided in the Undercity for a while, and always had an ear to the ground.

"Are the Templars still here?" Varric asked Keir, a swarthy, middle-aged veteran of Darktown, and a friend of Anders.

"A few of 'em, yeah," replied the man cautiously with a suspicious glance at Fenris who, although not wearing his full armour, was still recognisable as one of the city guard.

"He's a friend of Blondie's," Varric reassured him. Fenris's eyebrows rose a little, but he said nothing.

Keir's eyes lingered on the elf for a moment before he nodded and addressed Varric. "There's still a few of 'em sniffing around, asking questions, but no one down 'ere's sayin' nothin'. We look after our own, an' Anders is a bloody saint, 'e is, Maker bless 'im. We got people lookin' out for when them bastards finally do one. 'Til then, Anders is safe."

"Where is he?" Fenris asked. "We have been led to believe that he is residing in the sewers, or thereabouts."

A sour look crossed Keir's face. "S'right. It's a bloody shame. Can't _you_ do nothin' about this, bein' one of them guards?"

Fenris shook his head. "Alas, the city guard is not affiliated with the Templar Order. My captain is unaware of my presence here. She would not approve."

"Can you take us to him, Keir?" asked the dwarf.

"I can, but we'll 'ave to take the, um… _scenic_ route to avoid those tin-'eaded goons."

"The scenic route?" Varric said, his nose wrinkling. "You mean through the sewers, don't you?"

"We gots to go through 'em to get to Anders anyway. Don't worry, Varric, they ain't used no more. Still smell of shit, though."

The elf and dwarf exchanged an unenthusiastic glance before Varric shrugged. "After _you,"_ he said to Keir.

As their guide led them through the lesser-known parts of the Undercity, Varric and Fenris dropped back a little so Fenris could ensure they weren't being followed.

"Why do you keep looking at me?" Fenris asked the dwarf after a while.

"I'm just curious, Broody, that's all."

A look of dismay befell Fenris. _"Curious?"_

"Get out of here! Not _that_ kind of curious! No, it's just… well, why are you here? Why were you the first to volunteer? It's no secret there's no love lost between you and Blondie. I know you kind of patched things up in the Deep Roads, but I'm guessing it'll take more than that before the two of you are drinking buddies. I'm also guessing Aveline would be pretty pissed if she found out you were aiding an apostate to evade the templars, even though you're not affiliated with them. So. As I said, I'm curious. What gives?"

"I volunteered because, had I not, Fletcher would have risked capture by coming down here in search of Anders. I was not about to allow that. Why are you asking me this? Even you agreed the risk was too great."

"Huh," muttered the dwarf.

"'Huh'? What do you mean by that?" demanded Fenris, coming to a stop before catching up to Varric, who continued walking.

"Oh, I didn't mean anything," Varric said in a sing-song voice, knowing Fenris could see right through him. "It's just that _this_ situation kind of reminds me of a similar situation you and Hawke once found yourselves in. With that witch up in the mountains? Not the one in the pendant, you understand, but the one who came after _you_. Remember?"

"I remember," said the elf, his tone suspicious. "And your point is?"

"I recall things between you and Hawke were… _awkward_ after that because he tried to stop you from going into the mountains all by your lonesome. Caused a hot mess of trouble. And yet, here you are, coming to rescue a mage from the clutches of the evil templars, all to keep _another_ mage from a similar fate. It's funny how things work out, don't you think?"

"I still fail to see your point, Dwarf."

"Sometimes there doesn't _need_ to be a point, my friend. Just making an observation, that's all."

They continued on for a while, walking behind Keir, until the deterioration in the air quality told them they were nearing the sewers. "You're going to make a story of this, aren't you?" the elf guessed, a quizzical eyebrow rising.

"Huh?"

"For one who prides himself on his literary prowess, the scope of your vocabulary is wanting. That was your second use of an _eloquium nihil_. I am highly disappointed in you."

"Look, Broody, I don't speak or write in Arcadium, or whatever it is you call it, so quit-"

"You _do_ write in the Thedosian language, though?" Fenris queried, his eyes slowly moving to Varric, who fingered his collar, wondering what _Fenris's_ point was. "You used Thedosian when penning a fictitious account of a ménage a trois involving me, Fletcher and," he shuddered, "Anders, did you not?"

"I don't speak Orlesian, either." Varric laughed nervously before increasing his pace. "Hey, Keir! Have we reached those damned sewers, yet?"

"Keep yer bloody voice down!" hissed Keir from up ahead. "We're nearly there!"

"Weeeeeell?" Fenris drawled.

Varric tutted, irritated that his plan to distract the annoyingly-astute elf had failed miserably. "I've written lots of stories. You can't seriously expect me to remember every little… hey! How do _you_ know about that story anyway?" Varric came to an abrupt halt, his cheeks and chest flushing.

"Fletcher read it to me while you were asleep one night," the elf explained, folding his arms.

"That cheeky mage! I _knew_ he wanted a look at my story book but I never would have had him pegged as a thief!" he blustered indignantly. "What?" he demanded when Fenris's eyebrow once again rose.

"Fletcher refused to read the final chapter to me," Fenris said calmly, slowly advancing on the dwarf. "Why do you suppose he would do that?"

"Who can say? You'll need to take it up with him." Varric was doing a poor job of feigning nonchalance as he backed away towards the beckoning Keir.

"I intend to read that chapter one day," Fenris promised. Varric again halted briefly before continuing. "When I do, I will be sure to apprise you of my opinion. In _direct and concise terms."_

"Keir?" Varric called, slightly out of breath, his stumpy legs carrying him away from the elf as quickly as they could.

Keir waited until they'd caught up to him and placed a finger to his lips, pointing at a trapdoor next to his feet. "This is one o' the entrances to the sewer," he whispered. "We gots to be quiet. There's grates above the sewers, an' if any of them templars 'ear us, we're done for." He flattened his hand and quickly drew it across his throat, making sure he got his point across.

"We can do quiet, can't we, Broody?" Varric asked the elf, relieved that the conversation about the story appeared to be over.

Fenris didn't take his eyes off Varric as Keir flipped open the trapdoor and descended, holding it open. Varric crouched down, feeling a hand grip his arm.

"Direct and concise terms," Fenris quietly uttered before releasing him and gesturing for him to proceed.

"Bloody smartass elves," Varric muttered irascibly, dropping down to the sewer.

After a few hundred metres of travel through the dark, malodorous sub-sewer, it widened out and Fenris and Keir were able to walk upright. As they passed under a grate, a few scant rays of dim light fell across Keir, who silently indicated the direction they should take. Eventually, the faint glow of firelight could be seen up ahead.

"We can talk now," Keir informed them, "but we should still be quiet, just in case. Anders ain't far away."

They followed him, now better able to see him due to a small fire that had been lit, and before long they reached the end of that particular branch of the sewers.

"Anders," whispered Keir. "You got visitors."

Anders, who was seated on the ground next to a grille in the wall where another fire was burning, closed the book he'd been reading and looked up, smiling with delight when he set eyes on the dwarf.

"Varric? And… _Fenris?"_ He squinted, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him.

"Anders," Fenris greeted with a solemn nod.

"I'll go back up, see what's what," announced Keir. "You need anythin'?"

"No, I'm fine for now. Thank you, Keir. I really mean that," said the mage earnestly.

"Come back up when you're ready, I'll be around," Keir instructed the visitors before disappearing into the gloom.

"Well, come in," invited Anders, patting the floor. "I would offer you both a chair, but as you can see, there aren't any."

"Nice," chirped Varric with an approving nod as he sat down. "I really like what you've done with the place, Blondie. I hear brown is very 'in' this season."

"This place is not fit for pigs," Fenris muttered in disgust, opting to stand.

Anders shrugged in an exaggerated way. "It's my home for now."

"So what happened?" Varric asked. "Did someone squeal on you? Or did those knuckleheads finally get lucky?"

"Search me," Anders answered with a weary sigh, shaking his head. "All I know is they've closed the clinic down. All of my stock… gone. Do you have any _idea_ how long it took me to find the ingredients and craft that stuff?"

Fenris crouched down, careful not to let his hands touch the floor. "Who brought you down here?"

"As soon as I set foot in Darktown I was bundled down here. I didn't have a bloody clue what was going on, all they kept saying was 'Templars'. Then, not long ago, Keir brought me some food. I hadn't even lit a fire down here yet because I didn't know how close they were and I didn't want to use magic." He scowled at the memory of the dark and cold. "Hey, I'd been missing the Deep Roads. What better way to reacquaint myself with the experience of living in a fucking tomb?"

"You cannot stay here," Fenris insisted, concerned by the harsh note in the mage's voice.

"Hey, Broody." Varric beckoned the elf closer. Fenris stood up and walked over to the dwarf before squatting next to him. "Remember that place we, uh… _acquired_ in Lowtown?"

"If you mean the place Guard-Captain Aveline forbade you from using, because it is owned by the Chantry, then yes, I do remember."

"Never mind the details," Varric scolded, ignoring the elf's disapproving frown. "You just said he can't stay here. You volunteered to come. Don't go all _guardy_ on me now, okay?"

With each breath of the rank air he took into his lungs, Fenris's throat threatened to close up, and he feared he'd have to singe his nasal hairs to expunge the smell of excrement. He groaned, realising the dwarf was right. He _had_ volunteered, and Anders could not spend the night in this place without serious consequences to his health... physical _and_ mental.

"You no longer have a key. It was confiscated," the elf argued.

"True, but Sunshine and Hawke both have a spare. Besides, if we take Blondie there via the underground tunnels, we won't _need_ a key right away, will we? I can pick the lock. Let's just get him there, where he's safe, and then we can quibble over the technicalities all you like."

"Do these tunnels lead to the ones he speaks of?" Fenris asked Anders, who shook his head.

"No. We'd need to get to the tunnels that lead in from the Coast. They go directly beneath Lowtown. The nearest entrance I can think of is about… I don't know, half a mile from here? We wouldn't need to go too near the clinic, but I don't know if the templars have spread out or if they're just concentrating on the clinic."

Fenris rose to his feet. "I will ascertain whether the way is safe or not."

"You'll…? _Really?"_ Anders asked in surprise. "I mean…" He sighed and sat up straight. "Be careful. Sometimes we get hunters down here. They're unlikely to hang around if the templars are about, but still. Tell Keir what you're doing and he'll find some lads to keep an eye on you. And don't question the templars if you see any. They're such a paranoid bunch they might make enquiries about you and connect you to Hawke and Bethany. Just keep a low profile."

"Remain here," Fenris instructed Varric as he moved to the tunnel.

"Way ahead of you. Just do what the mage says and be careful, okay? Hawke'd have my nuts for paperweights if anything happened to you. And yes, they _are_ that big and heavy."

"Of course," said Fenris dryly. "If I needed a further reason to remain safe, it would be the preservation of your… paperweights." He moved into the shadows. "And do not think I have forgotten about that chapter."

"Didn't even cross my mind, Broody."

"Fenris," Anders said, "I won't forget this. Thank you."

"Thank me when you are away from this place," Fenris replied, his voice growing fainter as he headed down the tunnel.

~o~O~o~

"You've _got_ to be kidding me!" Aveline screwed up the letter and angrily threw it against the wall before slumping into her chair, her gauntleted hands scrubbing at her face. "Of all the punctilious, pedantic, hairsplitting… ugh!" She pushed up from her desk, retrieved the offending note and threw it at the wall again, kicking it across the room as it landed.

"What did the bit of paper do to you?" Donnic asked from the door.

"Not _now_ , Donnic," she snapped. "I'm really not in the mood for your-" She halted at the quiet thud on her desk and turned around as Donnic pushed a large mug towards her.

"Thought you could do with this." His tone was even, conciliatory, which irritated Aveline no end as she was spoiling for a fight.

"You know I don't drink tea."

"There's a little something extra in it. You look like you need it." He took a deep gulp from his own mug while Aveline sat at her desk in a daze. Donnic then picked up the note and straightened it out.

"Hold on a minute," Donnic muttered as he scanned the note, his expression growing dour before he looked up, eyes flashing angrily. "What _is_ this? You're not going to stand for this, are you?"

"What am I _supposed_ to do? He's the bloody magistrate, isn't he? We're just the ones who do the donkey work, aren't we?" She sighed, sniffing at the contents of her mug before pouring half of it down her throat.

"So you're telling me Bartrand and that other one will just get off scot-free? No trial, no sentence, just a slap on the wrist and 'don't do it again'? He tried to kill them!"

"Then take it up with the magistrate!" she exclaimed furiously, her frayed nerves about to snap. _"Read_ the letter, Donnic! It states quite clearly that the Deep Roads are not part of Kirkwall, and we have no jurisdiction there!"

"Then we transport them to Cumberland, or wherever the Deep Roads _do_ fall under our jurisdiction!"

She shook her head and stared at the mug of tea, her fists clenching. "Cumberland has no jurisdiction over the Deep Roads, and neither does Ostwick! It's all in the letter! Will you kindly read the thing properly before asking any more stupid questions?"

"So I could just take someone who'd looked at me cock-eyed down there and slit his throat with no consequences at all? What kind of half-baked law is that? What kind of precedent do you think that will set, Aveline?"

"I don't know!" She sprang to her feet, slamming her palm against the desk. "I don't bloody know, all right? Why is it always Aveline this, Aveline that, as if _I_ can do anything about it? As if I did it deliberately? I'm just as outraged about this as you are, you know!"

Donnic huffed. "I wouldn't want to be the one to tell Fenris about this."

"Just go on stating the obvious!" she yelled, her face turning puce. "Just you go on! You seem to think I haven't thought about any of this at all!" She took a deep breath, realising her hands were shaking, as Donnic moved to the door and very carefully closed it, a wary eye on her.

"All right. We can still salvage something from this," he mused, careful to keep his voice calm. "Those dead dwarves we found. They were on the _surface_. That's part of Kirkwall."

"I burned them as you well _know_. They were tainted."

"What about the ones we found inside, then? They weren't all tainted." He moved closer to Aveline and lowered his voice. "Who's to know _they_ weren't found on the surface as well? If we tell the magistrate they were found _above_ the thaig, he can't ignore that, can he? Where are they, the untainted ones? In the mortuary?"

"No," she answered, her mouth suddenly going dry.

"Somebody has to answer for their deaths," Donnic went on, pacing back and forth as his mind turned over. "It stands to reason that Bartrand had something to with it, and even if it's proven he didn't, we might be able to secure a prosecution… his actions caused such unrest that the dwarves turned on each other, or something. I know it's tenuous, Aveline, but he has to answer for _something_. At the very least, he contributed to Reijyr Vonald's death by not doing proper safety checks."

"There _are_ no bodies," she murmured quietly, sweat forming at her temples.

"What do you mean?"

"I burned them." She grabbed her mug and finished off the whiskey-laced tea.

"Yes, I know you burned the tainted…" Donnic stopped, a barb of anger stabbing at his gut. "Maker, don't tell me… you didn't burn the _untainted_ ones, did you? _Please_ don't tell me that! They're the only evidence we have left! How are we supposed to prosecute Bartrand without them? Tell me you didn't do that, Aveline!"

"I've just _told_ you, I burned them. _All_ of them. I _had_ to. I… couldn't stand looking at them." The tin mug buckled as her fist closed around it and she stood up, looking Donnic directly in the eyes. "Well? Don't you have something to say about that? You can't possibly say anything I haven't already said to myself. But go on, do your worst."

He turned away from her, his stomach churning at the thought of Fenris's reaction--and what the elf would do--when informed of the latest development in the debacle that was the Deep Roads expedition. "This is all because of what happened to your husband, isn't it?" He sighed, sadness in his voice. "It's all so obvious now. Why didn't I see it before?" Hearing the clank of heavy plate from behind him, he braced himself.

_"What?"_

"You told me your husband died of the taint," he said, finding Aveline had moved around the desk and was now standing a few feet away from him, a dangerous glint in her green eyes.

"That has _nothing_ to do with it, Guardsman!"

"That's why you've been so rattled, isn't it? This brought it all back to you, didn't it?"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Donnic!" Her voice trembled as the pain of Wesley's memories, the guilt and the shame of her recent actions all coalesced, igniting a fury inside her.

"You _chose_ to tell me about him," he retorted, struggling to keep his frustration in check. "I'm just interpreting your erratic behaviour based on that."

"My…? Who do you think you are?" she questioned, her voice rising in volume with each word. "Who the _hell_ do you think you are? How _dare_ you bring Wesley in to this?"

Donnic nodded slowly. "Wesley. So that was his name. I'm really sorry about him, Aveline, truly, I am. But if his loss is going to interfere with how you do your job, then maybe you need to take some time off. You can't destroy vital evidence because it reminds you-"

"You _bloody...!"_

The force of the blow caused Donnic to stagger back, his hand clamping over his nose, blood on his gauntlet as he retracted it. He stared at it, his shoulders heaving, his wrath building to perilous levels. Before Aveline said another word, and before he was tempted to act or speak, he sped to the exit, the door banging against the wall as it flew open, and he was gone.

"Donnic, wait a minute!" she shouted, running to the door. She then slammed it closed, shutting out the gawking faces of the guards who'd been outside, listening.

"Maker!" she gasped in horror, trudging to her desk, her chair nearly collapsing with the force at which she sat down. "I can't… I can't go on like this." She folded her arms on the desk and planted her head between them, her body finally shutting down as she promptly fell asleep.

~o~O~o~

A message was quickly passed along the network of refugees who lined Fenris's route, staggered at regular intervals, all giving the impression of loitering, but they were as alert as the elf. He didn't know who they were but, as he walked through the Undercity, some would occasionally nod at him, indicating the way was clear.

He released a steadying breath as he passed by the clinic, venturing a quick glance in its direction. Seeing a glint of steel and a flash of magenta just above the steps leading to Anders's former home, he slipped into the small crowd of unfortunates gathered there, and listened.

"Doesn't look like we're going to find anything else here," muttered a bored-sounding male voice.

"Does that mean you're finally going to clear off, then?" a woman demanded. Fenris racked his brain, certain he'd heard her voice somewhere before. "And are you going to clear up the mess you've left behind? Compensate me for what you've _stolen?_ This stuff costs money, you know!"

"We don't _need_ to compensate you," the cocky male answered. "Just count yourself lucky you weren't caught harbouring an apostate."

"How many times do I have to tell you? There's no apostate here! I've been running this clinic for months, just ask anyone down here!"

"Months?" the templar scoffed. "Anders hasn't _been_ in the Deep Roads for months. We know he's out, now, and we intend to find him."

"Anders? I've already told you, I've never _heard_ of Anders! Now stop wasting my time and sod off, the lot of you!"

"Don't think this is the last you've seen of us, lady," threatened the templar, a fraught silence following. "Let's get out of this shithole," he directed his men after a minute and he stepped out of the clinic, glaring at the crowd.

Fenris lowered his head and moved behind a tall human refugee, watching as the sneering templar with the bushy sideburns cleared a path through the throng. A further seven templars followed, the last one venturing a glance back at the clinic before he left. Fenris's heart stilled in his chest for a second before he pushed forward a little, wanting a better look at the templar, but he'd already caught up to the rest of his men.

"Go on, piss off!" one of the refugees shouted at the departing group.

"Yeah, we don't want your lot 'ere!" another yelled and Fenris stayed with them as they followed the templars.

"Talk like that gives us even more reason to return, so watch it!" the templar leader barked back at them. While this exchange was going on, Fenris caught another glance at the templar bringing up the rear of the group, his heart pounding once again. The man was tall and slim with short, honey-blond hair, but it was the angular set of his jaw, his long nose and soft brown eyes that were so familiar to Fenris.

As the crowd began to disperse Fenris quickly went up the steps leading to the clinic, still looking in the direction of the templars even though they were out of sight. "Anders?" he murmured in confusion and then jumped as a finger gently prodded his shoulder.

He wheeled around, coming face-to-face with a dark-haired, blue-eyed human female who was shorter than him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," she mumbled.

"You didn't." He cleared his throat. "You… startled me a little, though."

"Sorry," she said again. "You're Hawke's friend, aren't you?"

"Yes. And you are Mallory."

"You have a better memory than me. I'm afraid I don't remember your name." She sighed, turned away and invited him into the clinic.

He stepped inside, his heart sinking at the sight that greeted him. The clinic had been completely cleaned out, Anders's entire stock of medicines, balms and draughts confiscated or smashed upon the ground. Even the meticulously-ordered patient records had not been spared, nor had Anders's extensive range of books: several torn pages littered the place. Benches and tables were overturned, and a few refugees who'd defied the templars by remaining in the clinic straightened them out amid despondent silence.

Mallory was standing a little ahead of Fenris, shaking her head with her hands over her mouth. "Anders has put so much into this place and look what they've done to it."

He nodded blankly, his own thoughts on Fletcher. He remembered the zeal in his lover's eyes when he'd told Fenris of his and Anders's plans for the clinic and the residents of the Undercity. How he'd looked forward to being instructed by Anders, and how he'd dreamed of becoming a full-time healer, dedicating his life to alleviating the suffering of others.

"Anders is safe for now," he told Mallory, evading her question about his name, wary of trusting anyone at the moment. "We will take him away for tonight and see what tomorrow brings."

She slowly turned around, tears in her eyes, and nodded, her mouth opening but no words coming forth.

"What of you?" he asked.

"I… I'll be fine. I have somewhere to sleep. I… thank you, um, Messere...?"

"I do not require thanks. Excuse me. I should go." He bowed slightly, remembering that Fletcher was still at the Hanged Man, probably inebriated by now, and that Fenris should get him home before his mother started to fret.

He went in search of Keir, finding him not far from the entrance to the sewers. "Tell Anders and Varric that the way is clear. I have a personal errand to attend to, and must depart. Farewell." Fenris extended his hand and Keir shook it, thanking the elf for his aid before disappearing down the trap door once again.

~o~O~o~

Fenris's suspicions about Fletcher's level of intoxication were confirmed when he reached the Hanged Man just before closing. After making a few enquiries, he determined that Fletcher and Anso had retired to Varric's room with a bottle of rotgut. The newest member of the mining operation had departed not long ago, leaving Fletcher alone.

Fenris listened at the door to Varric's room, smiling when he heard snoring and soft mumbling from within. Upon trying the knob, the door opened and the elf stepped inside before closing the door and walking to the armchair where Fletcher had nodded off.

He crouched next to the mage, placing a hand on his knee, which he shook until Fletcher's eyes slowly opened.

"Fen?" the mage said drowsily before sitting up quickly and clutching his head. "Ooh... how much did we drink? What time is it? Did you fine Nanders? Is he all right?"

"Nanders?" asked Fenris in amusement. "I have not seen _him_ , no."

"Funny," said Fletcher with good-natured sarcasm, reaching for the half-empty bottle and offering it to the elf, who declined.

Fenris sat upon Varric's bed and meshed his fingers together, resting his hands in his lap. "Anders successfully evaded the templars, but I fear…" He shook his head, not looking forward to Fletcher's reaction to his news.

"You fear what?"

"The clinic… the templars destroyed it. I spoke to the woman, Mallory, who appeared distraught. Fletcher… they left nothing behind. I'm sorry."

Fletcher sat still for a few moments, his gaze on the floor, his frown slowly deepening. "But we were going to… we had so many plans for that place."

Fenris stood up, offering Fletcher his hand. The mage took it, Fenris leading him back to the bed where they sat together. "There will be another clinic," Fenris consoled him, his hand still around Fletcher's.

"What-what about Anders? Where is he? And Varric?" asked Fletcher, quickly sobering up.

"The templars are gone, but they threatened to return. The Undercity is no longer a safe place for Anders _or_ you. Varric is taking Anders to the safehouse that Sister Petrice abandoned, via the underground tunnels. He will be safe there for now, but something more permanent will need to be arranged."

Fletcher's shoulders slumped and he released a long sigh. "Fenris… thank you, from the bottom of my heart," he said, directing his gaze to the elf. "Thank you for stopping me from going. Thank you for just… seeing past things, you know? And thank you for helping my friend."

Fenris grunted softly and nodded, releasing Fletcher's hand and wrapping his arm around the mage's back. "I know what the clinic represented to you, but it was a symbol and nothing more. You need not abandon your dreams of bettering yourself and using your talents as a vocation. You will still be able to do that. This is just a wrinkle in the fabric of life."

Fletcher's eyes creased a little and he smiled softly. "You always make everything better," he murmured, placing a kiss on the tip of Fenris's nose.

"It is oftentimes darkest before the dawn," Fenris replied. "A platitude, of course, but a pertinent one." He removed his arm from around Fletcher's back and rose, moving to Varric's sideboard, where two empty mugs and the bottle were. He picked up the bottle, pouring a little into each of the mugs, and took them back to the bed, passing one to Fletcher before sitting beside him. "A toast. To the clinic." Fenris raised his mug and Fletcher grinned, tapping his own mug against Fenris's.

"To the clinic." They took a sip before Fletcher raised his own mug. "To a new start. For all of us."

"I'll drink to that."

A few more toasts were made but, curiously, the drink didn't have any further effect on Fletcher. Their conversation turned to more mundane matters, such as Fletcher returning home.

"Your sister warned Varric not to keep you away for too long," Fenris reminded Fletcher. "I for one would not want to defy her."

"Let's wait for Varric and then we'll see," Fletcher said thoughtfully. "I might not go home tonight, I haven't decided yet. So long as Mother and Beth know I'm safe, they'll be fine. They'll be getting ready for bed soon, anyway."

"Why would you not want to go home?" Fenris asked, puzzled.

"It's not that I don't _want_ to… let's just see what Varric says, all right?"

"As you wish," Fenris answered with a shrug, wondering what was on Fletcher's mind, before he shifted and sat forward a little. "While we wait, there is something more I wish to discuss with you. Earlier at the clinic, I saw someone. I had not met him before, but he…" He shook his head, the memory of the mysterious templar's face already fading. "Perhaps I am mistaken, tired, even."

"Tell me anyway."

Fenris sighed, his brows knitting together. "One of the templars at the clinic appeared… the first time I set eyes upon him, my blood ran cold."

"Why?" Fletcher asked, alarmed.

Fenris placed a reassuring hand on Fletcher's arm. "Not for any sinister reason. It is just for a moment, I was looking at Anders, or so it seemed at the time."

Fletcher cocked his head, frowning. "Anders? One of the templars looked like him? Sounded like him?"

"I did not hear him speak, but the resemblance was too uncanny to disregard. He was not a mirror image of Anders, but was of similar height, colouring and build and his mien, his mannerisms, his eyes… For the first few seconds I believed he _was_ Anders, albeit in templar uniform."

Fletcher blew out a sigh. "I know Anders doesn't make much money at the clinic, but I can't see him moonlighting for the templars, unless he plans to bring them down from within."

Fenris smirked. "That seems doubtful, particularly as most of the templars stationed this side of the Minanter River know of him."

"True. Did you tell Anders?"

"No. I returned here immediately after and did not see him or Varric, but I relayed a message to them. I did not mention the templar in the message. I thought it prudent to speak to you, first."

"How old do you think he is?"

"I would estimate him to be of similar age or slightly older. I am fairly certain he is not younger than Anders."

"Anders has an older brother he hasn't seen since he was taken to the Circle Tower," Fletcher provided unnecessarily. "If it was any other mage and templar I'd laugh."

"We do not know anything for certain," Fenris stated.

"I know better than to ignore your instincts, Fen. I'll have someone look into it. Don't worry, I won't get directly involved. And let's keep this to ourselves for now. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

They discussed several other matters while they waited for Varric, Fletcher's mental list of Things He Needed to Do growing longer as a result. Eventually, Varric returned.

"Blondie's fine," announced the dwarf, taking a seat in his armchair. "Well, he's not _fine_ , but at least he's safe. I dropped by your place, Hawke, and told the ladies what had happened."

"Oh, thank you," Fletcher said with a slap to his friend's arm.

"They offered to put Blondie up for the night, but I said no. The last thing you or Sunshine need is those tin-headed lunatics sniffing around Casa Hawke. Blondie said the same thing, too. I spoke with Corff and he and Nora have taken him some food and hot water. Poor bastard hasn't bathed since we came out of the Deep Roads. Corff said once this place is closed, he'll leave the cellar door open for him--there's a passage that runs beneath here he can use. Blondie can stay with me and go back in the morning. Problem solved, for tonight, at least."

"You're a genius," Fletcher praised him.

"That's a little overblown, Hawke. I prefer 'problem solver'. Too much pressure comes with a title like 'genius'. Trust me, I've tried it and it didn't work."

"What of tomorrow?" Fenris asked.

"We've got a lot to do, Hawke," Varric warned the mage. "In the morning, we need to see Aveline to recover our bounty, then we need to pay the workers and try to recruit some more. Broody? You busy?"

Fenris shook his head. "Guard-Captain Aveline has informed me that I do not need to resume my duties until week's end, as for me to do so now would disrupt her rota."

"Wanna come with?" invited the dwarf. Fenris nodded his acceptance.

"So Mother and Beth know I'm okay?" Fletcher asked Varric.

"Yeah. I also told them you'd been, uh, waylaid so they might not see you until morning. Sunshine wasn't buying it, though. When I told her you were otherwise engaged, she asked how many sheets to the wind you were. I told her four. I think she might have believed _that."_

"And I think I'm in trouble." Fletcher grinned, before his expression grew more serious. "Varric, do you know of any good hotels around here?"

"Around _here?_ How much of that stuff have you had?" He picked up the bottle Fletcher had been drinking from, reading the label and chuckling. "Captain Jack's Rum-flavoured Spirit? You know Corff uses this to disinfect the barrels when he's out of quicklime, right?"

"Hotels?" Fenris queried, confused.

"I promised Fenris we'd go away somewhere for a few days when we returned from the Deep Roads," Fletcher explained, "and I have a horrible feeling I'm going to end up breaking that promise. Before everything kicks off around here, I want us to spend a bit of time together without us being interrupted, or someone wanting help because they can't sort their own bloody problems out. And _no_ sniggering," he warned the dwarf, pointing a finger, before turning to Fenris. "I want us to relax for a bit, spend some time together without having to worry about everyone else. This clinic business will just go on and on." He then addressed Varric again. "You're going to be spending the rest of tomorrow with my sister and this is no different."

"Fair enough," Varric said seriously, leaning forward a little. "There are a few places around here, but in most of them you'll have extra guests rooming with you, either of the furry or scuttling variety. You want somewhere classy, you need to go to Hightown. You've got the coin now, Hawke, so might as well treat yourself."

"Any recommendations?" Fletcher asked.

Varric nodded and grinned widely. "I know the perfect place. It's a little showy, but it's clean. Most importantly, the food--which I know is of particular importance to you, Hawke--is first-rate. You speak Orlesian, don't you?"

"Not really."

"I do," Fenris offered with a modest smile before turning a crafty eye towards Varric. "I know the meaning of 'menage a trois', anyway."

 _"Another_ language?" exclaimed Fletcher as Varric scowled at the elf. "How many's that, now? Five?"

"I am not fluent in Orlesian, but I can ask the way to the beach."

"Where's the hotel?" Fletcher asked Varric, still smiling proudly at Fenris.

"Well, it's nowhere near the _beach_ , but you'll find it." He pushed out of his chair and rummaged through his bureau for a scrap of paper. "Let me write it down for you."

"Are you okay with this?" Fletcher quietly asked the elf, worried that he'd embarrassed him in front of Varric.

"Do I have a choice?" asked Fenris, a hint of mirth in his eyes.

"None whatsoever."

"Then there is little point in arguing, is there?"

"Here," said Varric, passing the scribbled note to Fletcher. "And tell the manager I sent you. He's a personal friend of mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eloquium nihil = non-word, a nonsensical utterance.


	69. Elves Do Not Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Soixante-neuf?" Fenris pondered. "That is Orlesian for…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second Happy Birthday chapter of PAAA! :D
> 
> My sincere gratitude to Mary for hand-holding and for her excellent beta of this mammoth chapter, and to Carrie for brainstorming. Hugs to you both!
> 
> Unashamedly fluffy chapter ahead with lots of NSFW goodness.

"Here we are, Fen."

Fletcher and Fenris were standing outside the grand-looking _Le Petit Oreille_ hotel in the Orlesian quarter of Hightown. Its rather florid architecture and décor were undoubtedly Orlesian, or at least 'inspired' by Orlais, but Fenris doubted its name had been as carefully thought out.

"Doesn't that mean 'the little ear'?" queried the elf.

"Does it? No chance of them letting _you_ in, then," Fletcher joked, flinching in anticipation of a blow to the head.

Fenris did not strike him, however, but merely frowned. "I doubt an elf would be allowed through the front door of a place such as this."

"Oh, you'll be allowed in, all right," Fletcher declared confidently. "The manager's a friend of a friend, remember? If we get any trouble, just leave it to me. I know exactly what to say."

Fenris shrugged. "I am not optimistic. However, you seem to have a knack for charming people that I do not possess. I will leave it to you, as you recommend."

"I think you're perfectly charming, dear."

"Only to those that matter," said the elf, a smile in his eyes. "After you."

"Why, thank you." Fletcher started up the steps, Fenris close behind, and they paused before entering. "If anyone looks down their nose at you, remember they don't know any better," the mage said. "They've had such restricted upbringings, they never got the chance to know or befriend people like you."

"Except their servants," Fenris pointed out.

Fletcher nodded. "Yes, but those servants will never be the nobles' friends. I think they should be pitied, don't you?"

Fenris gave a warm, heartfelt smile. "And do you intend to take your own advice and pity them?"

"Not a chance. Ready?"

Fenris nodded and they entered, walking across the polished wood floor to the reception desk. There, they met a man with an oiled moustache who looked as though he'd just sat on a tack.

"Your finest double room, please, messere," Fletcher said breezily, while Fenris slowly moved to his side.

Upon spotting the elf, the clerk emitted a strange choking sound. "I am sorry, messere," he said to Fletcher, "but ze 'otel? She is full."

"Is she _really?"_ asked Fletcher, feigning incredulity. "That's funny, I thought it was the quiet season."

"Le Petit Oreille, she is _always_ full, messere," replied the clerk with a smarmy and utterly insincere smile.

"The little ear is always full? You'll want to get some olive oil in it, then. Sounds like wax." Hearing a quiet snicker to his side, Fletcher bit back a grin and oafishly rested his elbows on the counter. "Are you in charge?" he asked the clerk, looking him up and down. "No… obviously not. I'd like to see the manager, please."

"Uh… ze manager, 'e is-"

"Full?"

"No!" the clerk blustered, his cheeks reddening. "Ze manager, 'e is not 'ere. Even if 'e were, messere, 'e would not be able to magically conjure an empty room for you and your," he cleared his throat, "friend."

Irritation stirred in Fletcher's belly, but he kept his tone and expression charming, as Fenris expected. "Would you check for me, please?" he asked sweetly.

"'E is _not_ 'ere," the clerk replied, a firmer note in his voice.

Fletcher leaned across the counter, causing the clerk to step back. "I know he's here. I've been reliably informed that he's _always_ here on the first night of the week. Go and fetch him or I'll cause a scene." His smile still in place, Fletcher stepped away from the counter and folded his arms.

"I am sorry, messere," said the clerk aridly, his oiliness having finally dried up. "If you do not leave _immédiatement_ , I shall be forced to call the city guard."

The clerk's face reddened further as derisive laughter reverberated around the cavernous reception hall. "Take a look at his attire." Fletcher waved a hand towards Fenris. "He _is_ a guard. Now go and fetch the manager. At once."

"A guard? B-but…'e is an elf!" the hapless clerk exclaimed.

"You are to be congratulated," Fenris drawled, bowing slightly. "Although clearly _un imbécile_ , your observational skills are second to none."

"C'est de bêtises," seethed the clerk under his breath.

"The manager. _Now,"_ ordered Fletcher, no longer smiling.

Bristling, the now red-faced clerk straightened some papers and tapped the pile sharply against the counter. "As you wish," he hissed, certain his manager would put an end to this nonsense and eject the riff-raff. "Wait 'ere." He flounced out of the reception area and up a flight of stairs.

"This is fun, isn't it?" Fletcher said to Fenris. "I _adore_ pissing idiots off."

"And if the manager isn't an idiot?"

"Ah, I haven't played my trump card yet. Just watch this space."

Intrigued, Fenris sidled closer to Fletcher, who was smiling at two nobles passing through the hall. They began to smile back until Fenris took a step forward and doffed a nod.

"An _elf?_ In here? What _is_ the world coming to?" the male toff was heard to remark. They both hastened out of the hall, noses in the air.

"My presence has likely ruined their evening," Fenris observed thoughtfully before Fletcher caught an impish gleam in his eyes. "This _is_ rather fun, isn't it?"

"Yes, my love." Fletcher kissed the tips of his fingers and ran them along Fenris's cheek, quickly withdrawing his hand when a porter crossed the hall. Acknowledging Fletcher's display of affection, Fenris touched his cheek and curled his fingers into a fist, which he rested over his heart.

They were still simpering at each other when the smug-looking clerk returned with another man who was so obviously Orlesian it was painful to behold. His hair resembled whipped cream in colour and form, stiff peaks included, and his moustache looked like a dead ferret had been draped across his upper lip. His doublet was surely a wonder of nature, for it contained all the colours of the rainbow plus a few others Fletcher was sure he'd never seen before. To complete the garish ensemble, the man's breeches were so tight Fletcher immediately looked at his lips, expecting them to have turned blue.

"I am Messere Pétomane, manager of Le Petit Oreille," the man declared with hauteur. "You… people wished to converse with me?"

"Yes, we were after a room for the night but your friend tells us that ze 'otel, she is full?" Fletcher asked innocently.

"Ah, oui, serah," answered Pétomane, his smile as insincere as his colleague's, but more practiced. "I fear we are _quite_ unable to accommodate you and your... friend," he claimed with a brief glance at Fenris.

"Well, that's a pity, isn't it, Fen?" Fletcher said to the elf, who nodded, wondering what Fletcher had up his sleeve. Fletcher then addressed the manager. "Your fine establishment was recommended to us by a friend of yours."

"Such a shame. Good night to you," Pétomane said dismissively, gesturing at the door.

"Aw… Varric will be _so_ disappointed." Fletcher sighed, shaking his head.

"V-Varique?" asked the manager, forcing a quick, brilliant smile.

"Yes, Varique said he's a personal friend of yours. He sends his regards to your lovely wife, Delphine. Is she around tonight? No… I expect not. Work is such a harsh mistress, isn't she? Sometimes it's the equivalent of _two_ mistresses. Oh well, sorry to have troubled you. Come on, Fen." He and Fenris turned for the door, only to hear strangled laughter from behind them.

"Wait!" Pétomane called, scurrying over to the couple, dabbing his forehead with a lace handkerchief. "Curse my memory! Ze Jonquil Suite is currently unoccupied. It is ze finest we 'ave to offer. _Please_ accept my 'umble apologies. And for your friend, we also 'ave very fine accomodation."

 _"One_ suite will suffice," Fletcher interrupted coldly, "provided it has a double bed and a bath. And room service."

"O-one suite? Oh, but of course!" exclaimed Pétomane, a shrill note in his voice.

"But, Messere Pétomane!" the clerk began.

"Vas-y!" hissed the hotel manager. "Apporte-lui le clé!"

As the confused clerk bowed and ran behind the counter to fetch the key as ordered, Pétomane's smile stretched wider. "And of course, a discount for our special guests."

"No thanks." Fletcher produced a small pouch which he tossed on to the counter. "We can pay our way. This should be sufficient." He took the key from the clerk and passed it to Fenris. "Which way to the Jonquil Suite?"

"Allow me to personally escort you," offered the perspiring Pétomane.

Upon reaching the suite, the manager waited until Fenris had opened the door before bowing. "Should you 'ave need of anything, please do not 'esitate to ask."

"We'll have some food, a few bottles of your finest wine... red, Fenris?" A nod from the elf confirmed that. "On the house, of course. And we'll have a bath drawn immediately. After that, we are _not_ to be disturbed."

"I will see to it myself," Pétomane assured them with another bow. "Please enjoy your stay at Le Petit Oreille."

"Thank you. And we'll pass on your greetings to Varric," Fletcher promised.

"Please do!" blurted the manager with a nervous laugh. "May I-May I be of further assistance?"

"I don't think so," said Fletcher. "Fen? Do you need anything else?"

"No. You may go." Pétomane departed smoothly, breaking into a smart stroll as he reached the end of the corridor.

Laughing, Fletcher took Fenris by the hand and swept them into the room, kicking the door closed. "That was _so_ satisfying!" He wrapped his arms around Fenris's waist and lifted him clean off the floor.

"Unhand me, you unconscionable clod!" protested Fenris, pounding on Fletcher's shoulders with his fists, but he was also laughing.

The mage held on a little longer before setting him down. "Clod? That's not very nice, is it? I get you into a swanky hotel and that's how you repay me?"

"You are correct. That _was_ ungracious of me." Fenris beckoned Fletcher closer. The mage leaned down, closing his eyes, keeping them closed when he felt the elf's lips press against his cheek. He waited a moment longer and, sensing Fenris had moved away, opened his eyes. Fenris was standing by the window.

"What the hell do you call _that?"_ Fletcher squawked.

Fenris sat upon the window ledge, bringing one knee to his chest and wrapping his arms around it. "In case you had forgotten, an assemblage of servants is about to descend upon us. We would not want to be caught in a compromising position."

Fletcher shrugged. "I don't care."

Fenris rolled his eyes, the edges of his mouth twitching. "Of course you don't." He patted the ledge and Fletcher sat next to him.

"This is nice," Fletcher said, looking around the large room. Thankfully it was not as gaudily decorated as the reception hall and exterior of the hotel--in fact, it could almost be called tasteful. Fine tapestries adorned the walls and a large, plush sofa was situated in front of the fireplace, where a fire was waiting to be lit. A small dining table and chairs were in one corner, with two comfortable-looking armchairs and a writing bureau in the opposite one. In between, an ornate four-poster bed dominated the room.

"Fancy trying that out?" Fletcher asked cheekily, looking up as a knock sounded at the door.

"Yes, I would… ah, alas, there is someone at the door. What atrocious timing these people have."

"Tell me about it." Fletcher stood up and went to the door, Fenris's soft laughter following him.

Fletcher opened the door, ushering in half a dozen servants. One went straight to the fireplace while another wheeled in a trolley carrying wine, a cold meat platter, pickles, fruits, cheeses, bread and sweets. The remaining four servants went into an adjoining room, carrying pails of hot water to fill the bathtub. When finished, they quickly exited to re-fill their pails.

Once the tub was filled and the fire lit, Fletcher slipped the servants a few silver each and closed the door behind them, pausing for a moment as uncertainty took him. What happened now? Did he make gauche, clumsy advances towards Fenris? Did he go on teasing him? Should they eat before or after? And before or after what, exactly?

Would Fenris think Fletcher had only brought him there for sex?

And was there anything wrong with that?

"Do not lock the door yet," Fenris said from behind him. "I need to check the security arrangements." Noticing the brief glimmer of anxiety in Fletcher's eyes, he pointed at the trolley. "Eat. Pour the wine. _Relax._ I will return shortly."

Fletcher almost offered to accompany him but refrained. "Fine. Don't be too long, all right?"

"I won't." Fenris reached for a small bowl of spiced nuts from the trolley and handed it to Fletcher before winking and opening the door.

"I knew it!" exclaimed Fletcher. "I _knew_ you winked at me in Lowtown that night!"

Fenris shook his head. "A trick of the light. Elves do _not_ wink."

"Riiight. Something _else_ elves don't do. Are you an elf at all, Fenris? Has this all been an elaborate hoax? Are those ears actually real or stuck on?" He reached for one of Fenris's ears but the elf deftly evaded his grasp and stepped outside. "Ah, they _are_ real. I seem to recall you nearly turning to jelly once when I nibbled them."

Fenris's eyes creased slightly and he pointed inside the room. "Eat," he instructed. "Food will make you less… frisky."

"Don't count on it!" Fletcher called as Fenris strolled away.

Quickly, he closed the door and went to his pack, taking out a large, corked jar containing a pale blue emulsion. "I know what to do while you're gone!" Taking the jar and his pack with him, he went into the room next door where the filled bathtub was waiting and closed the door behind him.

~o~O~o~

His heart fluttering, Fletcher put the finishing touches to his surprise and stood back, admiring his handiwork. Releasing a sigh, he turned and opened the door, a thrill of surprise and shock coursing through him when he almost charged straight into Fenris. "You've returned! Er... of course you have!"

"What are you doing?" asked the elf, his suspicious tone softened by the amused glint in his eyes.

"I could ask you the same thing," Fletcher retorted, panting slightly as he hastily closed the door.

 _"I_ asked first." Fenris attempted to crane his neck and peer over Fletcher's shoulder, but the mage stood on tiptoes, blocking his view.

"What did you _think_ I was doing?"

A smile slowly curved Fenris's lips and he took Fletcher's hands, examining them closely. "Hm. It would appear my theory was erroneous," he uttered, releasing Fletcher's hands and turning away. "My apologies."

"Bloody cheek!" Fletcher blustered, through his laughter. "So, um, is everything in order?"

"I am satisfied," announced Fenris as he turned around, his eyes again homing in on the door behind Fletcher.

"So you're relaxed, now? At ease?"

"Almost. Until I know what lies behind that door, I will not be able to rest."

"Well, if you trust me so little, Fenris…"

"Just show me," the elf insisted, lunging for the door, only to run into a mage body-block.

"Curiosity killed the cat with the big, pointy ears," teased Fletcher, spreading his legs and arms across the door to prevent entry.

"You will need to sleep _sometime,"_ the elf threatened, "and do not forget that I rise frequently during the night."

"Oh, if you insist," said the mage with a theatrical sigh. "Go on in." He stepped back from the door and pushed it open.

Fenris cautiously peered into the room which was in darkness, save the soft glow from a dozen large candles, placed on a shelf. On the floor was a bathtub, almost overflowing with scented bubbles. Fenris took a step inside, immediately noticing how warm and moist the air was in there. Fletcher followed him inside and closed the door.

"The bathtub," Fenris said, his confusion evident as he faced Fletcher. "I _know_ you planned to take a bath. Why the subterfuge?"

"I'm not taking a bath." Fletcher gestured towards the tub. "You are."

"Fletcher… I cannot bathe in this," said Fenris with a hint of irritation. "I can see the steam rising from it. Why have you-"

"Here." Fletcher passed him the large jar he'd retrieved from his pack.

"What is this?" Fenris held the jar, examining the contents closely.

"Weeeell…" Fletcher sniggered briefly and then cleared his throat. "This is the balm we talked about in the Deep Roads. You know, the one that would prevent you from feeling pain when you come into contact with hot water? Remember?"

Fenris's mouth slowly opened, but he didn't speak.

"Anders and I worked on it in secret," Fletcher confessed. "I'm afraid I told you a little white lie when I said Anders and I were testing the new lyrium. Sometimes we were working on this as well. I wanted it to be a surprise. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Fenris closed his mouth, gulped, and ran his fingers along the jar almost in a caress. "You were… successful in your endeavours?"

"It works," Fletcher confirmed with a proud smile. "We tested it on Anders's… well, you know, his scars. It's a water-based ointment as opposed to an oil-based one, so it's absorbed into the skin instead of sitting on top of it. It takes effect immediately and lasts for about fifteen minutes before it begins to wear off. The water won't wash it off, and by the time you get in the bath, it's already working. Here, let's test it."

Fletcher took the jar from the dumbfounded elf and removed the cork, scooping out a little of the ointment. He then took one of Fenris's hands and gently massaged it into the skin, making sure he covered the elf's markings. "How does it feel?" he asked.

Fenris held his hand up to his face. "It feels… cold, and my skin is tingling."

Fletcher nodded enthusiastically. "Good. Now put your hand in the water."

"Are you certain?" asked Fenris with a sceptical look at the mage before he sighed. "Forgive me. I did not mean to question you."

"Go on, just try it," Fletcher gently coaxed. "I'm certain it will work."

With a solemn nod, Fenris walked to the bathtub and knelt down in front of it. "I just…?"

"Just put your hand in the water, yes."

His brow creasing in concentration, Fenris slowly moved his hand through the suds, feeling the rising steam tickle his skin. When the tips of his fingers made contact with the water he paused and looked up at Fletcher, who smiled his encouragement. Fenris took a deep breath and pushed his hand further in until it was fully submerged and Fletcher looked on, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Fenris's face slackened and Fletcher noticed his fingers flexing through a break in the suds.

"Well?" Fletcher asked anxiously. "Did it work? How does it feel?"

Fenris stood up, staring at his hand and turning it over.

"Fen?"

"It feels… warm now," the elf whispered.

"No pain?"

"No… no pain," the elf confirmed, not taking his eyes off his hand. "No pain," he said again, as if to prove it to himself, not trusting his senses.

Fletcher beamed and then moved beside Fenris, presenting him with the jar for the second time. "If you put this all over you, you'll be able to have a soak in the tub. Would you like me to do your back for you?"

Fenris blinked and nodded mutely. Fletcher placed the jar on the floor before taking hold of the hem of Fenris's shirt. "Raise your arms for me, love."

Fenris complied and Fletcher pulled the shirt over the elf's head, careful his eyes didn't linger on Fenris's bare chest for too long. This was not going to be about sex, and Fletcher was _not_ going to let himself get excited.

Quickly, Fletcher rubbed the ointment on to Fenris's back and then handed him the jar. "I'll leave you to it," he said quietly, turning to leave.

"No… stay," implored the elf, his voice, heavy with emotion, trailing off. "I… want you to stay."

"I think… I think this is something you should experience alone," Fletcher replied, sorely tempted to accept Fenris's invitation, but knowing if he did, a simple bath would become _more_ than a bath. "Besides, I have something to do in the other room." Gently touching Fenris's shoulders, he steered the elf around to face him. "Enjoy it, my love." He kissed Fenris's cheek before releasing him and moving to the door. "Remember, no longer than fifteen minutes. I'll be knocking on the door if you're not out by then."

"You do not need to knock."

With a soft smile and a dip of his head, Fletcher closed the door, leaving Fenris alone.

Fenris stared at the bathtub for a while until a fine sheen of sweat coated his skin and he began to feel warm. Blinking himself out of his daze, he decided he'd better apply the ointment quickly before Fletcher entered and found he hadn't yet bathed. He removed his slippers and stepped out of his breeches, which he folded and placed on the floor before liberally applying the ointment to his body. He then moved to the door and listened, hearing quiet movements and soft humming from next door.

He remained there for a moment, eyes closed, his head and palms resting against the door, until his skin started to tingle.

"Everything all right in there?" Fletcher asked from the other side of the door.

"Yes, thank you, Fletcher. I am about to… step in?"

"All right. I'll go and pour some wine. You can sit next to the fire when you're finished, if you like."

"Thank you. I will see you shortly."

"Oh, there's something I need, first," said Fletcher, his voice closer to the door. "May I come in?"

"Yes, of course." Fenris opened the door and smiled as Fletcher gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"That's better," said the mage. "Now get in, before the cream wears off."

"I was _about_ to before you interrupted me," Fenris said with feigned sternness, hearing Fletcher's laughed apology as he closed the door.

Breathing in steadily and slowly, he turned around and walked over to the bathtub before squatting down and once again immersing his hand in the warm water. Fletcher had done this for him. Fletcher had done _so much_ for him. Fenris silently vowed that from this point on, he would dedicate his life to making the man in the next room happy if he possibly could. Fletcher had promised him a night to remember once they were out of the Deep Roads, and Fenris would do all he could to make it memorable for them both.

Even more, he wanted it as much as Fletcher did.

He straightened up before placing one foot in the tub, followed by the other, a smile blooming on his face as his troublesome feet felt the touch of warm, clean water for the first time in his memory. Bending his legs, he gripped the sides of the tub and carefully lowered his bottom before easing himself in.

There was no pain, only a fleeting flare of tenderness which he could live with... and which Fletcher didn't need to know about. He sank farther back into the tub, blowing foam off his chest. As he watched the insubstantial tufts burst into the air and float down, he threw his head back and laughed in unadulterated delight.

Then, feeling moisture on his cheek, he touched it and was surprised to find it was coming from one of his eyes. He roughly cleared his throat and brushed it away. He then closed his eyes and sighed in contentment, his arms hanging limply over the sides as his body wilted like a flower in a drought.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher was seated on the sofa with a half-empty bowl of spiced nuts next to him when Fenris emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist. Fletcher rose and gave a tentative smile, reaching for one of the complimentary robes supplied by the hotel which he'd kept ready for Fenris.

Fenris moved to him and they stood together in front of the fire, neither speaking for a moment.

"How was it?" Fletcher asked the elf, who was staring at the fire. "How do you feel?"

Fenris remained silent for a further moment as he seemed to consider his reply. Slowly, his eyes moved to Fletcher's. "Clean. Finally, I am clean."

Swallowing back tears, Fletcher wrapped the robe around the elf and pulled him close.

"Thank you," mumbled Fenris against Fletcher's neck, wrapping his arms around his back. "Just… thank you. I can do no better than that."

Fletcher grinned, nuzzling the elf's hair with his nose. "You're welcome. Come on, let's sit by the fire and get you dry, hm?"

"Yes." Fenris allowed himself to be led to the sofa, where he and Fletcher were seated before Fletcher sprang to his feet.

"And _now_ we can finally eat."

"It looks as though you've already started," observed the elf with a glance at the bowl.

"I had to test them, didn't I?" asked Fletcher, feigning innocence, as he wheeled the trolley next to the sofa. "They might have been poisoned. Or something."

"Of course." Fenris smiled fondly at the mage as he filled a plate for them both before sitting back down.

"I heard you chuckling in there," Fletcher ventured after they'd taken a few bites. "Or was I hearing things?"

"Quite so," said elf dryly. "Because, as you know-"

"Elves do _not_ chuckle," they said in unison, before showing themselves to be liars as they laughed together and they sank farther back into the sofa.

After they'd eaten their fill, a companionable lull took the conversation and Fletcher looked around the room, sighing happily.

"Just listen to that, Fen."

Fenris strained but could hear nothing save the crackle of the fire. "I do not hear anything."

"Exactly. No voices coming from the next chamber. No arguments, no problems needing solving, no _interruptions_. In the Deep Roads we couldn't even fart without someone hearing about it."

 _"We?"_ Fenris queried in amusement. "From what I recall, _you_ were more often than not the perpetrator after a heavy meal. Particularly after onions. Ugh."

"Elves do _not_ fart," Fletcher proclaimed solemnly, impersonating Fenris's pièce de résistance voice.

A dark eyebrow slowly rose, along with one edge of Fenris's mouth. "Not bad… not bad at all. And completely true, of course."

"Have you ever _slept_ next to another elf, Fenris?"

"No…"

"Well, when you do, as I have, you can consider yourself properly qualified to make such a declaration. Until then, forget it." He held up a hand as Fenris opened his mouth to retort. "Let me save you the backpedalling." He dramatically cleared his throat and pushed one of his eyebrows up with his finger. "Elves might indeed fart while in repose, but the aforementioned farts do _not_ smell," he declared, once again impersonating the elf.

"Quite right, too," agreed Fenris with a cordial smile.

Fletcher pulled him close for a brief hug before reaching for the small pile of books he'd brought with him. "What will it be, then?" he asked the elf.

"Did you _really_ bring me here for a reading lesson?" Fenris asked, his smile warming further.

"I brought you here so we could be alone. I think we should just enjoy some time together and see what happens, not plan or expect anything. What do you think?"

"I _would_ enjoy a reading lesson," the elf replied, sorting through the books before settling on one. "How about this?"

Fletcher's smile faded a little. "But that's… that's _We're all the Same Lying Down."_

"I'm aware of that. I _can_ read now, you know," teased the elf. "In a fashion."

"You-you want to read this?"

"No. I would like _you_ to read it to _me."_

"You _are_ aware that this book's about-"

"I'm aware of its content, yes."

His stomach fluttering, Fletcher took the book from Fenris and stared at it for a moment before opening it. "Um… there's a section in here especially for male elf and human couples."

"That sounds ideal," murmured the elf, taking a sip of wine and setting his glass down on the small table next to the settee.

With a bashful smile, Fletcher turned to the appropriate section and took a deep breath before reading. Who knew that he'd end up being the more nervous of the two? With a glance at the elf, who dipped a nod of encouragement, he began:

 _"The main problem encountered in a coupling of this nature is one of height and, more often than not, weight. These issues are easily overcome, however. If anal intercourse is-"_ He stopped and looked anxiously at Fenris.

"Go on," the elf prompted, seemingly unconcerned.

Fletcher shifted a little and cleared his throat. _"If… that is practiced, then the elf should be in the dominant position, at least at first, until the couple are confident enough_ … are you sure you don't mind me reading this?"

"Fletcher," murmured the elf with gentle firmness, "I _want_ you to read it."

Their eyes met, and Fletcher's heart started to pound. Nodding, he directed his gaze back to the book, his voice slightly higher than usual as he resumed: _"If this practise is undesirable, however, fellatio may be preferable. Mutual fellatio, in the position known as Soixante-Neuf, is extremely popular and circumvents any height or weight restrictions provided the heavier partner is beneath."_

"Soixante-neuf?" Fenris pondered. "That is Orlesian for…"

"Sixty-nine," Fletcher finished. Fenris frowned and cocked his head. Fletcher directed the elf's attention to one of the diagrams. "See why?"

"Oh… yes, I see," murmured Fenris with a faint smile, a pink flush springing to his cheeks.

"Um…" Fletcher bit his bottom lip, his stomach flipping over, unable to shake the thought of him and Fenris in the _soixante-neuf_ position. He turned to the next page. _"Another alternative is interfemoral intercourse."_ Fletcher closed the book, laughing and shaking his head, his own cheeks scarlet. "I'm sorry, I can't read this to you. Maker, how old am I?"

"Twenty-seven." Fenris placed his hand over Fletcher's, which rested on the book. "Interfemoral… between the thighs?"

Fletcher nodded, unable to look at Fenris, inwardly cursing his catastrophic lack of suaveness. Why was this happening _now?_ He'd gone over this night in his mind so many times and _Fletcher_ had been the confident one in his fantasies, gently showing the diffident elf the meaning of loving sex.

"Have... _you_ ever tried it?" Fenris asked. Fletcher nodded again. "And did you enjoy it?"

"I… I did. Very much."

Fenris shuffled closer to Fletcher. "If you cannot read it… show me?"

This is it, thought Fletcher, his heart beating so stridently he could hear it. He'd never expected it to be like this. He hadn't expected Fenris to be so assured, so willing, and he _certainly_ hadn't anticipated turning into a blushing simpleton. But there was something about being with Fenris that made him feel like this was his first time all over again, and this time it felt like it _should_.

His thoughts, his anxieties, began to evanesce as he felt Fenris's fingers winding through his hair, turning his head towards the elf's waiting lips. Fenris's kiss was gentle but insistent, his lips softly sucking and tugging at Fletcher's own. With a rush of warmth through his chest, Fletcher returned the kiss, one hand coming to rest at the back of Fenris's head, the other around his waist. They found a sweet rhythm, any hesitation or doubts fleeing.

Fenris eventually broke the kiss but his lips hovered, their noses touching, as they regained their breath, gently laughing. They gazed into each other's eyes and Fletcher saw no apprehension, no dubiety in Fenris's green ones. When Fenris tilted his head slightly and gave Fletcher his most loving smile, the mage's stomach knotted tightly.

"Fenris… take me to bed?" he whispered, a finely-trembling hand brushing the elf's cheek.

"I thought you'd never ask," replied the elf, Fletcher's resulting laugh chasing away any lingering jitters. "Come, dearest one."

Untangling himself from Fletcher's arms, Fenris stood and held a hand out to the mage. Fletcher took it and rose, his eyes never leaving the elf's. They slowly walked, hand-in-hand, to the four-poster bed. Upon reaching it, Fenris turned slightly, his back to the bed, and released Fletcher's hand. He then held the ties of his bath robe and slowly undid them.

Fletcher watched, his skin flushing and his stomach burning, as Fenris opened the robe, allowing it to slip down his shoulders. Fletcher's eyes slowly took in (for the first time in proper light) the elf's lean and sculpted form, the precise hollows and soft rounds of his musculature, his dusky olive-brown skin, the perfect cupid's bow of his upturned lips.

"Beautiful," Fletcher rasped. "You're… beautiful."

"Touch me," Fenris invited, emotion in his voice.

Fletcher's hands moved to rest against the elf's belly and slowly moved up past his ribs and chest, finally stopping on Fenris's shoulders. Knowing what Fletcher wanted to do, Fenris gave his permission with a nod. Fletcher pulled the robe down his arms, and it fell to the floor.

Fenris sat down upon the bed and gently pushed Fletcher away from him. "Undress for me."

"Oh, wait, I, um…" Fletcher looked around, locating his pack. "I just need to get something… in case we need it. Sorry." Quickly, he went to his pack and rummaged through it, taking something out. He smiled self-consciously and went back to the bed, holding his hand out to Fenris. "Here. This is for you, if you want to use it."

Fenris took the small bottle, nodded as he looked at it and placed it on the nightstand before leaning back on his hands, making it perfectly clear to Fletcher exactly how _at ease_ he was.

"Might I resume the taking off of the clothes now, Ser Elf?" Fletcher asked, his smile warm and his cheeks aglow.

"You might, Ser Mage."

They laughed softly and Fletcher began to pull off his boots. Fenris scooted further back on the bed, bringing his knees up to his chest, and folded his hands over his knees, resting his chin on them.

"Do you-do you want _me_ to take a bath?" Fletcher asked, looking anxious all of a sudden. "Your water will still be warm and I could-"

"No. I like the way you smell," Fenris replied patiently. "I notice you are _still_ wearing your clothes?"

 _Great way to kill the mood, Fletcher!_ the mage thought, annoyed at his bumbling, but he was relieved to see Fenris was still smiling.

The elf hopped off the bed and took the hem of Fletcher's tunic in his hands. "Raise your arms for me, love."

Grinning boyishly, Fletcher did as asked. His breathing quickened as Fenris slowly slid the tunic up, stopping just when it came over Fletcher's nose, leaving his eyes covered and his hands held above his head.

"Stay there," Fenris directed, gently guiding Fletcher's hands to rest on top of his head. And then, the elf moved his hands away, leaving Fletcher alone and blind.

"W-where are you?" Fletcher asked breathlessly.

"I am here," Fenris said from behind him, causing Fletcher to gasp in surprise. "I am… looking at you."

Slender hands slid around Fletcher's hips and the mage gulped, feeling his heart would burst from his chest as the ties of his trousers were undone.

"I told you not so long ago that you looked… fine," Fenris murmured, his warm breath caressing the nape of Fletcher's neck. "I have been imagining what you looked like beneath this. I am most pleased with what I see. You are _very_ fine indeed, Fletcher."

"Fen," the mage breathed, a hitch in his voice.

Fletcher's trousers were slowly pushed down, releasing his aching hardness. Fletcher stepped out of them as Fenris's hands moved to his belly, and he kissed one of Fletcher's shoulder blades before releasing him and moving to stand in front of him.

"Are you… still looking at me?" Fletcher asked when, after a minute, Fenris had not made a sound. He gasped again as a finger--or was it a mouth?--lightly grazed one of his nipples. "Fen," he moaned, his voice strained. "P-please…"

Fingernails raked down Fletcher's chest and hands lightly grabbed his hips, pulling him closer. His eyes still covered and his hands immobile, Fletcher's next words were silenced by Fenris's lips and he moaned loudly, no longer able to hold himself back. Releasing himself from his voluntary bindings, Fletcher threw the tunic off, freeing his hands, and snaked one arm around Fenris's waist, the other sweeping Fenris's buttocks. He lifted the elf, their lips still locked together. Fletcher staggered forward as Fenris's legs wrapped around him and they crashed onto the bed, Fletcher atop the elf.

"Maker!" Fletcher panted, grabbing a fistful of white hair as the elf nipped at his lips. "Fen… you-you've got to stop me if… oh, Maker…" He ran his other hand down Fenris's face, following the angle of his jaw, and lowered his mouth to Fenris's neck, feeling hot flesh and straining sinews beneath his lips.

"Don't stop," ordered the elf, shuddering as Fletcher's mouth grazed the markings on his neck. "I _want_ this. I want _you._ I want to be with y-ah!" He groaned, his entire body trembling, as Fletcher's tongue slowly trailed over his adam's apple, one of the mage's hands meshing with Fenris's, his other kneading the elf's hip, pushing him down into the bed.

Fletcher raised his head and watched as Fenris writhed beneath him and he moved upwards until he was level with the elf's face. "Fenris… I love you." The elf shuddered again, his head lolling to the side, his eyes rolling in his head as Fletcher relaxed, his whole body weight pushing down on the elf. "I love you. This is _everything."_ He moaned, almost all conscious thought driven out of his head by the sight of the man he loved in a state of complete abandon. "Here, I want you to-" While he still had his wits, he quickly turned onto his side and grabbed the bottle atop the nightstand, fumbling with the stopper as he turned back to the elf.

The stopper popped and skittered across the bed. Fenris's eyes opened and he watched as Fletcher drizzled fragrant oil between his thighs. "Fen, here, you go first. I want you to experience this. You'll love it."

"No," drawled the elf, reaching for the slippery bottle and pouring a little of the contents between his own thighs before lying on his back, a languorous smile stretching his lips, his eyes half-closed. "Elves do _not_ go first."

"But, Fen, I-"

"Do this for me, Fletcher. Let me watch you. I want nothing more." The elf moved one hand down to spread the oil over his thighs, his other still entwined with Fletcher's. "Do this for me," he repeated. "Let me watch your moment of rapture, as you will watch mine."

Fletcher looked down at the bottle in Fenris's hand and silently took it, placing it back on the nightstand, feeling the elf shuffle closer. When he turned back, Fenris was lying on his side propped up on an elbow, his legs bent and perfectly aligned. "Fletcher," he whispered with a captivating smile, rolling onto his back and pulling the mage on top of him. "I am yours."

"If that's what you want, my love."

Fenris nodded, moving an encouraging hand to Fletcher's buttocks, pulling him a little closer so Fletcher's cock brushed against Fenris's thighs. Because of their height difference Fletcher's head was slightly above Fenris's, so Fletcher crooked his arm, allowing the elf a place to nestle his head. He did so and gazed up at Fletcher, running a hand along his arm.

"Ready?" asked the mage.

"Yes, my dear."

Releasing a shaky breath, Fletcher slowly slid between Fenris's thighs, almost overwhelmed by the warmth and tightness that enveloped him. The elf tensed his muscles, eliciting a groan from Fletcher, his free hand grabbing the elf's arm tightly before he relaxed his grip. Maker, he hoped this wouldn't be over in a flash. Steeling himself against the urge to thrust himself into oblivion, he moved his free hand up to one of Fenris's ears, the elf laughing huskily as Fletcher stroked it from lobe to tip and kissed his cheek.

"Kiss me there," instructed Fenris, turning his head to present his ear while he nuzzled Fletcher's shoulder.

Needing no prompting, Fletcher lowered his mouth, softly blowing, and rested his lower lip on the tip of Fenris's ear before taking the whole tip into his mouth, sucking and gently tugging with his teeth.

A rush of heat flooded Fenris's loins and he pulled the mage hard against him. "Fletcher," he growled.

Feeling the elf's hardness twitch, Fletcher's hips began to move and Fenris grabbed one of his buttocks, urging him to move faster. "Ohh," grunted the elf as Fletcher opened his mouth wide, taking in his entire ear. That, in combination with the friction against his balls and the heat pouring off the panting mage almost undid him and he jerked his head away, Fletcher's teeth scraping his ear as he did so. He cried out, a surge of wanton lust hurtling into him at dizzying speed, finally demolishing his self-control.

Not in full possession of his faculties, he grabbed Fletcher's shoulders and pushed him onto his back, clambering on top but struggling to gain purchase as his oiled flesh slid against the mage's. Bracing a knee between Fletcher's legs, he pushed the stunned mage's shoulders down, his pupils dilated as he looked down at his love, gasping at the potency of the sensations coursing through his body.

"Fletcher… I-I have to...! I can't…!"

"Take me," Fletcher implored, understanding Fenris's need. "Please, just take me, love." His hand fumbled for the glass bottle and he frantically poured the rest of the contents into his hand, clumsily smearing it over Fenris's cock.

"I don't want to hurt you," Fenris said hoarsely, a bead of sweat falling from his brow to the bed.

"You won't, I _like_ it like this," Fletcher urged. He parted his legs and brought his knees up, pulling Fenris closer, but still the elf resisted. "We _both_ want this," the mage entreated desperately, hunkering down in preparation.

"Fletcher, I cannot… I cannot think!" Fenris screwed his eyes closed, shaking his head, appearing on the verge of tears.

"Don't _think_ about it. Just-just take me, please." Fletcher grabbed Fenris's shoulders. "I _want_ you to do this. I _love_ you." Fenris's eyes opened and he looked into the eyes of the man he loved, Fletcher seeing fear reflected back at him. "You're _not_ him," Fletcher murmured softly, stroking Fenris's hair, and in the same moment, the part of Fenris's mind he'd feared would be forever dark was flooded with light. "You're _Fenris_ , you're beautiful and gentle and you'd never hurt me because we're in love with each other. I want to be yours in every way possible. I _want_ this, and so do you." Fletcher moved his arms, loosely draping them above his head, to indicate his readiness. "Make me yours."

The fear slowly left Fenris's eyes, replaced by a soft light. "You… _do_ love me."

"Of course I do. And you love me." Fletcher wrapped his legs around Fenris's back and pulled him closer. This time, the elf did not resist and allowed himself to be manoeuvred.

"You must tell me if-"

"I know you won't."

Fenris's eyes crinkled and he reached for the mage's face, gently caressing his cheek as he lay down on top of Fletcher, leaning on an elbow. With his other hand he placed himself in position before hooking one of Fletcher's legs, his other hand still stroking Fletcher's cheek.

"Take me," Fletcher whispered with love in his eyes.

Solicitously and precisely, Fenris eased himself in. An anguished look came over him as he encountered resistance until the head of his member became fully sheathed and those same, powerful sensations rushed through him. Heedful of Fletcher's comfort, however, he anxiously opened his eyes and another, altogether more primal force took him at the look of pure joy on Fletcher's face, his eyes closed and his soft laughter caressing Fenris's ears.

"More," the mage moaned, biting his lip.

Fenris bit his own lip as he gladly complied but kept his rate of entry slow, even as he felt his control falling away from him like autumn leaves in a stiff breeze. Sweat trickled down his back and gathered above his brows, errant beads meandering their way down his nose and temples. Fletcher, opening his eyes, brought a hand to the elf's brow, dashing the sweat out of his eyes. Fenris kissed his palm before resuming.

When Fenris had almost fully penetrated Fletcher, the mage pushed down with his muscles. Fenris lurched forward, desperately grabbing at Fletcher's shoulder, feeling like he was about to lose his mind as a sensation he could not assimilate powered through him, an incoherent cry rushing from his mouth. Again, Fletcher flexed his muscles and this time Fenris yelled as he started to thrust, his hips no longer under his control. He loosed Fletcher's leg, grabbing him by the wrists, hard, and shifted his entire weight onto his pelvis, Fletcher's responding cries the only thing that told Fenris they were still separate entities. He wanted to devour Fletcher utterly and he increased his pace, hammering into the mage, his whole world expanding and shattering as Fletcher's tightness gripped him for a third and final time.

They lay panting and groaning, a mess of sweat and tangled limbs, their heads swimming and their bodies floating, for timeless moments. Fenris was the first to recover, his anxiety over Fletcher's comfort rudely snapping him back to reality.

"Are you all right?" he asked, still panting, barely able to raise his head.

"Mmm." Fletcher chuckled, a hand flopping on to Fenris's shoulder, but the mage hadn't the strength to grip it. "Are you, my love?"

Fenris nodded against Fletcher's chest, and then it occurred to him that Fletcher had not yet found release. With a huge effort he pushed himself up onto his elbows and glanced down, noting with surprise that Fletcher had issued onto his belly. He slumped, only to find himself being gently pushed onto his back. He offered no resistance and gasped as his softening member slid out of his lover.

He gazed up at Fletcher, who looked impossibly lovely, his hair tousled, cheeks flushed and eyes shining.

"This is the best part, Fen," whispered the mage, slowly tracing a finger down Fenris's arm. The elf's entire body shivered, his eyes squeezing closed. "One's skin becomes so sensitive afterwards." He moved on top of the elf and wrapped his arms around him, softly nudging the elf's lips with his own. "I told you I'd give you a night to remember. Well, I'm going to stroke and caress you until you no longer know your own name."

"Fen… my name…Fen…" With a wobbly sigh, Fenris surrendered himself to the mage's gentle touch, realising at last that being in control at all times was not only impractical, but sometimes undesirable as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messere Petomane is named after _Le Petomane_ , the stage name of Joseph Pujol, professional farter. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_P%C3%A9tomane
> 
> My sincere apologies to any French - or Orlesian - readers for my butchery of their fine language.


	70. Lux Mea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Varric's eyebrows rose as he watched Fletcher struggle to keep up with him. "I guess _that_ question's answered, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for your gracious beta of yet another very, very long chapter!

Soft light streamed through a chink in the drapes, falling across Fenris's eyes. He closed them but made no attempt to move. He'd been awake for a while, watching the gestation of a new day from his warm cocoon. He breathed in slowly and deeply through his nose, the fresh, clean air making him feel that he, like the day, had been born anew.

When Fletcher was awake, they'd dance around each other--they'd tease and jest and laugh, but both knew the truth. They knew exactly what this day meant. And that was fine. Fenris was content for their dance to go on and on without end.

Hearing a quiet snort from behind him, he smiled and clutched Fletcher's hand which was resting against his chest, the mage's arm tucked under Fenris's. Fletcher's nose, which had breathed warm air against Fenris's neck for most of the night, began its short, inexorable journey towards Fenris's ear, causing the elf to squirm a little.

"Elves do _not_ smell sweaty," Fletcher mumbled.

Fenris's hoarse laughter shook his entire body. "I fear you have me there, my dear," he said through a lazy yawn.

"Good morning," Fletcher whispered as he pulled Fenris tighter against him, his nose tantalisingly close to the elf's sensitive ear. "How did you sleep?"

"Wretchedly," replied the elf, his attempts to wriggle away thwarted by the mage's strong arms. "You?"

"Worst night's sleep I've ever had." Fenris could hear the smile in Fletcher's voice and he ceased struggling, his heart not really in it. "You've hardly moved since we went to sleep," Fletcher observed. "Are you all right? Do you need to turn over?"

"I need to but I don't _want_ to." Fenris groaned, his voice thick with sleep, his eyes fluttering closed. He breathed in, wishing Fletcher's musk and the jasmine-scented oil that clung to the sheets was all he would ever smell.

"You silly thing. Come on, turn over," Fletcher said. He disentangled himself from the elf and the sheets that bound them together, giving Fenris adequate room to move. Fenris did so slowly and reluctantly but was rewarded by the sight of Fletcher on his back wearing a languorous smile, his hair as rumpled as the sheets. As the sun fell across the mage's face, the gold and green flecks in his eyes were highlighted.

And then Fenris's mouth fell open in horror.

"What? What is it?" Fletcher demanded, his smile vanishing.

"Your… your neck!" One of Fenris's hands moved to Fletcher's throat, only to shrink back before it made contact.

"I _told_ you to eat more last night," Fletcher joked, moving his own hand to the colourful mosaic of bites and bruises that peppered his throat. "Maybe then you wouldn't have tried to eat _me."_

Fenris scrambled away from Fletcher and leapt off the bed, one hand covering his mouth, the other on his hip as he stood with his back to the mage.

"I was only joking!" protested Fletcher. "It's fine, really!"

 _"Look_ at yourself," Fenris muttered, turning back slightly. "Your shoulder… your wrists… I…" He shook his head, unable to say more.

Fletcher ventured a cursory examination of his body, finding several fresh bruises on his wrists and shoulder. He also spotted a purple handprint on one of his hips but decided against drawing attention to it. "I'm fine, honestly," he insisted as Fenris moved over to his pack and emptied it onto the sofa.

"There must be something in here," the elf said as he rifled through the mage's possessions, anger creeping into his voice. "A lotion, a balm, _something._ Why did you not bring anything suitable? You are a healer and should be prepared for every eventuality!"

"Look, I'll just put some arnica on them when I get home. It's really not a-ow! Shit!" Fletcher gnashed his teeth and clutched his back as he tried to sit up.

Fenris rushed over to him. "Lie down!" he ordered, his anger at himself for inflicting this on Fletcher overtaken by panic. "I will-I will fetch Anders," he babbled, rendered incoherent in his concern, his eyes darting here and there. "No… not Anders. Fletcher, you _must_ heal yourself. I can withstand it." He straightened up and stood stiffly, his hands folded behind his back, his expression so long-suffering and stoic that Fletcher could not help but laugh. "This is _not_ funny!" barked the elf, his usual perspicacity deserting him in the face of his rising alarm and contrition. "Now _heal_ yourself!"

"It's nothing a good bath won't solve," Fletcher said softly, dismayed by the state Fenris was in.

"No!" Fenris's hand cut through the air before he sighed, his shoulders drooping. "You-you _must_ heal yourself. _Please._ I can't bear the thought of..."

"I'm not going to heal myself. I don't need to, and I'm sort of avoiding the templars, remember?" Fletcher reminded him.

Devastated by his lapse, Fenris slumped on to the bed, shaking his head. "The templars… how could I… can you ever forgive me?" He turned to Fletcher, his eyes full of anguish. "Look at you. I-I… this must _never_ happen again."

"Fenris, we had sex, not a tea party!" Fletcher argued, taking hold of the elf's arms, but Fenris could not meet his eyes and faced the window. "Look at me!" Fletcher touched the elf's chin and moved his head to face him, but Fenris's gaze fell to the bed. "Do I _look_ unhappy? Do I? Fenris, look at me. Please, love."

Fenris sighed heavily, deciding the least he could do was look Fletcher in the eye. He did so, unable to hold the mage's gaze for long.

"Last night was _wonderful,"_ Fletcher said with a joyous smile, his hand stroking the elf's face. "It was the best night of my life, ever, and you are the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm a bit sore, that's all."

 _"I_ used to be sore," Fenris recalled bitterly. "After-"

Fletcher's smile disappeared, replaced by a fierce frown. "That's enough! You will _never_ mention his name again! He has no place in your life now and he is _not_ going to spoil what we have. Do you understand me?"

Taken aback by Fletcher's severe tone, Fenris was jolted from sinking into the mire. He finally held Fletcher's gaze, feeling cautious and uncertain.

"Do you remember what you said to me last night before we fell asleep?" Fletcher asked, his grip on Fenris's arms loosening. "You whispered to me that you'd never dreamed it could be like that between two people. You fell asleep in my arms and I watched you for a while. I've never seen you so at ease, so peaceful. What we have is beautiful and perfect and nobody, whether real or a ghost of our past, is going to come between us. This stops _now_ , Fenris. I won't tolerate any more. You're better than this." He sighed and shuffled closer to Fenris, who was nodding his head, staring blankly at his feet, fearing he'd ruined everything.

How could he _not?_ Was that not what he always did?

Fletcher gave the elf a moment to compose himself before speaking again. "I'm sorry for getting angry but I hate seeing you so low, so... submissive. Look, I've been more bruised after a skirmish with bandits. Last night was emotional for both of us, and we were bound to go a little wild. It's allowed, you know. It's called living your life. It's called being _free."_

A half-hearted snort came from Fenris, who looked up as the mage stroked his hands.

"And this _is_ going to happen again," Fletcher insisted with a naughty grin. "As often as we can. I'm certain Messere Pétomane will welcome us back with open arms."

A tiny smile formed on Fenris's lips before it melted away. "More like open palms when he throws his hands up in the air."

"All the more reason to come back, hm?" Hiding his discomfort, Fletcher pulled Fenris close and kissed his temple.

"I suppose it _would_ be quite amusing to see his reaction upon our return," mumbled the elf with a shrug.

"So we _will_ be returning?"

"Yes... we will." Fenris gently kissed Fletcher's cheek and stood up, his face burning with shame even though his heart rate had slowed. "I will-I will dress and arrange for a fresh bath to be drawn."

"Don't forget breakfast. I could eat a dead horse."

"I believe you," Fenris remarked quietly as he went into the small bathroom and began to dress himself.

"You know, that bathtub's pretty big," Fletcher called out before quickly hauling himself up and sitting on the edge of the bed so Fenris would not see how much trouble he was having. "I think there'd be room for both of us in there."

Fenris peered around the doorframe and then hopped out, pulling his trousers on.

"After all, I _am_ injured," Fletcher went on, clutching his back with an exaggerated grimace. "I might need some help getting in and out, washing myself…"

"Of course," muttered Fenris dryly, warmth blooming in his belly as he realised the dance was afoot. "And you are not going to exploit that fact at all, are you?"

"Me?" Fletcher placed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt. "I wouldn't dream of it." He winked at Fenris, whose smile slowly grew before he looked at the floor and cleared his throat, smoothing out his clothing.

"Fletcher… I have lived most of my life with no expectations or dreams. Each day with you is a blessing upon me and sometimes I find that difficult to accept… to believe. But you are correct. I should embrace my new life, not live in fear that it will be taken away from me or that it will come to an end. I owe you that much."

"You owe it to nobody but yourself."

Fenris nodded. "You _are_ the best thing that's ever happened to me," he murmured softly, "and what we have _is_ beautiful and perfect. I will… endeavour to see the sun behind the clouds."

"It's always there," Fletcher said.

Fenris bowed slightly before moving to the door. "Yes, you are. _You_ are my sun, Fletcher. _You_ are the light that guides me and elevates my spirit."

Fletcher slowly pushed himself up and walked with difficulty to Fenris, who watched him anxiously. Standing in front of him, Fletcher cupped the elf's cheeks and drew him closer. "And you're the ground beneath my feet. You're rich, warm and complex. You keep me anchored, and you always lead me home."

"That does not sound as glamorous as 'the sun'," joked the elf, modestly dipping his head.

"You're probably right," Fletcher conceded with a smile. "I'm rubbish at this, aren't I?"

"No, you're not." Fenris softly laughed, and Fletcher kissed his forehead before they shared a long hug.

At length, and with reluctance, Fenris drew back. "I… should go before breakfast becomes lunch."

"All right. Listen, Fen. You might get a few funny looks when you leave this room. We made quite a racket last night."

"I am not concerned." Fenris smiled. "After all, I am not the one who spent the night with an _elf_ , and made… quite a racket."

Fletcher frowned and stepped back, hands on his hips. "I take exception to the assertion that _I_ made all the noise, Ser Elf-who-Brays-Like-a-Rutting-Donkey."

"Your exception is noted, Ser Mage-who-Bellows-Like-a-Stuck-Bronto," countered Fenris with another bow, before his eyes lingered on Fletcher's unfettered penis. "Perhaps you should cover yourself, lest the servants arrive?"

"Perhaps I will, perhaps I won't." The mage shrugged, folding his arms.

"And perhaps _I_ will not arrest you for indecent exposure."

"Don't try that on me. You're not on duty." Fletcher reached around for a pillow to throw but winced when his back protested, and changed his mind.

"Get back into bed," directed Fenris, opening the door. "I will arrange for your bath."

 _"Our_ bath," Fletcher amended as the door closed. He then climbed back into bed as Fenris had ordered, trying in vain to quell his growing fury at the man--the _monster_ \--who'd damaged his beloved so. Every time something good happened to Fenris, every time he was happy, the spectre of his former master materialised, threatening to drown him in darkness.

"I'll always be your light, Fenris," he said to the door. "I'll never let you go under."

~o~O~o~

Once bathed and fed (Fletcher having consumed a _second_ breakfast, although he couldn't bring himself to entertain the snails in garlic sauce) the couple finally emerged from their suite and made their way to the reception counter, ignoring several hostile glares they received from other guests. To Fletcher's satisfaction, Messere Pétomane was on duty. The manager fixed his insincere smile in place as they approached.

"Our compliments, messere," Fletcher said with an equally counterfeit grin. "We're so pleased with your establishment that we've decided to make it a regular thing. We'd like to make a reservation for this time next week, if you please."

Pétomane's face paled before he cleared his throat and steered Fletcher to one side. "We would be, um, 'appy to 'ave you and your friend back, serah, but per'aps we can offer you more spacious accommodation? Our Orchidée Luxury Suite will be available for your next visit, and at no extra cost. I am certain you will find it to your liking."

"Why would you do that?" Fletcher asked suspiciously.

"Zere… 'ave been complaints," whispered the manager, cringing. "Concerning ze noise. I, personally, did not 'ear a thing, but… I wish to accommodate you, but I must also think of ze other guests. I 'ope you understand, and zat we may come to an arrangement zat is pleasing to us both. You seem a reasonable man, serah," he added desperately, wringing his hands.

"I get it. The other suite is farther away from the others?" Fletcher guessed.

"You will not be disappointed with it, I give you my personal guarantee," Pétomane assured him.

"All right, then. See you next week." Fletcher patted Petomane's cheek twice, this time with a genuine smile, and limped across to Fenris, who'd positioned himself next to the hotel entrance. _"I've_ just charmed my way into securing a nicer suite for us next week," he bragged.

"You forget," said Fenris, pointing to one of his ears. "I am an elf, and my hearing is far superior to that of any human's."

"Ah." Fletcher grinned, relieved that Fenris had returned his smile. "You know, I almost feel sorry for Pétomane. At least I _would_ if he weren't a bigoted snob who cheats on his wife. Bastard."

"Indeed," uttered Fenris as they stepped outside.

"Where in the Void have _you_ two been?"

They turned around to find Varric hastening towards them. "In the hotel," Fletcher replied, thumbing towards it.

"I _know_ that, but I thought maybe I'd see you both _before_ lunch? I got a bunch of restless workers at the Hanged Man waiting for their drinking money, _and_ I'm supposed to be calling for your sister about now. Come on, let's get going."

"Sorry," Fletcher said with a shrug as he glanced at Fenris. They took off after the dwarf.

"Can you manage?" Fenris asked him with a concerned look at Fletcher's legs--he was still limping.

"I'm fine, just a bit stiff, love."

Varric, having heard the conversation, halted, turned around and waited for them to catch up. "You okay, Hawke?"

Fletcher quickly turned his collar up before Varric noticed his 'injuries'. "I'm _fine_. Stop fussing over me. Let's not keep Beth waiting."

With a brisk nod, Fenris led the way, eager to see his friend Donnic and to learn if Bartrand's interrogation had proved fruitful.

One of Varric's eyebrows rose as he watched Fletcher struggle to keep up with him. "I guess _that_ question's answered, then," he muttered.

Fletcher sidled closer to him, a mischievous grin slowly forming as he watched Fenris, ensuring the elf didn't overhear. "If you have any further questions, I'd be quite happy to fill you in. Speaking of which, last night Fenris filled _me_ in. Three times, if you must know."

Disappointed, Varric shook his head. "Give me material I can work with here, Hawke. Three times? That's novice-level smut. Did you bust any chandeliers? Set fire to anything? Did the city guard need to be called in? The templars? Tell me you at least broke the bed."

"Not really," mused Fletcher, "although the bed sheets _were_ pretty creased, and I doubt they'll ever get that oil out. Any good?"

Varric grunted in resignation. "Looks like I'll have to add my _own_ embellishments to this particular story."

Fletcher laughed. "As if you need an excuse to do that."

"True enough. Oh, while we're on the subject, Hawke, why'd you have to go tell Broody about that story? You know, the one with him and Justice?"

Fletcher shrugged nonchalantly. "He wanted me to read him something amusing. I'd already read it and I thought Fenris would appreciate the humour. He did, for the most part. I can't say he was enamoured with chapter four, however."

"You _already_ read it?" the dwarf spluttered. "Just how many times _did_ you… wait. You _read_ chapter four to him? He told me you refused to!"

They looked at the elf, who walked ahead of them as was his usual habit, seemingly oblivious to their argument. "I think you've been played there, Varric," Fletcher said with a grin. "Looks like he wants to make you sweat a bit. I read every word of that chapter to him. Even the bit about him having a glowing blue bum for the rest of his life."

"Why, that sneaky little…" Varric shook his head. "So, the elf _does_ have a sense of humour. A sadistic, nasty one at that, but a sense of humour nonetheless. Um, did he have a sense of humour about the blue butt thing? And _why_ he wound up with a blue butt?"

"You don't want to know," Fletcher said with a dramatic sigh. "And you particularly don't want to know what he plans to _do_ to you when he gets you alone. I had to change my pants after he told me _that_ bit."

"Ha!" Varric laughed. "You're the one making me sweat now, right?" When the mage shook his head and slapped the dwarf's back, Varric laughed again, but there was less mirth and more _squeak_ in it. "You _are_ joking? Hawke? Hawke?"

Fletcher cursed his limp as he was unable to walk faster than the dwarf, but he kept the pretence up all the way to the barracks.

When they arrived, the Keep was strangely quiet. The usual guard compliment was there, but the ones Fenris knew greeted him briefly and didn't engage him in conversation. In fact, most of the noise came from the omnipresent dissatisfied nobles, who were ignored by most of the guards and Fletcher's little group. Seneschal Bran's door was closed, and anyone so much as venturing close to it was sent away with no explanation.

"Curious," Fenris remarked as they went into the barracks, where the mood was equally muted. "Wait here," he instructed his companions as he went in search of a fellow guard, catching one of them as they left their quarters. When he returned to Fletcher and Varric, he wore a frown.

"Guard-Captain Vallen is not on duty today," he told them.

"But what about our booty?" Varric moaned, dreading having to tell the workers their pay would be delayed.

"Donnic is here," said the elf before lowering his voice. "There is talk of an… _altercation_ having occurred last night. It is mere bruit, however, and I will pay it no heed."

"An altercation? Between whom?" Fletcher asked, but Fenris gave no answer as he moved to the door to Aveline's office and knocked upon it.

After a minute the door was opened by Donnic, who quickly ushered them inside. The absence of his usual bonhomie was immediately apparent, as was the cut on the bridge of his nose and his swollen left eye. A warning in Fenris's eyes forbade both Varric and Fletcher from commenting on it.

"Come to get your treasure have you, lads?" Donnic walked to the desk, picking up a large bunch of keys. "We'll need to go down to the vault. Follow me."

After retrieving the expedition spoils, Donnic assigned two guards to assist Fletcher and Varric in carrying the treasure back to Lowtown. When asked why the mood at the Keep was so subdued, Donnic revealed the Viscount was entertaining a Qunari delegation, and that security was high. After some small talk, Donnic noticed Varric looked about to burst, and sighed.

"Aveline copped me a treat, didn't she?" he said, guessing they'd hear about it sooner or later.

"Guard-Captain Vallen did _that?"_ Fenris demanded, hardly believing his ears, while Varric let out a long whistle as he craned his neck for a closer look.

"Yeah, but you should see the state of her," Donnic joked listlessly. "Well, if there's nothing else, I need to get on. Fen, may I speak to you in private?"

"Go," Fenris said to the others. "We will meet later." A secret smile passed between him and Fletcher as the two investors departed along with their guard escort.

"Shut the door, Fenners," Donnic said as he sat heavily upon Aveline's chair. He waited for the elf to sit in the chair opposite and then scrubbed his face before looking forlornly at the desk.

"What has occurred, Donnic?" Fenris asked in concern. "Why did Aveline injure you?"

"I'm still trying to figure _that_ one out for myself," he answered tautly, sitting back in the chair. "There's something else I need to tell you, and you're not going to like it." He produced the crumpled magistrate's letter and looked at it for a moment. "How's your reading coming along?"

"Fletcher believes I should now give the average seven or eight-year old a run for their money," said the elf with a faint smile.

"That's great!" The lieutenant smiled, his enthusiasm for his friend's achievement genuine. "Mind you, I think you'd struggle with this, as it's pretty wordy. Even I had to look up some of the terms, such as _Limitrophe_. That was a new one." He sighed and ran his hand along the paper several times to flatten it out. "Listen, this letter concerns Varric and Hawke as well, but I'm guessing you'll take the news in a more measured way. If I'd told _them_ about this while they were here, they probably would have mugged me for my key to the cells."

"You had better tell _me_ , then," Fenris said soberly, preparing himself for bad tidings.

"Just bear in mind I have a plan of sorts, but I'm going to need your help with it."

Fenris nodded once and leaned forward. "Read it to me."

~o~O~o~

**The Gallows**

The young man looked at the three crumpled pieces of paper on his writing desk and sighed, reaching for a fresh piece. Dipping his quill into the inkpot, he paused before starting the letter exactly as he'd begun the three that preceded it:

_Dear Father,_

_I have now commenced full duties in Kirkwall, and am finding my new position to be very rewarding._

"Oh, who am I trying to fool?" He groaned and swept the letter off his desk, watching as it floated to the floor. Sighing, he stared at his desk until the notches and holes in the wood blurred together. Then he jumped as a knock came at the door and took a few deep breaths, smoothing his hair down.

"Come in?" he said warily. As the door was opened, he stood briskly to attention. "Knight-Captain Cullen!"

"As you were," said his superior. "May I enter?"

"Of course, ser! Here." He turned his chair outward and sat upon his bed.

"Thank you." Cullen closed the door and took a seat before picking up the letter on the floor and placing it on the desk without reading it. "I've written quite a few letters like that myself," he said with a smile.

"Yes, ser."

The senior templar cleared his throat and rested his palms on his thighs. "Ser Ruben, I understand you have recently returned from assignment in Darktown?"

"Yes, ser. We were unsuccessful in apprehending the apostate," he answered miserably.

"You will become accustomed to it," advised the knight-captain with a wry smile. "Sometimes I wish our duty was to catch fish with our bare hands. I am certain we would have more success."

A hesitant smile pulled at Ruben's mouth but he quickly suppressed it.

"I am not here to discuss the success of your assignment, however," Cullen said with a hint of a sigh. "I _am_ here to discuss the manner in which the assignment was conducted."

"Ser?" Ruben asked after a pause.

Cullen stood up and leaned against the small desk before removing his gauntlets and flexing his fingers. "We have just had to mollify an angry mob of refugees who took the boat over here. _Some_ of them swam over here. They were quite vehement in their condemnation of Ser Karras's methods. I would like to hear your opinion as well."

Ruben shifted uncomfortably on his bed. "Perhaps you should ask Ser Karras, Knight-Captain, as he led the-"

"I am asking _you_ , Ser Ruben. You may speak freely."

"I will of course assist in any way I can," Ruben answered carefully, "but I don't understand why you are asking me. I am… 'the new boy', after all."

"That is precisely _why_ your opinion counts. Karras always takes the same men with him on assignment, all of whom sing his praises to the highest rafter. He enjoys the knight-commander's favour because he has one of the highest capture rates of us all. But _I_ have heard several less-than-positive accounts of the man and how he conducts himself. You have not known him long enough to form anything but an objective opinion of him. I require an honest and unexpurgated account from you, Ser Ruben. Please begin." Cullen once again took a seat, bringing himself down to Ruben's level. "There will be no consequences to you," he assured his subordinate.

Ruben nodded, one of his hands--which had not so long ago been toying with his sash--balling into a fist, only to be covered by his other hand. "My opinion, ser? I have always been proud to serve Andraste and to follow the doctrines of the Templar Order." He paused, his breathing quickening. "Until today, that is. Today, ser, I am ashamed, and it grieves me to admit that to you."

Ruben hung his head while Cullen watched him for a moment. "Tell me why," he prompted softly.

Ruben took a deep breath and, when he spoke, his words tumbled out in rapid succession. "No matter _who_ ran that clinic--be they apostate, maleficar, magister--those poor souls in the Undercity _relied_ upon it. There were expectant mothers, young children, men who had lost limbs, eyes, defending their homeland. What are they to do now?" He sat forward, unclenching his fists, and pointed at the floor as he found his stride. "It was _obvious_ the apostate was no longer on the premises, _if_ he'd ever been there at all," he said angrily. "And still, Karras rent the place in twain. And he _laughed_ as he did it. He wasn't just doing his duty, Cullen," he attested passionately. "He _enjoyed_ it! He enjoyed their pleading, their cries. And then he announced that the clinic was closed, by order of the templars, despite there being no proof at all that an apostate was running it. I do _not_ believe the purview of the Order encompasses acts of wanton vandalism, nor do I believe that Andraste would have sanctioned such wickedness against _any_ of the Maker's children, be they magi or not!"

"I see you feel very strongly about this," Cullen said evenly.

Ruben stood up, his back to Cullen, his arms folded tightly across his chest. "This would _never_ have been tolerated in Starkhaven. If this is what is to be expected of me in Kirkwall, then perhaps I am no longer as suited to this calling as I once thought. But… I do not know what I would do instead," he finished on a quiet note, his anger waning. Cullen waited patiently until Ruben released a long sigh and once again sat upon his bed. "Ser… I apologise for my outburst. And also for the inappropriate usage of your given name, Knight-Captain."

"These are your quarters, Ruben, and we are speaking as friends. There is no rank in here," Cullen reassured him. "As for your 'outburst', I asked you to speak honestly and you did more than that--you spoke from your heart, and I commend you for that." He stood up and retrieved his gauntlets, pulling them over his hands. "I will bring this to the knight-commander's attention. I will not reveal your identity, have no fear. Karras is prone to displaying… antipathy towards those who speak against him. It has happened before."

"I am not afraid, Ser Cullen," Ruben said with determination, also standing up. "You may invoke my name at any time. I should have spoken up sooner but I was not certain I would be heard."

Cullen looked at Ruben for a moment before nodding. "I will always hear you." He moved to the door and turned back as he opened it. "I do not, however, want to hear any more talk of you doubting your calling. Your compassion and righteousness are a credit to the Order and Andraste's teachings. Remember that the next time you doubt yourself."

"You… humble me, ser," Ruben said quietly with a bow. "Maker watch over you."

"And you," said Cullen, returning the bow. "We will speak later." He exited and glanced around before closing the door.

Ruben exhaled, taking a seat at his desk and examining the letter. "Where _are_ you, Brother?" he said sadly, not seeing the words in front of him.

~o~O~o~

"What does it mean when your ears are burning?" Fletcher asked Anders, making himself comfortable in a soft armchair. After he and Varric had paid the workers, and recruited some more, he'd decided to pay his friend a visit in the safehouse and take him some food.

"Someone's talking about you."

"Good or bad?"

Anders, who was lounging on the bed next to Fletcher's chair, stroked his chin as he contemplated the question. "I think the left ear's good and the right ear's bad. Or is it the other way around?" he mumbled through a mouthful of salted pork.

"What does it mean if _both_ my ears are burning?" asked Fletcher as he tore a chunk of bread from a loaf.

"Um… maybe someone's saying good things about you but something bad's heading your way? Or maybe you have psychic ears and they're predicting that someone's going to talk about you. Or even that someone's thinking about talking about you."

"Psychic ears? What, you mean this _someone's_ praising me up because they want me to do something? Or they're thinking about asking me to do something?"

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

"I don't _like_ doing things." Fletcher pouted.

Anders laughed and then swallowed his mouthful, a pensive look coming over him. "Sorry I've been so much trouble, Hawke. I know you wanted to spend some time with Fenris."

"Oh, I didn't mean you," Fletcher replied dismissively. "And I've spent some time with him, don't you worry. Hey, last night he took his first bath in warm water!" he declared proudly with a wide smile.

"Really?" asked Anders with genuine interest. "Did he like it?"

"He _loved_ it. And he was very grateful to both of us."

"That explains the limp, then," Anders remarked with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Fletcher tutted, rolling his eyes. "Look, I've already _told_ you, I sprained my knee."

"And for some inexplicable reason you haven't healed it, nor will you let me examine it."

"Fenris was grateful to you as well," Fletcher said, changing the subject.

"Somehow, Hawke, I doubt Fenris will be as _grateful_ to me as he was to you. Not sure I'd _want_ him to be, either," he said with a wince.

Fletcher shrugged, unable to completely hide the beginnings of a sappy grin. "Well, no. That would never do, would it?" They laughed, and Fletcher sat up straight, placing his plate on a table. "Anyway. After we paid the workers, Varric and I totted up what we owe to you and Fenris. As you're going to be receiving a share from the mine's profits, I've allocated Fenris a bigger chunk than you. Is that all right?"

"Depends." Anders swung his legs off the bed, sitting up. "How much are we talking about?"

"Well, Varric's holding out for the best deal possible on the gems and equipment we found, so we might have to wait a week or two, but…" He grinned and slapped his friend's arm. "We're talking buying-a-house-kind of money, Anders. Buying-a-house-in- _Hightown_ kind of money."

Anders's mouth slowly opened and he blinked several times, too stunned to speak.

"You _are_ allowed to smile, you know," joked Fletcher.

"I-I know, but… you _did_ pay the workers, didn't you?"

"The workers are very happy with their wages," Fletcher replied. "So happy, in fact, that most of them jumped at the chance of working at the mine. Varric's put the word out--discreetly, mind you--that we need a few more, and tomorrow he'll be taking a trip to Darktown. Shame we can't go with him, but he knows his way around, and he'll find the right people."

"I hope they're all right, you know," Anders said quietly, shaking his head. "A few of my patients were having long-term treatment. They'll find somewhere else to go, I suppose. Give them a few days and they'll have forgotten all about the clinic." He brought his legs back onto the bed and lay down, staring up at the ceiling.

"That's where you're wrong," Fletcher corrected him. "This morning a group of refugees stormed the Gallows, demanding Ser Karras's head on a platter."

Anders's head snapped around and he quickly sat up. "What, really?"

Fletcher nodded, smiling. "About thirty of them. Some of them didn't even wait for the boat to return, and swam there. The rest--totalling more than fifty, from what I hear--stayed on the mainland and shouted abuse. They caused quite a stir. They completely ignored the templars's orders but co-operated with the city guard, and no arrests were made. There are several rumours going about town that the templars are finished. I know, I know," he said, holding his hands up. "Like _that's_ going to happen. But there's a lot of ill-feeling towards the templars at the moment. So you see, Anders, the refugees didn't just take it lying down. The clinic, and _you_ , were very important to them."

Anders stared at him, in disbelief at first, before a small smile broke through. "And there was me feeling all unappreciated and sorry for myself," he murmured quietly. "I… I can't believe it."

"It's amazing what the 'little people' can do, if there are enough of them," Fletcher said. "the Templars have never been popular, but now they're hated. That's not going to stop them doing their jobs, I suppose, but it feels good to know you have some support, doesn't it?"

Anders nodded, smiling faintly. "I'd better start thinking about a new clinic, then."

"Yes, you'd better." Fletcher moved to the bed, sitting next to his friend and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "I'm on it. Just give me a bit of time, all right?"

"Maybe… maybe I'll put some of my money into it, make it a _proper_ clinic," Anders mused before glancing at Fletcher. "You be careful. The templars may be hated but they're not going to go into hiding and lick their wounds. Just watch yourself."

"I'm being careful enough," Fletcher reassured him. "In fact, I might already have somewhere in mind."

"What? Where?" Anders asked excitedly. "You don't mean _here_ , surely?"

Fletcher shook his head and stood up. "Nope. You'll find out."

"Wheeeeeen?" Anders laughed, also rising.

"Later. Will you be all right here for now?"

"Yes," Anders said with a glance at the books Fletcher had brought him. "Thanks for those."

"If you need anything, just knock on the cellar door across the way. I'd better go and make an appearance at home."

"Your mother must be used to it by now," Anders said with a smile. "You're a busy man."

"Yes, I know, but I want to spend a bit more time with her while I can. She has a suitor, you know. If she remarries I might not see as much of her."

"A _suitor?_ Have you met him?" Anders asked in surprise.

"Not yet. I'm going to, though. Actually, I'll sort that out with Mother now. I need to know he'll take care of her." He sighed and looked at Anders. "He's an apostate."

Anders nodded slowly and moved closer to Fletcher. "You're worried that-"

"Of course I'm worried. Mother and Father had a wonderful marriage, but most of their earlier years were spent moving from place to place, evading the templars. I don't want that for her again. And if he was ever caught…"

"Do you want me to come with you when you meet him?" Anders offered. "We both have our own experiences with the templars. We could get a good idea of how serious he really is about your mother, and we could ask him some hard questions others might not think of."

Fletcher laughed and shook his head. "I'll add you to the list. So far Aveline, Fenris and Varric want to come along to the meeting. I appreciate the offer, but I think it's best I meet him alone. I don't want to scare the poor sod away."

"Fair enough. I hope you get on all right."

"I'll see you before then," Fletcher promised with a grin. "Hey, I've just had a great idea. If we make enough money from the mine, maybe we could start up our _own_ order of warriors. Super Templars who take Super Lyrium. They'd hunt reverse apostates."

"Reverse apostates?" Anders burst out laughing. "You mean the templars?"

"Exactly! And we'd keep all of those bastards in a giant prison and call them names and throw tomatoes at them, and we could just strut around in front of them, casting spells to our heart's content. And if any of them protest, we call the Super Templars in and _bam!"_ he shouted, punching his palm for effect. "What do you think?"

Anders shook his head, giving Fletcher a pitying look. "I think _you've_ been at the lyrium by the sound of it."

 _"Genius_ is often dismissed as madness by the unenlightened," Fletcher declared imperiously, puffing his chest out, "but one day I'll show you. I'll show you all! Mark my words! Mwahahaha!" He threw his head back and cackled, then un-puffed his chest. "Hm. We just need a name for our new Order. Think something up, Anders. I'll be back later." He moved to the trapdoor at the rear of the house but, as he was about to open it, Anders pulled him into a hug.

"Thanks for cheering me up," Anders said, slapping Fletcher's back before releasing him.

"You think I'm joking, don't you?" said Fletcher as he dropped down into the shaft. "See you later. Don't forget the name!"

"I won't!" Anders called after him, waiting a minute or two before closing the trapdoor.

~o~O~o~

**The Hawke Residence**

Aveline nodded as Leandra passed her a cup of tea and sat next to her at the dining table. "Thank you, Leandra," she said with a smile bordering on a grimace. "So… how are you settling in?"

Leandra tilted her head and smiled kindly. "We _have_ been here for almost eighteen months now, you know."

"Right. Of course." Aveline shifted a little and looked around the room as she took a sip of her tea. "It always tastes better out of a china cup, doesn't it?" she commented inanely. "You've got it looking very nice in here. Oh, and that's a nice dress you're wearing. I expect you treated yourself, didn't you, and so you should. And you've a grand fire going there. In the hearth, I mean. Or do you call it a fireplace? Some people even call it a chimney, don't they? But that's daft. The chimney is the part the smoke goes up." She took another gulp of tea, silently telling herself to shut the hell up.

"We call it a fireplace," Leandra answered evenly.

"Good. That's a good, solid name. 'Hearth' is a bit… I don't know, flowery. Don't you agree?"

"Of course, Fletcher calls it a hearth."

"Well, I can believe _that,"_ said Aveline through a strained laugh.

A thoughtful silence fell, and Leandra poured them some more tea. "This _is_ a pleasant surprise, Aveline. It's not every day one has the captain of the guard calling round for tea."

"I just…" Aveline frowned, desperately trying to recall one of the many excuses for the visit she'd thought up, but to her great annoyance she drew a blank. She shrugged and reached for a biscuit. "I just wanted to catch up, that's all. How have things been with you? Hawke tells me you have an admirer."

"I'm not sure I'd go that far, but he is a dear friend. Fletcher wants to meet him. He's taking his position as head of the family _very_ seriously."

"Do you think you'd ever marry again?" Aveline asked. Leandra raised her eyebrows, taken aback by the question. Aveline's cup clattered against the saucer as she scrambled to her feet. "Shit, I'm…" She gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth before slowly removing them. "Ma Hawke… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to use language like that in front of you. And I didn't mean to ask such a personal question. I'd better go."

"Aveline, will you sit down?" Leandra laughed, to Aveline's great relief and surprise. "You forget that I raised two boys _and_ married one. Trust me, I've heard every curse, epithet and obscenity that's worth knowing. Except the one time Fletcher stubbed his toe against the bedstead and used a word I'd never heard before _or_ since. But apart from that, I'm quite hardened to the use of colourful language."

Aveline hesitated for a moment before once again taking her seat.

"And as for your question," Leandra went on, "I was merely surprised by it, not offended. To tell you the truth, I have not given it any serious thought, although the idea is not unwelcome. As for Quentin, I don't know him well enough. Yet. But you never know," she finished with a grin.

"But if you did get to know someone well enough and if you did… care for them, you _would_ remarry?"

"Of course, dear. I've discussed the subject with my children and they would not want me to be alone in my dotage. And I know Malcolm would also give his blessing, were he able."

Aveline nodded thoughtfully and took a small bite of her biscuit. "Do you think of Malcolm often?"

"I think of him every day, as I am sure you think of Wesley."

"Of course I do," Aveline said, a little defensively, before she sighed. "Your son told me you and your husband ran away together. Is that true?"

A fond light came into Leandra's eyes and she folded her hands together on the table, looking at her betrothal ring, which had recently been re-set with a diamond. "I was supposed to marry the Comte de Launcet but an apostate with twinkling brown eyes swept me off my feet. It caused quite the scandal, as I'm sure you can imagine. I was disowned by my family--well, at the time, anyway--but I wouldn't change a minute of it. Quite the stuff of romantic novels, isn't it?"

"Yes," Aveline agreed with a half-smile.

"How did you and Wesley meet?"

"Well, it wasn't the stuff of romantic novels, that's for sure," answered the guard-captain, before her features were softened by a sad smile. "I _did_ love him, though. I loved him a great deal. He was a very decent, gentle man."

"Yes, I could see that, even though we only had a short acquaintance." Leandra reached over and patted Aveline's hand. "I know how much you must miss him, but have _you_ ever thought of remarrying?"

"It's too soon," Aveline said decisively with a firm shake of her head.

"It _has_ been a while, dear," said Leandra, "and the mourning period is over. I'm certain Wesley would have wanted you to seek a companion after the appropriate amount of time. Unless, of course, you have already found one?"

Aveline glanced up at Leandra and then at the door, hearing a key rattling in the lock. "I… no. No, there's no one. Excep… no."

Aveline hastened to her feet as the door was pushed open and Fletcher sailed in, singing to himself as he checked his reflection in the mirror on the wall, adjusting his tunic. "Hello, Mother! I'm _sorry_ I wasn't home last night, but I… Aveline?" He closed the door and walked into the parlour, as it was now called, and frowned at the two women. "What are you doing here?" he asked Aveline. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, darling," said Leandra. "We're taking tea."

"I was just about to go," Aveline announced, sounding flustered. "I need to get back to the barracks."

"I thought you were off duty today?" Fletcher asked in confusion.

"The captain of the guard is _never_ off duty," she replied briskly, wondering how he knew that. She turned to Leandra. "Thank you for the tea, Ma Hawke."

"You must call on us again," Leandra insisted, showing Aveline to the door. "You're always welcome."

"I appreciate that," Aveline said. "Thank you again." She looked past Leandra to Fletcher and nodded curtly. "Hawke."

"Aveline." Fletcher's frown deepened as Leandra closed the door. "As the head of this family, I command you to tell me what that was all about, Mother," he said in his most serious voice, "and if there are any biscuits left, I command you to give them to me. I'm starving."

"I think you're taking your position a little _too_ seriously, dear," teased Leandra, pinching Fletcher's cheek as she passed by. He rubbed it and watched her take a seat at the table. "Aveline wanted to talk to me about something, but I'm not quite sure what that was." He joined her at the table, taking great care when he sat down, still feeling the effects of the previous night. "Fletcher, does Aveline have a paramour? A companion?"

"A boyfriend, you mean? No! She's married to her job, that one," he scoffed. "Although…"

"Although?" she said brightly, eagerly leaning forward.

"We suspected she had a thing for Donnic. Varric disagreed, but Beth, Fenris and I were quite convinced."

"Donnic? Is that the burly guard with the, you know?" She touched her cheek.

"The big sideburns, yes. Fenris's friend. It looks like Varric was right, though. Apparently, she popped him on the nose yesterday. _Don't_ tell Fenris I said that, he doesn't approve of gossip. But I saw the evidence with my own eyes this morning."

"Aveline hit him? Did he do something inappropriate?"

"I couldn't tell you, Mother. Donnic's decidedly tight-lipped about the whole affair. I think he's embarrassed that a girl hit him. _Not_ that Aveline hits like a girl."

"Well, how _very_ interesting," she pondered.

Fletcher reached for a biscuit and paused as he held it next to his mouth. "I don't like the tone of your voice, Mother. What are you up to?"

"Me, dear? Nothing, nothing at all." She rose and gathered the teacups, Fletcher's distrustful gaze following her to the kitchen door. "There's something _you_ could do, though," she declared. "Let me make some fresh tea, and I'll tell you all about it." She breezed into the kitchen, Fletcher staring morosely at the door after her.

"Great. I _do_ have psychic ears," he whined, stuffing the biscuit into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Limitrophe = On or near a border/frontier.
> 
> For anyone wondering about the story featuring Fenris's glowing blue arse, you'll find it here, called 'The Long and the Short of it' - part two of the PAAA series, and penned by none other than Varric himself. ;)


	71. Just a Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why do I get the feeling that the words 'Fenris, I need your help' are marching with ill-deserved confidence in the direction of this conversation?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, not only for your very helpful beta but for your notes on Quentin, which made me laugh. You do have a suspicious mind! And yes, _another_ arc... my list will rival Fletcher's at this rate. D:

After his hectic day, Fletcher arranged to meet Fenris at the Hanged Man for supper. To Fenris's delight and relief, Fletcher brought food from home. As Fletcher still had Varric's spare key, they ensconced themselves in the dwarf's room as Varric was still out with Bethany.

"You look worn out," Fenris remarked after swallowing a bite of Leandra's cottage pie. "Has 'The List' grown longer still?"

Fletcher nodded before sighing. "I have a hundred and one things to do tomorrow. I still haven't read all of my letters, and another four arrived for me this morning. I haven't even looked at them, they're in my pocket." He downed his glass of wine before casting a crafty look at Fenris.

The elf folded his arms, an eyebrow arched. "Why do I get the feeling that the words 'Fenris, I need your help' are marching with ill-deserved confidence in the direction of this conversation?"

"Because you're a helpful kind of man," Fletcher said with a dazzling grin, batting his eyelashes.

"Oh? Since when?"

"Since you're off duty until the end of the week _and_ since I've just given you enough money to buy half of Hightown." Fletcher finished with a wink.

"So you have _bought_ me now, is that it?" asked the elf, his gruff tone of voice negated by a slight quirk of his lips.

Fletcher shrugged and refilled their glasses. "Only until you're back on duty."

Fenris groaned, slumping in his chair. "What must I do?"

"I need you to be my manager for a few days, help me prioritise the items on 'The List'."

"And you will heed my counsel if I do this?"

"Fen, you can take the bloody list and do whatever you like with it. I don't even need to be involved."

 _"Oh,_ no. Do not think you are going to delegate _everything_ to your new manager," warned Fenris, waving his fork. "Where _is_ this list, anyway?"

"Erm… I haven't actually written it yet," Fletcher confessed, pointing at his temple. "It's all up here."

"A dangerous place for such prized information to be stored."

"Cheeky little whippet." Fletcher stood and went to Varric's bureau for a piece of vellum, Fenris's deep, gravelly laugh following him.

Half an hour later, the list was complete. Taking one last look at it, Fletcher shook his head. "Bloody hell, it's longer than I thought."

Fenris plucked the list from Fletcher's hand and squinted, concentrating heavily as he read it. "Finding new premises for the clinic is top priority, is that correct? Could that be accomplished this evening?"

"I suppose it could," Fletcher said thoughtfully. "Lirene's will still be open."

"Then we will go there after supper," Fenris decreed, scanning the list. "You also wish to visit with your mother's new suitor. That can be done tomorrow."

"I've already arranged it with Mother. I'm meeting him in Hightown for lunch."

"Very well," said Fenris with a nod. "I will accompany you." He held up a hand to stop Fletcher's protest. "I will not attend the meeting. That is a private matter between you and him. I will merely… remain in the vicinity to ensure there is no unwelcome attention from certain parties."

Fletcher smiled and covered Fenris's hand with his own. "Thank you."

Fenris briefly returned his smile before clearing his throat and returning his focus to the task at hand. "Ser Emeric… you will have to send him a message, as it is no longer safe for you to visit the Gallows."

"I'll do it now." Fletcher jumped up to find another piece of paper.

"What is this?" Fenris pointed at the list as Fletcher took his seat. "What does this say?"

"Oh, yeah." Fletcher sighed. "That's Mother's _plan_ for Donnic and Aveline."

"Plan? What plan?"

"She thinks because Aveline hit Donnic, she must be in love with him. Yes, I know." He rolled his eyes. "She wants me to… facilitate things between them."

"And how are you meant to do that?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm out of ideas save locking them in a room and refusing to let them out until they've at least kissed."

Fenris frowned his disapproval. "That could very well result in another injury being sustained, not to mention the one _you_ would receive."

"Then my manager will have to come up with an alternative plan," Fletcher suggested cheekily. "By the way, how did you get on at the barracks? Is everything all right? Not that I'm… well, if it's private guard business then I suppose you can't tell me. I'm being nosy, aren't I?"

"Yes, but I don't mind." Fenris smiled. "It can wait." He disliked keeping anything from Fletcher, but hoped that he and Donnic would be able to come up with a plan for Bartrand before Varric and Fletcher heard the bad news. "Open your letters," he instructed Fletcher, pointing at the mage's pocket. "Let us see if any of them take precedence before we finalise the list."

Fletcher produced the letters and opened them, quickly dismissing some. "There's one from Keeper Marethari here, about Feynriel, the boy we sent to the Dalish."

"The boy _you_ sent to the Dalish, you mean," Fenris said calmly, moving the letter to the 'Can Wait' pile.

Fletcher shrugged and opened the one bearing the Viscount's seal. "I'd forgotten about this," he said to Fenris, who sat forward with interest. "Blah blah blah… Messere Hawke, I require an audience with you at your earliest convenience. Upon your arrival, report to Seneschal Bran and produce this letter…"

"The letter is from the Viscount himself and not the seneschal?" Fenris asked in surprise. Fletcher showed him the Viscount's signature at the foot of the letter. "Tomorrow morning, first thing," Fenris dictated, making a rudimentary note while Fletcher looked on proudly.

"It's good to see you reading and writing so confidently."

"If you can _call_ it writing." Fenris pointed to his barely-legible scrawl. "But I understand it, and that is what counts."

"I think _you'd_ better keep the list, then."

"Good idea."

"More wine?" Fletcher offered, but Fenris shook his head.

"We should deal with the Anders situation first. And then, my dear, we should sleep."

Fletcher bestowed a soppy grin upon the elf. "My dear… will you be sleeping at the barracks tonight?"

"That was the plan, yes."

"You can have the settee at my place if you like. I think Varric's taken Beth somewhere for the night, so Mother would appreciate the company. I promise not to sneak in during the night and fiddle with you… unless you want me to."

A gust of laughter rushed out of the elf's mouth and he shook his head. "As if I would allow _that_ while your mother sleeps in the next room."

"It might not be for much longer. Mother's going to see the Viscount tomorrow as well, in the hope of reclaiming the family estate. Hopefully we shouldn't have to wait too long now I can afford to buy it."

"Interesting," Fenris mused, grasping his chin. "Perhaps if the Viscount wishes you to perform a service for him, he might be persuaded to… expedite the process in return?"

"You see? This is why you're my manager!" Fletcher exclaimed happily, leaning over the table and kissing the elf on the cheek before sitting back down. "I think you should take the job full time."

"I would gladly take the position were I not already employed. Unless, of course, you are willing to explain why I will not be reporting for duty to Guard-Captain Vallen."

"I don't think I'll be doing that," Fletcher replied, rubbing his nose. "I happen to like this where it is."

"As do I." The elf smiled. "If there is nothing more, we should depart." He began to rise, but Fletcher touched his shoulder and he sat back down.

"There's… one more thing," said Fletcher quietly, and a little nervously.

"Is something wrong?" Fenris asked in concern.

"No, I just thought you'd prefer to do this in private."

"Do what? Fletcher, tempted as I am, I do not think Varric would appreciate his bedclothes being rumpled… not to mention, oil is difficult to remove."

"Not that!" Fletcher laughed. "Unless…"

_"No."_

"All right, all right!" They laughed for a moment before Fletcher stood up and placed one hand in his pocket. "Um… after I went to see Anders, I visited the market in Lowtown. I, uh, I picked something up for you. Just a little gift."

"Oh?" Fenris tilted his head, his eyes on Fletcher's pocket, which still contained the mage's hand.

"The thing is, now I've bought it, I'm not sure if you'll like it. Bloody hell, I wish I'd never mentioned it now."

"I'm certain I will like it," Fenris reassured him. "Why would I not?"

"It's… well, see for yourself." Fletcher removed his hand from his pocket and held his palm open.

Fenris scrutinised the gift and looked up at Fletcher, mildly confused. "That is… a ring."

"It's engraved," Fletcher explained. "See? It's supposed to bring you luck. There's nothing magical about it, it's just a lucky charm. I don't know why I bought it, now, I just…" He shrugged and sat down.

"May I see that?" asked Fenris. Fletcher passed the silverite band to him. "Good for… fortune? Lights your… Good fortune lights your path?" said Fenris as he read the engraving, which Fletcher confirmed with a nod. "This is a very handsome ring. I would be pleased to wear it. Thank you."

"Really? You like it?" Fletcher asked, his relief loosening the knot in his stomach.

"Yes, although I have no need of a lucky charm. My luck took a turn for the better on 10 Haring of last year."

"10 Haring?" Fletcher pondered the date, realisation slowly dawning on him. "That was… that was the day we met, wasn't it?"

Fenris nodded, a gentle smile on his face. "Is that what this ring signifies? An anniversary of some kind? If so, then you are off with the dates. I do not mind, however."

"It… doesn't really have any significance," Fletcher mumbled unconvincingly. "I just saw it and thought I'd buy it. Wear it if you like. If not, I won't be offended."

"A likely story," Fenris drawled knowingly. "Which finger should I wear it on?"

"Any. Like I said, it doesn't have any particular significance."

Fenris stood up and moved his chair next to Fletcher's before sitting down and holding his left hand out. "You choose."

Fletcher clasped the elf's hand and looked at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Fenris wiggled his fingers in readiness while Fletcher held the ring next to his thumb. 

"Here?"

"No, you dolt. One of my fingers."

Chuckling, Fletcher started to tap each of Fenris's fingers in turn. "Eeny-meeny-miny-moe, put the baby on the po. When he's done, wipe his bum…"

"Fletcher," Fenris interrupted, smiling indulgently. "Just put it on. It is obvious which finger you will land on. You started the game favouring one particular finger."

"All right! Blimey, _someone's_ mardy this evening!" Fletcher chuckled as he slipped the ring on to Fenris's third finger. "How's that, then?"

"Fine," said the elf, examining the ring. "Of course, any finger would have sufficed as this ring does not signify anything. Does it?"

"No, nothing at all," Fletcher replied, his stomach clenching as he met Fenris's gaze.

Fenris reached up to stroke Fletcher's cheek and gently pulled him closer for a kiss. "Thank you for this," he whispered. "For making me lucky."

"You know, we _could_ straighten the bedclothes out afterwards," joked Fletcher, receiving a punch to the arm.

"No, we could _not."_ Fenris extricated himself from the mage's arms and rose. "Up you get."

Fletcher groaned, reluctantly pushing himself to his feet. "You're never interested these days," he whined, his entreaty not moving the elf, who shook his head and pointed at the door. "Sometimes I suspect you don't fancy me anymore."

"If that is what you believe, then maybe we should cancel our reservation at Le Petit Oreille?"

"No! I was only joking! Please don't do that!" Fletcher wrapped his arms in a bear hug around Fenris, who laughed along with the mage before pushing him away.

"We have much to do," he said, opening the door. "The sooner it is done…"

"The sooner we can snuggle on the settee?" Fletcher asked hopefully.

"Perhaps. We will see," Fenris replied, a warm smile lighting up his face. As Fletcher sailed past him he locked the door behind them, taking another look at his ring before they departed.

They left the Hanged Man quietly and discreetly, keeping a wary eye out for templars. The streets were fairly quiet, however, and they made the short trip to Lirene's Fereldan Imports without incident. Upon arriving they were quickly ushered inside, Lirene bolting the door behind them.

"Lirene, I'd like you to meet Fenris. Fenris, this is Lirene," Fletcher said in introduction.

Lirene eyed Fenris with distrust. "You're a guard?" she guessed from his attire.

"He is, but he's one of us," Fletcher assured her before turning to Fenris. "You should wear some of your other clothes while you're off-duty, you know."

"They're still at your house," Fenris reminded him.

Satisfied that they knew each other well, Lirene relaxed and led them to the back of her shop where a table and chairs sat in a corner. "Give me a hand with these, will you?" she asked, both men assisting in moving them. She then pulled away a threadbare rug that covered a trapdoor and opened it, revealing a small lantern hanging on the wall which illuminated a wooden flight of steps. She unhooked the lantern from the nail and started down the steps, indicating that the men follow her. "Watch your heads on the way down," she advised. "There's a low beam just before the bottom."

Once they reached the cellar, she lit a few more lamps and, before long, the whole space was visible.

"This is massive!" Fletcher exclaimed, his voice reverberating as he took a walk around.

"What of security?" Fenris asked Lirene. "You _are_ aware that two apostates will be operating from these premises?"

"I'm aware of that, yes," she said. "The only way in here is via the steps. This cellar does not connect to any tunnels or to anyone else's cellar. That's why I thought it would be ideal for you and Anders," she said to Fletcher.

"Has it been empty all this time?" the mage asked.

"No. Until not long ago it was almost full of stock but that has been exhausted, as has general interest in the plight of the refugees," she said wearily. "My funds are coming to an end. I don't know what the next step will be."

"We'll be paying rent here, of course," said Fletcher, "and, although we'll be levying a charge for our services-"

"You intend to _charge_ your patients?" Lirene demanded incredulously. "Anders _never_ charged!"

"Yes, and Anders went hungry some days because he used all of his money to fund the clinic!" Fletcher retorted. "Are you aware of that? Resources and treatments cost money."

"Which you and Anders now have plenty of," she pointed out, a note of resentment in her voice.

"Madam," Fenris interjected impatiently, "perhaps you should hear him out instead of attacking him verbally? If you _listen_ instead of _talk,_ you will see that he is trying to help you. And perhaps you should be pleased that one of your fellow Fereldans has fallen on his feet."

"It's all right, Fen," Fletcher said, noticing Lirene's shoulders drop. "I know what it's like to wonder where the next copper is coming from. It's always there at the back of your mind, it colours everything you do and it's utterly exhausting."

"It is." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean… please, say your piece."

"The money Anders and I have come into was hard-won, and is nothing to do with the clinic, nor is it anyone else's business. We _will_ have to make an initial outlay to get the clinic going, but we intend to recoup that money," he went on. "However, we're not in it to make a profit. We only intend to charge those who can afford it, such as the nobles or anyone in employment. We'll suggest everyone else makes a donation, but we won't turn anyone away. If someone genuinely can't pay, then they won't." He paused to gauge Lirene's reaction, and she appeared interested. "Any profits we do make will be donated to you, Lirene. You helped Anders and my family a great deal when we first arrived in Kirkwall and we haven't forgotten it. You can do what you like with the money. Use it to buy supplies for your shop, help with your charitable endeavours, or treat yourself to some nice dresses. Whatever."

"I… don't know what to say," she mumbled, her face flushing.

"And another thing," added Fletcher. "Some of the refugees will be given gainful employment in a joint venture between me and Varric. Many of them will be recruited directly from Darktown, so hopefully there will be less of them coming to you. I'd appreciate your discretion, however. We want as few people to know about this as possible."

"This venture… it _is_ legal, isn't it?" asked Lirene with a glance at Fenris, who cleared his throat.

"Er, it's a sort of… grey area," Fletcher said. "We don't want the city guard or the Chantry to find out. It won't involve anyone coming to harm, nor will it involve personal theft of any kind. And there's no risk to the workers--any consequences will come down on mine or Varric's head. Trust me, we've done our research."

"Excuse me," Fenris said quietly. Fletcher watched him go up the steps.

"I suppose we've all had to do things that are not strictly legitimate," Lirene mused.

"Hm?" Fletcher mumbled, his eyes still on the steps. "Oh, yes. Well, if you're happy, can we talk terms? I'm hoping to have Anders moved in by tomorrow, but we can't do anything without your say-so."

She placed a hand on Fletcher's arm and smiled thinly. "Have him move in first, and then we'll talk. I appreciate what you're doing, and know that you have my support. Is your friend all right? Where has he gone?"

"He'll just be upstairs. He won't say anything, but he's in a difficult position." Fletcher sighed and once again glanced at the steps. "I'd better go. Would you be able to stay open after dark tomorrow night? I'll order some furniture and equipment but it'll need to be moved in at night, as will Anders."

She nodded. "Come when you're ready. I'll be here."

"Thanks. After you." Fletcher gestured for Lirene to precede him, and they ascended the steps. After saying goodbye to her, Fletcher and Fenris took a slow walk back to the Hanged Man.

"Are you all right, Fen?" Fletcher asked after a lull. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, expecting you to turn a blind eye to the mine and all that."

"You did not ask anything of me," replied the elf. "I am merely concerned of any possible consequences to you, legal or otherwise."

Fletcher glanced around before brushing a stray lock of hair out of Fenris's eyes. "What would the guard's stance on the clinic be? Especially considering that it'll be run by apostates?"

Fenris also looked around and they continued walking. "It is probably another 'grey area'. While the guard is not directly affiliated with the templars, they do work together in some circumstances, though the help is often one-sided... in the templars' favour. Aveline knew of the clinic in Darktown, anyway."

"She knew?" Fletcher asked, surprised.

"Anders did not break any laws by offering free healthcare," Fenris said with a shrug, "and Aveline privately does not consider the Templar Order to have any legal clout. They are a religious order, nothing more."

"But her husband-"

"She respects what the templars stand for, but you are Fereldan, as are the refugees. Anders clearly hails from the north, but spent a considerable portion of his life in Ferelden. Aveline would not deny her countrymen the chance of aid. Besides, she was not guard-captain when her husband was alive."

"I wonder if it would have caused problems between them if he'd lived?" Fletcher wondered.

"I suppose they had their differences, as many couples do," Fenris said with a mild smile. "Opposites attract."

"Lucky for us that they do, eh?"

"Indeed it is."

They were still smiling when they reached the Hanged Man. "I'm going down the cellar to give Anders the good news," said Fletcher. "You're welcome to come with me."

"No. I will… I have something to do," Fenris said enigmatically. "When you return, remain inside. I will accompany you home."

"Going anywhere exciting?" Fletcher teased, wondering if it had anything to do with the guard business Fenris had hinted at.

Fenris looked awkward for a moment and cleared his throat. "Not particularly. You should not keep Anders waiting."

"You can't wait to get rid of me, can you? What are you up to, my little whippet?"

"Stop calling me that!" Fenris hissed with a playful, if slightly forceful, shove.

"I can't call you Fen-Fen. I can't call you My Little Whippet. Just what _can_ I call you? There's no pleasing you!"

"Inside. _Now,"_ Fenris ordered, holding the door open. "Do not make me draw my weapon, Mage."

"Promises, promises," whispered Fletcher before he was spun around and propelled inside the pub by an unceremonious kick to the backside.

~o~O~o~

A little later, Fletcher left a delighted Anders and returned to the Hanged Man, where Fenris was waiting. After a brief chat with Varric and Bethany--who had also returned after spending the day together--Fenris walked Fletcher home, having taken up his offer of sleeping on the settee.

"You are looking disconcertingly pleased with yourself," observed the elf as they entered the slums.

"I've had an idea," Fletcher proclaimed.

"Maker help us all," Fenris muttered, walking ahead.

"What do you mean by that? You haven't even heard it yet!" Fletcher broke into a jog to catch up with Fenris, who also picked up his pace. By the time they reached the steps up to Gamlen's house, both were laughing. "I'm not letting you in until you listen to my idea," Fletcher threatened, running up the steps after Fenris, who was standing next to the door.

"Give me the key," commanded Fenris, holding out his hand.

"No. You're off-duty as a guard _and_ as my manager. You don't get to boss me around anymore. Now listen."

"I recall that _you_ requested I 'boss you around' earlier today, but I will humour you. Tell me this… idea of yours."

Fletcher grinned and bounced a few times. "Revenge."

"Revenge?"

"On Varric. When I was talking to him earlier, I had an idea for a story about him… written by us."

"By us? As much as my writing has improved, I am not yet capable of penning a story."

"You tell me what to write, and I'll write it. We'll do it together, Fen. It'll serve him right for all the things he put in that story of his about us… and _Anders,"_ Fletcher said with emphasis, stirring the pot.

"And Justice," Fenris added with distaste.

"Exactly. And the shrine, the blue arse… not to mention our shrivelled peckers. We're going to wipe that easy smile right off his face!"

"You are naught but a fomenter of dissension," declared the elf, arching a brow, one edge of his mouth twitching. "I heartily approve."

"I have no idea what that means, but thank you." Fletcher laughed, taking out his key. "Let's get started, then. _You're_ in charge of vocabulary."

~o~O~o~

After a pleasant night which involved much writing, a little kissing but sadly no fiddling, they got an early start and arrived at the main gates to the Keep just as they were opened to the general public. Although Fenris was wearing the navy blue tunic Fletcher had gifted him and a pair of plain black breeches, the guards at the gate recognised him and waved them through.

"I will see if Donnic is here while you speak with the Viscount," said Fenris. "I hope all goes well."

"Erm, actually, would you go with me?" Fletcher asked, cringing a little.

"I assumed you would want to speak to him in private."

"You know I'll tell you about it anyway," Fletcher reasoned before he shrugged and hung his head. "If you must know, I'm a bit nervous. This _is_ the Viscount, after all."

Fenris smiled fondly at the mage and nudged his arm, causing him to look up. "Of course I will go with you."

Fletcher grinned and nudged the elf back. "Thanks, my little… my dear."

"Come, then. Let us get this over with." Fenris led the way up the left-hand flight of stairs and they waited patiently while Seneschal Bran talked with a noblewoman outside his office.

"Ugh, I can't stand him," Fletcher grumbled, holding his letter ready.

"Perhaps he would appreciate being apprised of the whereabouts of the new clinic?" offered Fenris. "I hear he is a regular patron."

"Perhaps he _would_ appreciate that. But I'm not going to be the one to tell him," Fletcher replied with a smug grin.

"Remember, you love to annoy idiots, do you not?"

"I love pissing them off," Fletcher corrected, waiting for a response.

"I am _not_ going to say that."

"Just whisper it to me."

Fenris shook his head, and Fletcher poked his tongue out.

The noblewoman swished past them and they looked ahead to the seneschal, who was standing with his arms folded, looking utterly bored. "Yes?" he said as they approached, his eyes slowly taking in Fletcher from head to toe and back up again.

"Is everything all right?" Fletcher asked, glancing down at his breeches. "I just wondered why you were looking at my groin."

"I assure you, I was doing no such thing," said Bran coolly. "I assume you are here because you were summoned by His Excellency?"

"Yes, here's my letter," said Fletcher, but Bran held his palm out.

 _"If_ I am aware of your reason for being here, then I do not need to see your _letter_. You are late. The missive was sent to you four days ago."

As Fenris was present, Fletcher decided to impress him by not rising to the snooty seneschal and so he merely stared blankly at him, saying nothing.

Bran shifted his weight a little. "Quite why _you_ have been selected for this task is beyond me, I'm sure." Nonplussed that his words were apparently having no effect on the silent refugee, Bran's tone became sterner. "Are you listening to me, Serah Hawke?"

"Hm? No, not really. I've always liked that picture up there, Fen. It'd look nice in the house, don't you think?"

Fenris nodded, biting back a snigger.

"If you have quite finished wasting time, Serah Hawke, the Viscount will see you. Come with me."

"Oh? You're _ready_ now?" asked Fletcher innocently. "Come on then, Fen."

"Your presence is _not_ required, elf," Bran said down his nose to Fenris.

Anger stirred in Fletcher's blood and he took a single step forward, his expression stony, his voice steady. _"I_ require his presence. And we're not interested in the opinions of a mere civil servant so keep them to yourself. Now do your job and take us to the Viscount."

Fenris's hand lightly touched Fletcher's arm but the mage didn't back down, and a standoff ensued. Eventually, Bran sighed and shook his head.

"I have matters of far greater import to attend to than a childish staring contest," he muttered as he turned around and headed for the Viscount's office.

"Well done," Fenris murmured quietly. "You did not lose your head. I rather enjoyed the 'mere civil servant' part. I believe that vexed him somewhat."

"And I believe being with you has rubbed off on me. That wasn't a double entendre, by the way."

"Makes a change."

They were led into the Viscount's office where Marlowe Dumar was seated at his desk, his brow deeply wrinkled as he examined a document.

Bran cleared his throat and the Viscount looked up. "Excellency, may I present Serah Fletcher Hawke and… an elf."

Seeing Fletcher's jaw twitch, Fenris unobtrusively reached for the mage's wrist and pulled him back slightly. Fletcher looked at him and exhaled through his nose.

"Ah, Hawke," said the Viscount, rising from his desk and gesturing to the chairs on the opposite side. "Be seated, both of you. That will be all, Bran."

With a single, perfectly-measured nod, Bran departed, quietly closing the door. Dumar crossed his arms and eyed his visitors appraisingly as they sat down. "I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I?" he asked Fenris.

"Yes, Your Excellency. I am proud to serve as one of your guards."

"Of course. The first elf in the regiment. You have done well for yourself. And you are here in the capacity of…?"

"He's my most trusted friend," Fletcher answered, "and he's here to lend moral support."

Dumar grunted quietly and walked to the window, looking out. "Refreshing. Most would have introduced him as an advisor, or aide, or some such nonsense." He cleared his throat, turned around and took his seat. "Well, to business. I understand, Hawke, that you have had dealings with the Arishok?"

Taken aback, Fletcher glanced at Fenris and then at the Viscount. "Um, I've spoken to him once, ser, but only briefly."

Dumar nodded. "Indeed. He has asked for you by name."

"I'm sorry, ser, I don't understand," a confused Fletcher said apologetically. "I spoke with him for less than ten minutes and he made it quite clear our business was concluded. That was… two or three months ago."

"That is more time than most have spent with him, myself included. You must have made quite an impression on him, as he will only see you."

"What did you speak to him about?" Fenris asked the mage.

"Remember that night at the barracks when you first began to feel ill--your foot?" Fletcher reminded him. "Varric turned up with Beth and said there was a business opportunity?"

"The Tal-Vashoth," Fenris said, nodding.

Fletcher sat forward a little, addressing the Viscount. "It's a long story, ser, but I'll try to stick to the salient details. My friends and I were approached by a dwarf who wanted to buy goods from the Qunari. All of his previous attempts had been met with derision and so he decided to rid the Arishok of the Tal-Vashoth--namely, mercenaries who've turned their backs on the Qun--to impress him. The dwarf, Javaris Tintop, couldn't do this alone and so recruited some hired swords. Us."

"And did you accomplish this?" asked Dumar.

"Yes, ser. Fenris and I were nearly killed but we managed it. As arranged, we met Tintop at the Qunari compound, where he boasted to the Arishok how _he_ had rid him of this scourge, and that he was ready to deal. However, the Arishok denied all knowledge of such a deal."

"The Arishok lied?"

"No, Excellency," Fenris answered. "Tintop assumed, wrongly, that dispatching the Tal-Vashoth would win him favour with the Arishok. The Qunari may appear strange to many, but they do _not_ lie."

"I see," Dumar said quietly. "It sounds as though you are familiar with their ways."

"I am, Excellency. I lived among the Qunari for a time in Seheron. Even though they had abandoned the Qun, and were to all intents and purposes Tal-Vashoth, I have yet to meet a more honourable race. Never once did they lie or conceal the truth. They speak bluntly and always make their intentions known."

Dumar nodded and meshed his fingers together atop the desk. "I have recently hosted a Qunari delegation, and you speak truly of them. Whatever the Arishok's reasons, Hawke, you should hear him out, and take Guardsman…?"

"Fenris, Excellency."

"Take Guardsman Fenris with you." Dumar stood up and moved to the door, indicating that the meeting was over. "I am eager to hear the outcome. When you are ready, speak with Bran. I will see you whenever I am free. If you require payment..."

"I-" Fletcher looked at Fenris, who nodded his encouragement. "I would only ask a small favour of you, ser."

"Yes?"

"Um, this afternoon, my mother has an appointment with you, ser. All I ask is that you give her request serious consideration."

"Your mother?" Dumar moved to his desk and leafed through his diary. "Leandra Hawke. Of course. I should have noticed the name." He looked up at Fletcher and nodded once. "I will do as you ask. Good luck to you."

Taking that as a cue to leave, Fletcher and Fenris bowed to the elder statesman and exited the office, closing the door behind them. Fletcher then sped across the landing past Seneschal Bran with Fenris following closely behind, and stopped near the entrance to the barracks.

"What does the Arishok want with _me_?" he asked Fenris, excited and anxious.

"Calm yourself. If you had displeased the Arishok, there would have been no letters, I assure you. I would surmise that it is connected to Tintop or the 'deal' in some way. Perhaps he needs your help?"

"Do you think Aveline would come with us? I'm scared," Fletcher said, only half-joking.

"Aveline would _insist_ on accompanying us, I have no doubt. Let us see if she is here. And maybe we could… work on your mother's plan while we are at it?"

"Kill two birds with one stone?" Fletcher asked with a sly grin.

"Precisely." Fenris nodded in the direction of the barracks and, together, they went in search of the guard-captain.

~o~O~o~

After arranging for Aveline to meet them later in the day, Fenris and Fletcher left the Keep and headed for Hightown as it was almost lunchtime. They stood together outside the Journey's End, one of Hightown's better taverns, while they waited for Quentin to arrive.

"Do you know what he looks like?" Fenris asked.

"Mother said he's tall and slim with short-ish grey hair. He won't be dressed like a mage. Kind eyes as well, apparently."

"Kind eyes?" The elf snorted. "Do they undertake voluntary work, then? Donate to charity?"

"Nitwit!" Fletcher laughed, grateful for Fenris's attempts to alleviate his nervousness.

"You should wait inside," Fenris advised, aware that templars patrolled the area. "Perhaps he is already here."

"Are you going to come in with me?"

"No, I will wait here. I would not want to draw further attention to you by being thrown out," he added with a wry smile.

"I'm sorry you have to put up with those kinds of attitudes, Fen." Fletcher laid a hand on Fenris's arm in commiseration, but to his surprise, the elf grinned.

"I enjoy seeing their reactions to me. And I am pleased to give their empty lives meaning, as I am certain they speak of nothing but seeing an elf in Hightown for the remainder of the day. I will count their outraged expressions while you are inside. Go, before the templars come this way."

"I love you, you know," Fletcher whispered.

"Not now," Fenris reprimanded good-naturedly. "Later. Go inside, and remember, he will be as nervous as you, if not more so."

"Thank you. That makes me feel better." Fletcher discreetly squeezed Fenris's hand and released it before heading inside.

As soon as he entered, a tall figure, rising from one of the couches at the rear, caught his eye. He waited as the grey-haired man, wearing a warm smile, approached.

"I knew you as soon as you entered," said the man, extending his hand. "You have your mother's eyes. My name is Quentin. How should I address you?"

Fletcher shook Quentin's hand and felt the touch of mana hum through his blood. "Please, call me Fletcher."

"As you wish, Fletcher. I appreciate you making the time to speak with me, and will do my best to answer all the questions you undoubtedly have. Shall we?" Quentin released Fletcher's hand and waved towards the rear of the lounge, where a bottle of wine, two glasses and a platter of savouries waited on a table.

With a nod, Fletcher followed Quentin and they took a seat, Fletcher sitting at a right-angle to Quentin on an adjoining couch.

"This is a nice place," Fletcher observed, looking around. "Do you come here often?" He cringed, then, and laughed, shaking his head. "I can't _believe_ I just asked you that."

Quentin's eyes crinkled as he also laughed. "Your mother told me of your sense of humour. She did not exaggerate." He passed a glass of wine to Fletcher and sat back. "I come here from time to time but, as you must appreciate, I am reluctant to make any of the local establishments _my_ 'local'."

"I have a local*," Fletcher said, "but then, I have a lot of friends who look out for me."

"Very wise," Quentin said seriously. "I'm pleased to hear that."

"So, where do you live?"

"I have an estate just outside town. You and your family really must come to visit, if you deem it appropriate."

"You have means, then?"

Quentin nodded and sighed quietly. "I am independently wealthy, yes. I now have my late wife's estate to manage, as well as my own." He took a sip of wine before setting the glass down.

"I'm sorry about your wife," said Fletcher softly. "Mother told me."

"Thank you. I feel her loss, but she would not have wanted me to be lonely. I was not actively seeking a companion, but your mother… captivated me. I enjoy her company very much."

"As she enjoys yours," Fletcher replied. Quentin dipped his head, smiling. "Mother tells me you often buy unusual items from Jade's Emporium. Do you have a hobby? Do you do work or research of some kind?"

"You… could say that, yes," answered Quentin cautiously. "My work is… something I would keep from the Chantry. It is better you do not know, as I would not wish to involve you."

Fletcher leaned forward, giving his most charming smile, but he spoke firmly. "I insist."

"Your mother also mentioned your tenacity," Quentin replied pleasantly. "Of course you have a right to know." He looked around and shuffled closer to Fletcher, who leaned in as Quentin whispered, "I research many things, purely to keep my mind active. I study demonology, as well as the relationship between demons and the Fade. I also study the relationship between non-mages and the Fade."

Fletcher leaned back, a heavy frown marring his brow. "Are you a blood mage?" he asked quietly, his tone not accusatory, but curious.

"No," Quentin replied, but Fletcher's frown remained in place. "If I had told you that I studied something of a more mundane nature, you would have gone away none the wiser. I have chosen to be honest with you. My studies are not for everyone, but I am not interested in researching that which has already been dissected by other scholars. I merely find the subject matter interesting, and have formulated some theories. I will probably never publish those theories, however, as the Chantry would no doubt censure me."

"What sort of theories?" Fletcher asked, his interest piqued.

"We could discuss this in detail at a more private location, if you are truly interested, but I have believed for a long time that, for a non-mage to enter the Fade--even if they are not aware of it, for example whilst dreaming--a conduit of some kind is needed."

"A conduit?" Fletcher asked doubtfully, surprised by Quentin's outlandish hypothesis. "Do you mean a spirit?"

Quentin glanced around again before nodding. "More accurately, a demon. You and I know that benevolent spirits of the Fade have little interest in mortals or the mortal realm. Demons, however, have a great interest. There are more and more accounts of non-mages becoming possessed. True, a mage is needed to facilitate that, but the fact a demon _could_ inhabit a non-mage…"

Although still sceptical, Fletcher welcomed the opportunity to discuss magical theory with an older and more experienced mage. "Are you saying _any_ non-mage could have a connection to a demon?"

"Not _any_ , no. Have you ever heard of a possessed dwarf? Dwarves do not have that connection with the Fade. I _wish_ I knew why… but any elf or human could potentially fall victim to possession. And there must be a reason for that. _That_ is what I am researching."

Fletcher was quiet for several moments and he took a few sips of wine as he considered Quentin's words. "Do you believe that non-mages are visited by demons in their dreams, as mages are? I know some who believe it strongly, while others dispute it."

"I believe it's a possibility, yes. But the person would not remember the dream, as we do. There must be a connection between a demon and a non-mage that allows the demon to inhabit that person, though. Or perhaps the connection is established via the mage's _own_ connection to the demon."

Sudden terror gripped Fletcher's heart and his eyes moved to the door, where he could see Fenris's silhouette through the frosted glass. His thoughts in disarray, he took a moment to formulate his response. Taking a deep breath, and reminding himself that this was only a theory--from a stranger, at that--he looked back at Quentin.

"Let's say, and this is purely hypothetical, that a non-mage had abilities or powers that required a connection to the Fade to activate."

"Impossible," said Quentin dismissively, shaking his head. "Non-mages cannot wield magical powers."

"I _know_ , but what if those abilities had been designed, bestowed upon that person _by_ a mage? A mage with a connection to a demon?"

Quentin clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them. _"If_ such a feat were possible, then--in line with my theory--those abilities would require the non-mage to _also_ have a connection with the demon."

"Would-would that person be _aware_ of the connection?" Fletcher asked, his eyes wide and his palms, sweating heavily, clasped tightly together.

"Only if the mage had told them about it."

"Would that person be at risk of possession?" Fletcher blurted out before gulping, feeling a bead of sweat run down his back. Realising that his heart was thudding rapidly and his breathing had quickened, he took another sip of wine and set the glass down, quickly hiding his trembling hands beneath the table.

Intrigued by Fletcher's reaction, Quentin leaned forward in concern. "Do you _know_ of such a person?"

"No, I…" Fletcher began, but realised he'd already given himself away.

Quentin refilled Fletcher's glass and pushed it towards him, watching the flustered young man for a few moments. "This… hypothetical person could only be possessed if the mage commanded it, but it would not be in the mage's interests to do so, as it would sever his own connection with the demon. Unless, of course, he had several demons to call upon."

"So you're saying that the mage would have to be nearby for the person to be at risk of possession?"

"Yes, of course," Quentin said in a warmly reassuring tone.

Fletcher exhaled, reaching for his glass and emptied it in one gulp before setting it down. "But the abilities… do you think they could only be powered by a connection with a demon?" Fletcher ventured, wishing he'd never started the conversation. Now that he had, though, he _needed_ answers.

"It would help to know what those abilities are, but yes, that is what I believe." Noting that Fletcher's eyes had once again moved to the door, he tapped the younger man's arm to get his attention. "This is only a theory."

"But it makes sense," Fletcher whispered, as if to himself, before clearing his throat. "It makes perfect sense." He stood up, followed by Quentin. "I'm sorry but… I need to go. Please forgive my rudeness."

"Are you all right?" asked Quentin.

"Yes," Fletcher replied, forcing an unconvincing smile. "I have another appointment. I… thank you for meeting me."

"If I may ask, Fletcher, will you give your blessing? Your mother is a truly remarkable woman and I know I will not find another like her."

Fletcher finally looked at Quentin. "How secure is your work?"

"I conduct my research at my estate. I have no neighbours, and no templar patrols go that way. It is as safe as it is possible to be. If I believed otherwise, I would not endanger your mother. I care for her."

Fletcher nodded, his eyes again moving to the door. "All right. You have my permission to court my mother."

"Thank you." Quentin reached for Fletcher's hand and shook it. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Do you think we could talk again? About your research?" Fletcher asked.

"I consider it an honour that you find my research of interest. I would be happy to meet with you, perhaps in more private surroundings, at a time of your choosing."

"Thank you. I'll be in touch," said Fletcher. They shook hands again before Fletcher departed, finding Fenris outside wearing a slightly evil smirk.

Reminding himself again that Quentin's theory had not yet been proven, he forced a grin as he moved to the elf's side. "Having fun, dear?"

"I _was_ , until someone interrupted my game," Fenris replied humorously. "Twenty-five outraged nobles at the last count."

"I'm proud of you," Fletcher said as they walked away.

"Your cheeks are very flushed," observed the elf. "How much wine have you had?"

"Probably too much. You know me," joked Fletcher, hoping his smile appeared genuine.

"And you are perspiring."

"I take drinking and eating very seriously, as you know," Fletcher said, a tight ball forming in his stomach. "I've been working _very_ hard."

"No doubt." Fenris chuckled before his expression grew more serious. "Well? Is he suitable?"

"I gave my permission. He's a very… interesting man, very intelligent." He held in a sigh and stretched his smile wider. "We were talking about magey stuff."

"I can imagine. You must miss having those conversations with your father."

"Yes, I do." Resisting a strong urge to wrap an arm around Fenris, he looked at the elf with a fleeting sadness in his eyes but blinked it away before it was noticed. "Now, let's meet Aveline and show this Arishok bloke who's boss, eh?"

Again, Fenris chuckled. "If you believe that, then you are in for _quite_ a surprise, my dear." With a brief nod, Fenris moved a few steps ahead of Fletcher and led the way, leaving the mage to his troubling thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Local--British term for a favourite pub or one that is frequented often.


	72. Arcane Cavil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hawke," Anders said firmly, slowly standing up. "You also made a deal with a demon that you no longer want. It was unfortunate, but it _was_ just."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, not only for your super fast beta but for allowing your uber-cool Potions Master, Lucian Caravel, a cameo in the story! You'll find more of Lucian in the funny, charming and poignant 'The Terrors of the Tower' at:  
> http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7346646/1/

Having met up with Aveline, Fletcher and Fenris discussed the best way to approach the Arishok on the way to the docks.

"He has summoned _you,"_ Fenris said to Fletcher, ensuring Aveline was paying attention. "We are accompanying you, but this is not our affair, and we must keep our own counsel." Looking at Aveline to ensure she'd understood, he continued. "Do not let the Arishok see your nervousness," he advised the mage, "as he will despise you for it. Be strong but not disrespectful. Do _not_ lie to him. Be relevant and concise, and above all do not take his manner personally--you will find him… abrupt by our standards, but that is the way of the Qunari. They speak as they find."

Fletcher let out a derisive squawk. "Oh, is _that_ all I have to do? I just need to be a completely different person, someone who isn't a nervous wreck, who's always to the point and doesn't take things personally. Piece of cake!"

"Consider it an acting job, Hawke," Aveline chipped in. "Let's see how good you are. By the way, I saw your mother at the barracks on my way out. I wished her luck when she talks to the Viscount. I'll cross my fingers for her."

"Yes, keep everything crossed," Fletcher said with enthusiasm. "Except _that,"_ he whispered to Fenris, receiving a sharp elbow to the ribs. "This time next week you'll all have to call me Milord. I won't make you bow, though."

"Ha!" scoffed Aveline. "Fat chance of me calling you that!"

"Hey, Fen," Fletcher murmured. "There are tons of rooms in that house. You can have whichever one you want. Or you can share mine if you like," he added with a wink.

A halting, nervous smile sprang to the elf's face. He coughed quietly, forcing his smile wider.

Fletcher's face immediately dropped. "I only meant… you know, somewhere to crash for the night if you don't have anywhere else to go. That's all I meant. I wasn't asking you to move in or anything."

"That is very gracious of you." Fenris exhaled and nodded ahead to indicate they'd arrived at the docks.

"You're welcome," Fletcher answered uncertainly as Aveline approached one of her guards for a status report. The two men waited patiently and quietly, their cheeks burning as they nonchalantly scanned their surroundings.

"Hawke. Something you might be interested in." Aveline beckoned the mage to her. Fletcher, relieved that the awkward silence had been broken, hastened over.

Waiting for a moment, Fenris checked that neither was looking and reached into a small pouch on his belt, ensuring--as he had several times that day--that the ring was still there. He fingered the cool metal band, imbuing it with his warmth. He'd purchased it the evening before when he'd left Fletcher at the Hanged Man, alluding to private business, although he hadn't told Fletcher an outright lie.

And yet, it was still in Fenris's pouch, and not on Fletcher's finger. Why was that?

Fletcher had unwittingly given Fenris further reason to pause when hinting that Fenris should move into the mansion with him. It was another step Fenris was reluctant to take, not because there was any doubt of his love for Fletcher. No, it was exactly _because_ he loved Fletcher that he hesitated.

To live under the same roof as Fletcher, to gift him with a ring, to tell him he loved him, would all 'cement' their relationship. To take any of those steps would mean there was no going back. And Fenris knew with certainty that once one of those steps had been taken, he would lose Fletcher.

Since he and Fletcher had begun their romance in earnest and since Fenris had slept at his side, Fenris's nightmares had all but stopped, banished by the force of Fletcher's love for, and belief in, him. But recently, Fenris had been troubled by dreams of a different kind, in which he finally declared his love for his mage and, in his dream, woke to an empty bed. Fenris was not so arrogant that he would brush off such dreams as meaningless, and took them as a portent.

There were so many ways he and Fletcher could be divided. Danarius was still at large, and who knew when he would return to reclaim his pet? Also, although Fenris did not believe Fletcher would willingly forsake him, the fates had decreed that Fenris's life be an unconventional and unpleasant one. Or rather, they had until very recently. What more, he wondered, did the fates have in store for him?

He placed a hand over his belly, a deep, unpleasant ache filling his centre.

"Fen?" Fletcher called out, breaking his reverie.

Fenris looked at Fletcher and Aveline, who had finished their discussion, returning his mage's wave with a smile. "One day," he mouthed silently before closing the pouch and returning to Fletcher's side.

"Aveline heard of a job I might be interested in," Fletcher explained, "but I had to inform her that I don't do stuff like that anymore, not now I'm going to be a lord and everything."

This time, Fenris smiled genuinely, reminded of why he loved his mage, but still his stomach burned with anxiety.

"Are we all ready, then?" Fletcher asked his friends.

Aveline gave a single nod. "Ready as I'll ever be, Hawke."

"Yes," answered Fenris. "Remember what I told you. Do not show weakness and do _not_ lie."

"Got it," Fletcher said quietly, his grim expression not matching his own nervous stomach.

As they walked across to the Qunari compound, Fenris uncharacteristically did not lead the way, leaving Fletcher to head up the group. Once there, they were greeted--if it could be called that--by a solitary Karasten, a Qunari soldier. With a sneer, the soldier opened the rotting wooden gates and stood back, allowing the threesome to enter.

Hostile eyes followed them as they approached the elevated dais where the Arishok was seated, no doubt meant as an intimidation tactic. Neither Aveline nor Fenris seemed affected, but Fletcher purposely avoided their gazes until they reached the foot of the steps.

"Serah Hawke," the mighty Qunari leader spoke, sitting forward. "A show of strength," he said evenly, sweeping his hand toward Fenris and Aveline.

"I am Aveline Vallen, captain of the Kirkwall Guard," she said in introduction.

Fenris then stepped forward, doffing a brief bow. "Arishokost. Maaras shokra. Anaan esaam Qun," he hailed before gracefully stepping well behind Fletcher, elevating the mage's status in the Arishok's eyes, and indicating that Aveline join him.

The Arishok gave the elf a look of scorn before turning his attention to Fletcher. "Parshaara. Late is the hour, Hawke. It is little wonder this city and its people are beset by obfuscation when a matter of grave import is ignored for close to a week."

"I'm here now," Fletcher declared firmly. "If this matter you speak of is so urgent, you yourself are wasting time. What do you want with me?" he demanded, hoping he wasn't taking Fenris's advice on showing strength _too_ far.

Met with silence and a stony stare, Fletcher gulped--quietly, he hoped--but stood firm.

"The dwarf has stolen the formula for what he believes is gaatlok, but he does _not_ have gaatlok," said the Arishok.

Fletcher racked his brain, trying to recall the events of the night he'd met the only dwarf he and the Arishok had in common... Javaris Tintop. "What _does_ he have, then?"

"Saar-qamek, a poisonous gas that is lethal to your kind in sufficient quantities."

"What?" exclaimed Aveline in outrage, charging to Fletcher's side. "And you didn't think to bring this to the attention of the city guard? You've been sitting on this for a bloody week?"

Again, the Arishok did not reply immediately. Fenris also moved next to Fletcher in a show of solidarity.

"I bring it to your attention now," the Arishok finally growled, echoing Fletcher's earlier words. "Consider yourselves fortunate I have done so at all."

 _"Fortunate?"_ Aveline spluttered in disbelief before Fletcher held up a hand to silence her.

"I appreciate the warning, Arishok. Just how dangerous _is_ this gas?"

"Would you consider an agent that claimed one life or many lives to be the most dangerous?" the Arishok posed. "If the dwarf is as lacking in discrimination as he first appeared, then you have your answer. If he is not, then you have an entirely different one."

"Let's get to the Hanged Man," Aveline whispered. "Someone from the Coterie's bound to have heard a rumour."

Fletcher nodded briskly. "Leave it with us, Arishok, we'll get to the bottom of it."

"That remains to be seen," the Arishok answered with distaste. "Panahedan, Hawke. Ash Ataash. It will be interesting to see if you die."

"Panahedan," Fletcher replied, hoping it meant 'good luck' or something similar, and not 'up yours'.

Thankfully, the Arishok did not seem offended and allowed the party to leave. Once outside the compound, Fletcher slumped against a wall, groaning in relief. "How did I do, Fen?"

Fenris glanced at Fletcher's chest and smirked. "From the distinct lack of spears protruding out of your body, I would say you acquitted yourself quite favourably. Your head also appears to be in the correct place."

"What does it mean if my heart's in my stomach?"

"So long as it is beating, do not concern yourself unduly."

"Oh, it's beating, all right! It's about to beat right out of my bloody mouth!"

"Come on," Aveline ordered impatiently. "There's a moronic dwarf out there somewhere with a recipe for death. Let's not waste any time."

"I'm sorry, Aveline, I can't," Fletcher apologised. "I have… some other things to do."

Remembering that Fletcher had planned to order some new equipment for the clinic and help Anders to move in, Fenris nodded. "I will go with you, Captain," he offered.

"But you're not on duty," she said.

"I am always ready to serve."

"We could do with more like you," she commented with a quick smile. "Let's go, then. To the Hanged Man and then I'll inform the Viscount of what's going on. Save you the trouble, Hawke."

"Thanks Aveline," he breathed, relieved that one small item had been struck off The List. "I'll come with you as far as the Hanged Man. A few of Varric's associates will be in there, and they can get hold of cheap furniture."

"I hope you don't mean knocked off, Hawke," Aveline warned.

"Look, now I'm going up in the world, I no longer associate with those of the criminal ilk."

"I'll believe _that_ when I see it," muttered the guard-captain as she walked ahead.

"Thanks for offering to do that, Fen," Fletcher said with a warm smile. "And I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to come on too strong. About moving into my house, I mean. I'm just really excited about it. The Viscount hasn't even said 'yes', yet, and I'm already making plans!"

"He will agree, I am certain," Fenris replied encouragingly. "But I am _not_ going to call you Milord. Except, perhaps, in… _private_ ," he drawled, his eyes slowly moving up to Fletcher's, a sparkle in them.

"I'll hold you to that." The mage sniggered, a distinctly different feeling in his belly. "Listen, I might be working into the night with the clinic and everything, and I'll probably sleep there. You're more than welcome to have my bed at home if you like. I changed the sheets this morning, so it's nice and clean."

"That is kind of you, but I would not wish to impose on your mother."

"She'd _love_ to put you up, you know that," Fletcher argued. "You'd get proper food as well. Home cooked."

"Tempting… but another night, I promise. I believe I will stay at the barracks. Spending some time with Aveline will afford me the opportunity to enquire after Donnic," said the elf with a sly smile. "I will gauge her reactions and see if there is any substance to your mother's claims of a nascent romance between the two of them. Perhaps I will see Donnic as well."

"Who's a clever elf, then?" Fletcher joked. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

Laughing, Fenris quickly sped ahead. "Only twice today," he teased over his shoulder.

~o~O~o~

**The Gallows**

"What I am saying, Knight-Commander, is that Ser Karras exceeded his purview as a knight of Andraste. I have independent reports stating that he deliberately destroyed property which was a lifeline to many of the unfortunate souls who inhabit the Undercity. All of this was done with no evidence that Anders was on the premises. _That_ is why we were besieged by refugees, and that is also why two of our Order were pelted with stones in Lowtown this morning. This can only escalate."

"We will _never_ be a popular Order, Knight-Captain," Meredith said crisply, bidding her subordinate to sit in the chair on the opposite side of her desk.

"Thank you," said Cullen, taking a seat.

"There will be times like this," Meredith stated. "Many have preceded it and many more will come. But only we can perform the divine duty that has been bestowed upon us. Do you think the masses could do what we do, suffer what we have suffered, sacrifice what we have sacrificed? No, and that is because we are uniquely equipped to eradicate the magi threat. Our road is a hard one, but we must rise above popular opinion and endure."

"Knight-Commander, I am aware of our duty, but there are ways to go about it. Could Karras not have conducted surveillance? Posted an operative?"

"There _was_ an operative in Darktown. That is how we know for certain that Anders was there."

"And yet, he remains at large."

"I am _well_ aware of that," Meredith said abrasively.

Cullen sighed, sensing that his pleas would fall on deaf ears. "And who was the informant? A refugee in need of coin? Do you think any of them will aid us now? It is not vital that we have the people's support to do our duty, but it does _help_. I ask you to consider that, and nothing more."

Meredith's cool blue eyes bored into Cullen's but he did not flinch. Not so long ago, he found it difficult to hold her gaze for long but something had changed recently, and he wasn't sure what that was.

"You believe we should be more lenient?" she asked doubtfully. "Do you forget what _you_ were subjected to at the hands of mages too weak to ignore a demon's call? Was your previous knight-commander too lenient, I wonder?"

"Knight-Commander Greagoir was a fine man and I was proud to serve him," Cullen defended contentiously. "He was anything _but_ lenient."

"If you admired him so much, then why did you transfer here?"

"You have read my records," Cullen said quietly, hidden anger warming his cheeks. "It was Greagoir himself who recommended a change of scenery following my… ordeal."

"And still you would have us molly-coddle the mages, after everything they did to you?" Cullen gave no answer, and Meredith sighed in frustration. "Send Ser Karras in. I will speak with him," she ordered.

"Oh," Cullen mumbled in surprise, rising to his feet. "Yes, Knight-Commander. And thank you for hearing me out." With a deep bow, he pulled the heavy door open and left her office, passing the cocky Karras, who was waiting outside. "The Knight-Commander has asked for you," Cullen informed him.

"Been telling tales out of school, Cullen? Or was it your little lapdog Ruben?" the other man sneered.

Cullen turned fully to face him and stepped closer. "You forget yourself, Karras. Be mindful of whom you are addressing. And smarten yourself up for your meeting with the knight-commander, man. You look like you've been dragged through a hedge."

Karras licked his palms and smoothed his hair down as the uptight knight-captain walked away before moving to Meredith's door, rapping on it.

"Enter," she ordered. He walked in, closing the door behind him before bowing to his superior. "It would seem there are some who do not agree with your methods, Knight-Lieutenant," she stated in a clipped tone.

"So I gathered," he answered dismissively.

"And what do you propose we do about it?"

"My methods, or the ones who don't agree with them?" he asked, full of swagger.

 _"That_ is what we are going to discuss, Ser Karras. Be seated."

~o~O~o~

**Cellar beneath Lirene's Fereldan Imports**

"Been a long day, hasn't it, Hawke?" Anders said as Fletcher slumped onto a bench, yawning and rubbing his face. Lirene, as promised, had stayed open late and the furniture and equipment, ordered by Fletcher, had been installed in the cellar beneath the shop.

"Mm," Fletcher mumbled, releasing a heavy sigh.

Anders paused, the delighted grin he'd been wearing for most of the evening fading. Crossing over to Fletcher, he sat next to him. "Is it something more than that? You've been quiet since you arrived here. I was so excited about setting up in here I didn't really think about it until now. What is it?"

Fletcher's hands fell into his lap and he sat up with another sigh. "I need some advice, Anders. Well, your opinion, really."

"Of course. Anything you want."

"Well, I met up with my mother's new suitor earlier today and we got talking. He's very intelligent and does a lot of research, has a lot of theories. He told me about some of them, and one of them made me think." He laughed bitterly and shook his head. "Actually, no. It _terrified_ me."

Anders glanced at the steps to double-check that the trapdoor was closed. "Go on, then," he whispered.

Fletcher related Quentin's theory about non-mages having a connection to the Fade via a demon, fully expecting Anders to laugh, or to present an argument against it. To Fletcher's dismay, however, Anders nodded all the way through.

"Ah. It's not the first time I've heard that theory," Anders said with an apologetic grimace.

"What?" spluttered Fletcher, his heart sinking, heat pricking at his skin.

"There was someone at the Circle Tower. I don't know what you'd call him. He taught Potions classes, but he knew about a lot more than just potions, not that the templars were aware. I'm not even sure if he was a mage or not, he just seemed to appear one day. Lucian Caravel, his name was. He was tall, thin and had black hair down to his waist, and eyes like glowing coals."

"Glowing coals?" Fletcher scoffed. "You're exaggerating."

"No, I'm not! There was something… unusual about him, like he wasn't one of us, you know? He was highly respected, though. After dark, he'd give extra 'Potions classes' but when the templars' backs were turned--or more likely, when they'd snuck off for a nap somewhere--Lucian would drop all pretence of talking about potions and get to the really interesting stuff. He knew just about everything and had all kinds of theories. He also studied demonology and one night I remember him coming up with this wild theory about the Quotidians--what we called non-mages--and their connection to the Fade."

"And did _he_ believe that demons act as a conduit?" Fletcher asked, aghast but fascinated.

"He was so convinced of it that most of us left that lesson unable to believe anything else. He actually wrote a paper on it under an assumed name that was hailed as brilliant by the magi community but banned by the Chantry. Ha! Little did the templars know, it had been written right under their noses. First Enchanter Irving had a copy, which he kept under lock and key. If Greagoir had found out about it…" He shook his head and sucked his teeth before noticing Fletcher's crestfallen expression. "Sorry, Hawke. Do you think Fenris might have a connection to one of his old master's demons?"

"Dem _ons?"_

Anders shrugged. "I doubt the magisters would stop at just one demon. They'd want more and more power, far more than one could provide. Theoretically, it _is_ possible for a mage to be bound to more than one demon, and the magisters would have no end of human or elven sacrifices to offer up as payment for their demons' services."

Reeling from the implications, Fletcher was quiet for a while before he nodded, a crushing weariness settling over him as he realised Quentin's theory could actually be true. "You know, Fenris once told me he suspected Danarius had an 'insurance policy'--some way of controlling or killing him if he escaped or turned on his master. At the time I thought he was being paranoid, but you have to admit, that would be the perfect way for Danarius to control him, wouldn't it?"

"I'm afraid it's also the perfect way for Danarius to track him," Anders added gravely.

Fletcher stood, turning his back on Anders. "I… I hadn't even thought of that," he whispered, wrapping his arms around himself. "So why hasn't Danarius come after him again?"

"Come on," Anders coaxed, standing and guiding Fletcher back to the bench, where they both sat down. "Until recently, Fenris was alone," he surmised, "and the last two bunches of slavers Danarius sent after him--the ones who attacked us the first time we met him and Hadriana's lot--were all killed. He'd have to be stupid to try something like that again."

"He's certainly not that, is he?" Fletcher asked rancorously. "Warped, degenerate, yes, but not stupid." He took a few slow, steadying breaths and closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and looking at Anders. "What does Justice think? He'd know about things like this, wouldn't he? I have no intention of consulting… _her_ in regard to this," he said, referring to Synia, his demon.

"Justice believes the relationship isn't as simple as we're making it out to be, and we wouldn't be able to fully comprehend how it truly works," Anders answered, startling Fletcher with the speed of his reply. "The outcome is the same, however. It _is_ possible for a non-mage to have a connection--if not a relationship with--a demon. "There's also the question of Fenris's powers... his markings. You and I worked out that he needs a connection with the Fade to activate them, but we didn't know _how_. Now we do. It seems that somehow Danarius established a connection between _his_ demon, or one of them, and Fenris. So Fenris's powers _are_ supplied by a demon. There's no doubt about it. Justice agrees."

Fletcher's mouth slowly opened, his hands clasped tightly together, his eyes dead. "Maker," he breathed hoarsely. "That means… Fenris's powers are similar to that of…"

"A blood mage," Anders finished before placing a hand on Fletcher's back.

"But-but…" Fletcher shrugged off Anders's hand and stood up, walking over to the far wall before turning to face Anders. "How can that _be?_ Danarius _chose_ to deal with a demon. _I_ chose to deal with a demon."

"You were duped," Anders said. "Not to mention, you were too young to know the consequences of making the deal."

"No. There are _no_ excuses. I made that deal," insisted Fletcher, prodding his chest with a finger, anger bleeding into his voice. "It doesn't matter how you gloss it over, the decision was mine. Fenris didn't _get_ that choice. How can that be _just?_ Doesn't Justice have something to say about that? Can't he undo the deal, kill the demon in the Fade or something?"

Anders's eyes lowered briefly and he took a deep breath before speaking calmly. _"If_ the original deal had been unjustly made, then Justice would certainly step in. But we're not in possession of all the facts, are we?"

"What do you mean by that? How many more facts do you want?"

"Hawke, come and sit-"

"No! Tell me what you mean," Fletcher ordered in a belligerent tone.

Anders sighed, already guessing Fletcher's reaction to his next statement. "The thing is, Fenris can't remember what happened at the time, can he? He remembers _some_ of the lyrium procedure but not all. Justice can't act because… because for all we know, Fenris might have-"

"Fenris would _never_ have agreed to that!" Fletcher thundered, spittle flying from his mouth. "What's the _matter_ with you?"

"Nobody's saying that he _did_. But without all the facts, Justice can't do a thing. I'm sorry, Hawke." He watched Fletcher with wide eyes, expecting a backlash, and Fletcher didn't disappoint.

"Well, _thank_ you, Justice!" Fletcher exclaimed sarcastically, hands on his hips. "So far, all your spirit has managed to do is hinder us! What about Hadriana? He wanted her to go to the templars? She _deserved_ to die! Sometimes justice isn't about an eye for an eye, it's about doing what's right! Let's say Fenris _did_ agree to a deal with a demon," he ranted, his face reddening, "do you think he'd want that _now?_ After everything he's seen, everything he's been through?"

"Hawke," Anders said firmly, slowly standing up. "You also made a deal with a demon that you no longer want. It was unfortunate, but it _was_ just."

"Fenris _didn't_ make a deal, Anders!" yelled Fletcher, flinging his hands up in the air. "This is ridiculous! I-I… need to go." He turned and sped toward the steps, but Anders gave chase and grabbed his arm.

"Hawke, we need to talk about this."

"No! You-you know what I'm like when I get like this. I'll say something I don't mean. I-I can't think straight." He faced away from Anders, his face contorted by the tears that pushed against his will like water against a dam.

"I _can_ think straight," Anders said soothingly. "Come on. Please sit down. We need to figure out what to do."

Not wanting Anders to see how upset he was, though it must have been obvious, Fletcher continued to face away from him but didn't leave. "How am I supposed to tell him this? Do you have any idea what it would do to him to know that his abilities are powered by the same source as Danarius's? As mine?"

"Don't tell him _anything,"_ Anders urged. "At least not yet. None of this has been proven. We need to..." He sat down on the bench again and thought for several minutes until Fletcher finally turned around, having temporarily gained control of his emotions. "When will you be seeing… what's his name?"

"Quentin?"

Anders nodded. "When will you be seeing him again? You could explain Fenris's abilities to him, see what he thinks."

Fletcher shook his head. "I don't know him well enough yet. I think he's all right, but… no. He loves his research. I'm not about to turn Fenris into one of his test subjects. I need to get to know him better first."

"Do that, then," Anders suggested. "Meet up with him again, talk about magic, about his theories. Get more of a feel for him. And maybe at a later time you could trust him with more information?"

"I-I'll try. He did say he'd be happy to discuss his theories in more detail." Fletcher sighed and moved to the bench, again taking a seat next to Anders.

"You should also write to the first enchanter at the Gallows, Orsino," said Anders. "He's bound to have heard of Caravel's paper. Just word your letter carefully. I don't know if the templars vet incoming mail, but you never know. The mages had a code name for the paper... what was it? Ah, yes. _A Dissertation on Blurred Lines_ by Arcane Cavil."

"Arcane Cavil?"

"Lucian Caravel's pseudonym, a quasi-anagram of his name. Even if Orsino doesn't 'get' the name of the paper, he might have heard of Cavil. He published a lot of papers. Have Orsino send his reply to the Hanged Man or anywhere that isn't your home--you don't want to raise suspicion. You need to get as many facts as possible, and maybe then you'll be able to do something about it or come up with an answer. I'll help as much as I can."

"Looks like the Mythical Magic Repelling Cream's out of the window, doesn't it?" Fletcher said dejectedly.

"That _was_ a bit ambitious, my friend."

"And this isn't?"

Anders wrapped an arm around Fletcher's shoulders, and this time it wasn't shrugged off. "Let's just find out what we can. Don't tell Fenris anything for now. I know it'll be difficult, but if we can come up with a solution he might find the news easier to take."

"Do you really think there _is_ a solution other than Danarius's death?"

"I don't know." Anders sighed, hearing a change in Fletcher's breathing pattern.

"I just-I can't bear the thought… after everything Danarius has done to him, he's _still_ managing to abuse him even when he's not here! Fenris is such a-a…he doesn't _deserve-"_ A sob escaped and Fletcher cursed, shaking his head, his hands tightly clenched into fists. "Maker help me, I'll make that bastard suffer! I'll gut him and feed him his fucking innards!" His voice cracked and Anders moved closer.

"Let it out, Hawke," Anders said softly, rubbing his friend's shoulder. "Better you do it here, in front of me, than in front of Fenris."

Fletcher bowed his head, losing the fight as a far tear slid down his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arishokost. Maaras shokra. Anaan esaam Qun: "Peace, Arishok. There's nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun."
> 
> Parshaara: "Enough."
> 
> Panahedan: "Farewell."
> 
> Ash Ataash: "Find glory."


	73. Intuition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fenris in the dark," Fletcher whispered, feeling the vibration of Fenris's silent laughter against him. "What are you going to do to me? Something sleazy, I hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, Mary, for your wonderful beta skills! :D

"Come in!" shouted Donnic, craning his neck to look at the door of his shared quarters in the barracks.

Fenris entered, smiling and nodding at Donnic, Davy and Filbert, who were seated around a low table, playing cards.

"Fenners!" Beaming, Donnic rose and slapped the elf on the shoulder before closing the door and bringing an extra stool to the table, which Fenris sat upon.

"What _you_ doing here, Fenny?" teased Filbert. "I didn't think you'd be slumming it with the likes of us, now you're rich and everything!"

Fenris rolled his eyes, both at the nickname and the presumption. "I am not as rich as the _gossipmongers,"_ he said with a pointed look at Filbert, "would have you believe, my friend." Fenris now had more money than he knew what to do with, but was not quite the millionaire he and the other returning expedition heroes had been painted as.

"That's a shame," said Davy with a grin, "as I was looking forward to fleecing you out of some of that fortune of yours."

"A challenge?" Fenris asked with a smirk at Donnic, who let out a long whistle.

"You two have never played against him, have you?"

"No, and I reckon this talk about him being a bugger with the cards is a load of bollocks," joked Filbert with a sly look at Davy. "Although if he's a bugger in any other regard, that's his business."

"Hey, there's no need for that," chided Donnic, the warning in his voice tempered by mirth, as Fenris covered his face with his hands, shaking his head.

There was a brief silence as three pairs of eyes darted around and then a chorus of sniggers.

"Sorry, Fenners!" Donnic chortled as the other two guards burst out laughing, with Filbert--who was seated on the other side of Fenris--giving the elf's back a slap.

Fenris slowly uncovered his face, his expression so stony that any self-respecting dwarf would have worshipped it. "Very droll, Filbert. Let us see if you are laughing at the end of this hand. Deal."

"And _that_ is why he's a bugger at cards!" Donnic proclaimed, slinging an arm around Fenris's shoulders. "Just look at that face!"

Fenris turned slightly to Donnic, the only one to see the elf's wink.

"Shit," Davy muttered. "I have a feeling we're about to make Fenris even richer."

"If you are as skilled at Brag as you are at ribaldry, you may yet prevail," Fenris encouraged with his own slap to Filbert's back. "I will go easy on you both."

"I might sit this one out," said Filbert, counting his change. "I don't have much left."

"Oh, no you don't." Donnic prodded the table with his finger. "You've got enough. Put your money where your mouth is. Fenners, you deal."

After more banter and two hands which Fenris easily won, Filbert ran out of money and so the game was ended, and the conversation returned to Fenris.

"Will you be staying here tonight?" Donnic enquired. "It's just that we thought you were off duty. Filbert's been storing his dirty smalls in your bed. If they haven't walked out of here by now, that is."

"Then Filbert and I will exchange beds," said the elf with a smile.

"You don't want to do that, mate," opined Davy. "There's a reason his pants are dirty. You should see the state of his sheets!"

"Bloody liars!" spluttered Filbert.

"You can dish it out but you can't take it, can you?" Donnic jested, and the other two laughed.

"I did intend to stay here, yes," Fenris informed them, going on to tell them about the visit to the Arishok and the subsequent trip to the Hanged Man. "The captain and I acquired some leads and she has deployed some of the night shift to follow them up. With any luck, we will have more information on Tintop by tomorrow."

"Shit, let's hope this dwarf's as thick as he sounds," Donnic muttered. "How was Hawke with the Arishok? I hear he's got a glare that could strip paint."

Fenris smiled proudly. "He fared very well, as did the captain." He looked Donnic in the eyes. "She was quite... forthright. Brave woman."

"Mm," mumbled Donnic casually. Fenris noticed a look pass between Davy and Filbert.

"We spoke about you," Fenris said.

Donnic did a double take at him before slipping back into disinterested mode."Oh, yes?"

"Yes. I mentioned your name and she _also_ feigned nonchalance."

Donnic shot a sour look at the elf before huffing and fidgeting on his stool.

"Mate, don't you think you should apologise to her?" Davy asked. "Whatever happened between you, there's a nasty atmosphere around here. Sorry to say it so bluntly, but there you are."

"Why should _I_ apologise?" Donnic fisted his hand to quell the urge to touch his bruised nose. "Do you think I don't realise what everyone's saying? It's bloody embarrassing."

"What, that the captain's sweet on you?" said Filbert.

Fenris closed his eyes, quietly groaning.

"That's not what he meant, you idiot!" Davy hissed with a dismayed look at Donnic.

 _"What?"_ demanded the lieutenant. "What are you on about?"

"He's not on about anything," Davy hastily answered. "What he _meant_ to say was there's no need to be embarrassed about the fight you had. Nobody cares about that anymore. A few tongues wagged at first, but it's really awkward for everyone if our captain and her second aren't talking. Just sort it out, Donnic. One of you needs to." He stood up. "I'm going for a piss."

"I'll go with you," Filbert offered, also rising. "I mean… I'll go out with you. Oh, you know what I mean! I'm going for a walk."

The two guards almost fell over each other in their rush for the door, a whispered "fucking twat!" reaching Fenris and Donnic's ears as it was slammed shut.

"Subtle," Fenris commented dryly, shaking his head.

Donnic stared into space for a few minutes, a deep line carved between his eyebrows. "Is it true?"

"Is… what true?" Fenris asked cautiously.

"Oh, come on, Fen! You didn't look the slightest bit surprised. You know what I'm talking about."

Fenris sighed and moved his stool closer to Donnic's. "I do not claim to be an expert in these matters," he began, pausing for a moment. "Do you remember when we first met? When we intercepted the criminals Jeven had sent after you?"

"Of course I do."

"You accompanied me and Hawke to the Wounded Coast, where you attempted to recruit me for the first time," Fenris recalled with a fond smile. "When we reached the caves, you spoke with Aveline."

"Yes, and from what I remember, you and Hawke had a spat."

"One of many," the elf commented wistfully before sighing. "While you spoke to Aveline, Varric and his companion, Bethany, observed the two of you. It was noted that Aveline appeared… enamoured with you."

"No, she was probably just relieved to see me," Donnic contended. "Fen?" he asked when the elf frowned.

"That was what Varric thought. However, the rest of us disagreed."

"How many of you?"

"Three. Myself, Bethany and Hawke."

"What, and this rumour's been going on for that long?" asked Donnic indignantly.

Fenris shook his head. "I had not thought about it until recently. I've heard others voice a similar opinion, though."

"Why the bloody hell did she thump me, then?" he demanded, too flummoxed to ask Fenris _who_ had voiced those opinions, which came as a great relief to the elf.

"I have never claimed to understand women either, my friend," Fenris said. 

Donnic's cheeks puffed out as he released a heavy sigh."She _has_ been through the grinder lately," he conceded, "and I suppose I haven't been much help. All right, I'll…sort things out with her. Tomorrow," he added with a doleful glance at the door, before taking a deep breath. "Right. Now those two are gone, let's discuss Bartrand."

"What of him?"

"We can only hold him here for a few more days." Donnic shook his head. "Bloody halfwit magistrate. I've tried my best to make something stick to Bartrand, but his crimes were committed in the Deep Roads, so _apparently_ we can't touch him. There's still hope, though." He stood and walked to the door, sliding the bolt across and leaning against it.

"I've written to Rari Ogradrad--try saying _that_ when you're drunk--who's the leader of the Council of Surface Dwarves in the Free Marches. Luckily for us, they're based in Kirkwall."

"I was not aware of the existence of such a council," replied Fenris.

"I heard of them a few years back. _Someone_ must have authority over the Deep Roads and what happens there, and I'm hoping it's them. Rari's very efficient, I'll give her that. The day after I sent the letter, a messenger arrived to inform me that the matter's being debated. If there's something the dwarves love, it's a good debate."

"From what I have seen, 'fight' would be more apropos, but yes, that is a fine idea, Donnic. Let us hope they do not _debate_ for too long." A thoughtful look came over Fenris, then, and he frowned, dipping his head a little. "You have done all of this on my word alone, without a shred of evidence against Bartrand. I'm very fortunate to have your trust and friendship, Donnic. You have my heartfelt thanks."

"Now don't start all that," the lieutenant teased, "or they'll think _you're_ sweet on me as well, and I doubt Hawke would take kindly to that." Fenris snorted as he stood up, and they shook hands. "Same here, brother," Donnic said warmly. "Fancy a pint?"

"I would prefer wine," Fenris replied, smiling at his best friend.

Donnic unlocked the door and opened it. "Maybe those two were right," he joked. "You _are_ too posh for this outfit."

"How so?" Fenris asked in confusion. "I merely prefer the taste!" he protested after Donnic, whose booming laugh echoed through the hallway.

~o~O~o~

Early the following morning, Fenris--having slept in a mercifully pant-free bed--left the barracks, his pockets a little fuller than they had been the previous night. By the time he reached Lowtown the markets stalls were already set up. He loitered for a while until the templar patrols had passed through, before entering Lirene's shop.

Lirene, who was serving a customer, nodded Fenris through to the rear room. He closed the door before uncovering the trapdoor to the new clinic. "It is I, Fenris," he announced as he descended the steps.

"Careful," Anders quietly warned from below. "Watch that beam. Actually, you're probably not tall enough to have to worry." Anders was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps and Fenris halted in surprise when he laid eyes on him.

"You look… different," observed the elf. Anders was not wearing his customary feathered coat, but a simple tunic and trousers. The beard he'd grown in the Deep Roads had been shaved off, along with much of his hair, which had been very closely cropped.

"Hawke's my new fashion advisor," he explained. "It's called the 'Fleeing from the Templars' look."

"Oh," Fenris murmured. "It is… quite effective. I would not have recognised you. Where is…?"

"He's still asleep." Anders beckoned the elf further inside. "We had a late night."

"So I see. You've been very busy."

The previously empty cellar had been transformed and was filled with the new furniture and equipment Fletcher had ordered. There were two treatment tables and two separate work areas for the mages, including a desk each. Fenris could tell immediately which was Fletcher's: it was covered in scattered papers and bunches of leaves, herbs and flowers were strewn about to complete the chaotic ensemble. An alembic, retort, several pipettes on a stand and a huge pestle and mortar were crammed into one corner of the desk.

Anders's desk, in sharp contrast, held many of the same items but they were all arranged with precision, leaving him far more space to work in than Fletcher. Fenris tilted his head slightly and smiled as he pictured Fletcher coming up with all kinds of weird and wonderful concoctions at his new desk... and having the time of his life doing so. He also imagined Fletcher being the kind of healer who, if he wore spectacles, would spend hours searching for them before discovering they were perched atop his head.

"Why don't you wake him?" Anders said, disrupting the elf's fond thoughts of his mage. "He'll be pleased to see you. He talked about nothing but you last night," he said truthfully, but didn't elaborate further. "I'll put some tea on."

"Very well," replied Fenris as Anders pointed to the unlit corner of the clinic where Fletcher was snoozing. "Have you both eaten? Do you require food?"

Anders laughed. _"Hawke_ is here, remember. We have plenty of food. It was at the top of his list, even before the furniture. I've seen that list, so I know."

"Of course. That _was_ remiss of me," said Fenris with a wry smile before walking over to Fletcher, while Anders disappeared out of view, obscured by a large supporting column.

Fenris crouched beside Fletcher who, as usual, was drooling onto his pillow. He gently shook Fletcher's shoulder, waiting a minute or two before the mage stirred.

"Mm? Z'at you, Anders?"

"No. Not Anders."

Fletcher pushed up into a sitting position, his hands searching out the elf's arms, shoulders and then his face. "Fenris in the dark," he whispered, feeling the vibration of Fenris's silent laughter against him. "What are you going to do to me? Something sleazy, I hope."

"I am here to _wake_ you. Anders is here, remember?" Fenris quietly reminded him.

Fletcher tutted. "Bloody gooseberry.* Come here, then."

Fenris expected to be kissed but was surprised when Fletcher hugged him tightly. Fenris moved over slightly, straddling Fletcher, and stroked his hair. "Are you all right?"

Fletcher nuzzled the elf's neck and sighed. "Mm. Just tired, love. How was your night at the barracks?"

"I won at Brag. Twice," said the elf with pride. "I had a good teacher."

"Well done, you!" chirped Fletcher, kissing Fenris firmly on the cheek before pulling him close for another lingering hug.

In the dark, Fenris's smile gave way to a frown as he gently patted Fletcher's shoulder. It wasn't like Fletcher to be so… clingy. Affectionate, tactile, yes, but this was different. Wasn't it?

"Anders is making tea," Fenris murmured, slowly pulling away.

"Ooh! I could kill for a cup!" said Fletcher. Fenris stood up, offering his hand and helping the mage up.

As they walked to the illuminated part of the clinic, Fenris noticed how exhausted Fletcher looked. Perhaps he'd been overdoing things and just needed more sleep, Fenris mused, but he kept a close eye on Fletcher, watching for further signs of upset or stress.

"If you want any breakfast," Anders said to Fenris as they approached him, "you might want to go elsewhere. We do have plenty of food, but it's mostly cakes and biscuits."

 _"Cake_ for breakfast?" Fenris asked with a disapproving look at Fletcher. "You will regain all of the weight you lost if you are not careful."

"Oh. It's like that, is it?" Fletcher sniffed. "It's just a _physical_ thing, then. Well, at least I know where I stand."

"Shut up," Fenris derided while Anders watched them with amusement.

"Honeymoon period over, is it?"

 _"Both_ of you shut up," Fenris ordered, snatching up his cup of tea. The mages laughed.

"I'll get started on some crafting, Hawke," Anders said, picking up his own cup, "and let you two have a domestic in private."

"All right," said Fletcher, smiling. "I'll start putting the word out. We'll try out your 'new look' later. You need to get some daylight."

Fenris blew on his tea and took a sip. "I have arranged to meet two of the guards, Filbert and Davy, for lunch at the Hanged Man. We have some conspiring to do," he said to Fletcher.

"Oh! You mean…?"

"Indeed I do," Fenris confirmed with a mischievous smile.

"Fancy joining us?" Fletcher asked Anders. "We're going to try our hand at matchmaking."

"Anyone I know?"

Fletcher took a gulp of tea and nodded. "Yep! We'll call for you later. Drink up, Fen, and we'll pop home, see if I have any letters."

~o~O~o~

Gamlen's house was empty when they arrived. After closing the door, Fletcher looked around for his mother's shopping basket, knowing if it was missing then she'd gone to the market.

"There are no new letters but there _is_ a note here," Fenris called into the kitchen, picking it up off the dining table.

"Read it to me, love?" Fletcher asked.

Fenris entered the kitchen and held the note out to Fletcher, shaking his head. "It is private and meant for you, no doubt."

"Don't be so daft!" Fletcher laughed as he filled the kettle with water. "Just read it out."

With a sigh, Fenris unfolded the note and started to read it slowly and hesitantly. "Dar-ling Fletcher. K… Qui… oh, _Quentin_ … has…" Fenris paused as he scanned the letter before clearing his throat. "Quentin has taken Beth and me out for the morning. He had hoped that you would be able to… ac…ac..."

"Accompany?"

Fenris nodded in confirmation. "Accompany us, but I told him you were busy. I do hope all went well with the… cl… _clinic."_

Fletcher leaned against the counter, feeling like he would burst with pride as he watched his love read the rest of the letter, struggling with the occasional word. Caught unawares by the sudden feeling of sorrow that swelled in his belly, he quickly turned around, biting his lip and affecting a coughing fit to force the unwelcome emotion out of his system.

Fenris looked up from the letter. "Fletcher? Are you well?" 

The mage turned around, wiping his eyes. "It's the pollen. Gets me every time."

"What pollen?"

"I mean… the dust. In the cellar. It needs a good sweeping," Fletcher quickly amended, his stomach turning over as Fenris looked at him in bewilderment.

"Fletcher, what is...?"

"Sorry I'm acting a bit strangely, but Anders and I hardly got any sleep last night and I'm a bit jittery. I'll be fine after tonight when I've had a proper sleep." Having promised never to lie to Fenris, he cursed himself for doing so but deemed it preferable to telling him the truth, at least for now. Besides, telling Fenris he was tired wasn't a lie, exactly, but it wasn't the whole story, either.

Fenris nodded, concern--or was it doubt?--in his eyes.

"What does the rest of it say?" asked Fletcher as he busied himself with the teacups, his love for Fenris spurring him on to finding a solution to the awful situation they were in, even though Fenris was not yet aware of it. "Fen?" he asked again, his stomach in knots as the elf paused, watching him.

"Are you certain nothing else is amiss?"

Fletcher's stomach knotted tighter as he realised whatever answer he gave would be a lie. "Oh, take no notice of me. Just a drop of milk for you, yes?"

"Yes," Fenris answered evenly, observing the mage's movements. Normally, he would take Fletcher at his word, but a niggling doubt lingered and he resolved to remain vigilant. He resumed reading and then snorted, causing Fletcher to whip around. "Your mother has your sense of humour. She writes of trivial matters and then, at the end of the letter, delivers a bombshell almost as an afterthought."

"A _bombshell?"_ Fletcher asked in alarm, and then noticed Fenris's grin. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to tickle it out of you?"

"Elves are _not_ ticklish." Fletcher lunged forward but Fenris snatched the letter away and held it behind his back. "If you behave yourself, I will tell you."

Tutting, Fletcher backed away, holding his hands up. "Well?"

The elf's smile widened. "It would seem that the Viscount _did_ consider your mother's request seriously. You are to visit the Keep to make the arrangements. Your ancestral home is once again... your home." Fletcher stared at him, his mouth wide open. Fenris stepped closer and passed him the letter. "It is all here, if you require proof."

"No, I-I believe you! I just can't… blimey," he uttered quietly. "Looks like we _are_ moving up in the world, after all."

Fenris frowned and tilted his head, surprised that Fletcher hadn't reacted more effusively to the news. "Are you not pleased?" he asked the mage, his hidden concern intensifying.

Fletcher nodded quickly and took the letter from Fenris, but didn't read it and tucked it into his pocket. "I am. It just… it just needs to sink in, that's all. I know I joked about you calling me Milord and so on, but I… it's really happened. This is real, isn't it?"

Fenris moved to the mage's side and brought one hand to rest on Fletcher's cheek. "Your father and brother would be proud of you today."

Fletcher's head fell back and he looked up at the ceiling, struggling to rein his emotions in. He nodded again, unable to speak for a moment. As Fenris's arms wound around his waist, pulling him close, he gasped and released a stuttering breath.

"The dust again?" Fenris asked.

Fletcher's laughter burst out of him, filling the kitchen and Fenris's heart. "Must be." The mage chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes. "I'm so glad you were here when I found out, Fen. Even if I _am_ crying like a bloody girl."

"You say that as if I have never seen it before," Fenris quipped, and they laughed before looking at each other lovingly.

"Fen… this is _not_ me asking you to move in, not at all," Fletcher began, "but I want you to know that the new house is as much your home as it is mine. You can come and go as you please. I'll have a key cut for you. We'll buy some books and have a proper library and we'll spend evenings together in front of the fire and you can read to me. And-and there will be a garden there. I know you once dreamed of having your own house and garden, and you can have a little patch of the garden all for yourself. I can give you plenty of tips on growing vegetables. Or flowers. Whatever you like. Yes... on cold evenings we'll read, and on warm evenings we'll do gardening. How does that sound?"

Realising that Fletcher had his own dreams and, touched by the simplicity of them, Fenris nodded and rested his hands against Fletcher's chest. "That sounds quite wonderful. But… I will not keep a key. Your mother and sister will also be living there. Their privacy must be respected."

"They won't care, honestly!" Fletcher paused for a moment. "All right, whatever you want." A huge grin appeared and Fenris laughed delightedly at the sight. "We'll be boring old men, reading and gardening and watching the sun go down together. And, if I'm lucky, we'll watch the sun rise occasionally, too."

"We will," Fenris confirmed with a nod, feeling as excited by that thought as Fletcher was.

Distracted by the kettle boiling, Fletcher sighed and reluctantly moved to the fireplace, taking it off the flame. Feeling a surge of love for the elf, he turned around and took Fenris's hand, silently leading him into the living room.

"Are you not making tea?" Fenris asked as they walked across the living room towards Fletcher's bedroom.

"No," whispered Fletcher. When they stopped outside the door to his room, he rushed forward, backing the elf against the wall and capturing his lips so swiftly and passionately that Fenris's breath was stolen from his lungs. He moaned, grabbing at Fletcher's arms to steady himself.

Then he was lifted off the floor, and he wound his legs around Fletcher's waist, wrapping his arms around the mage's neck, mildly alarmed yet also thrilled by Fletcher's ardour, a world away from his hesitancy at the hotel.

"I _need_ you," Fletcher rasped, sliding his lips to Fenris's throat.

Fenris's body shuddered before going limp as the mage teased the edges of his markings with the tip of his tongue. "Then-then you shall have me." His eyes moving to the front door. "The door is locked?"

"Yes," panted Fletcher as he released the elf, allowing him to stand. "They won't be back for ages."

"They have a-a _keeey."_ Fenris gasped, his head swimming as Fletcher's hands slid beneath his tunic, pulling it over the elf's head and discarding it on the floor.

"Not to my room, they don't." Fletcher pushed the bedroom door open and they entered together.

Fenris moaned as Fletcher moved behind him, the mage's breath caressing his ear.

"I need you, my love," breathed Fletcher, running his hands down Fenris's arms. "I just-I have to be close to you. Just to touch you, hold you."

Fenris turned and his lips were immediately stolen by another blistering kiss. With his last sliver of self-control he reached around Fletcher, pushing the door closed. Releasing him, Fletcher turned his back on the elf as he frantically searched for his key, finally finding it, Fenris curling against his back as the door was soundly locked.

A little later, Fenris reclined on an elbow, watching his mage sleep next to him. His stomach quivered at the memory of their coupling, of Fletcher's touch, his words and his fervent--but never forceful--attentions. There had been an intensity to Fletcher's lovemaking that Fenris had not expected, but welcomed, nonetheless.

A further doubt over Fletcher's emotional state crept into Fenris's thoughts but he dismissed it, wanting to stay in the moment, and he closed his eyes. The image of Fletcher's warm, wet lips trailing kisses down his belly, and lower, came to his mind, causing a delightful shiver to travel through him. He opened his eyes, smiling as he arranged Fletcher's unruly curls around his face.

"Is this how it feels to be in love?" he asked his slumbering companion and confidant.

Fletcher, in a deep sleep, didn't stir. Fenris gently kissed his cheek before covering him with a blanket and he stood up, retrieving first his trousers and then his tunic from the other room.

Once dressed, he stood over Fletcher and watched him for a while before remembering that he was to meet Davy and Filbert at the Hanged Man. He went into the living room and scribbled a brief note in his best hand before returning to the bedroom and placing it on the pillow. "Sleep," he said softly. "You need it, my love."

~o~O~o~

Fenris and his cohorts were well into their conspiring when a dishevelled Fletcher, along with Anders, burst into the Hanged Man's lounge.

"You're still here!" exclaimed Fletcher in relief, panting as he hobbled to the elf's table. "Sorry, Fen. I must have nodded off," he said with a wink.

"That would explain it, then," Fenris replied calmly, his expression betraying nothing as Fletcher and Anders took a seat at the table. After introductions were made, Fenris outlined his plan. "Davy, Filbert and I spoke at length this morning after Donnic had left, and compared notes. Apparently, it is a poorly-kept secret at the barracks that," he paused and glanced around, lowering his voice to a whisper, "Guard-Captain Aveline is… interested in Donnic."

 _"Interested?"_ Filbert scoffed. "Fenny, you're a master of understatement."

Fenris squirmed as he noticed Fletcher's face light up. "So… what's your plan, _Fenny?"_ the mage asked innocently.

Fenris sighed, morosely shaking his head.

"We're going to alter the duty roster," Davy whispered. "Both Aveline and Donnic will be out at the same time today, and Lieutenant Bradley is in on the plan. He's going to do the altering. Aveline has a patrol along the Wounded Coast tomorrow evening and she's supposed to be with Hunter, but we're going to substitute him with Donnic."

"Won't you get into trouble for that?" Fletcher asked.

"No," Fenris answered. "Lieutenant Bradley often compiles the roster as Aveline has been so busy of late. He was the one who originally placed Aveline and Hunter together, and it will be but a small matter to change the designation. The roster is posted at the start of each day, so no one will know that a change has been made."

Fletcher frowned. "Don't you think they'll try to get out of it, though? They'll have all day to think something up."

"Aveline wouldn't do that," Davy interposed. "As with any large group of people, some naturally don't get on. Aveline's had a few guards wanting to change who they're on patrol with, and they've been sent away with a flea in their ear. Donnic won't try to get out of it, either, because he doesn't want anyone thinking he's scared of her."

"Hold on," Anders said. "If they're not talking to each other, aren't they just going to conduct their patrol in silence? There's no guarantee they'll talk at all."

"Donnic showed an interest in resolving the discord between then," Fenris said. "I believe he _would_ initiate a conversation." He looked at Fletcher, then, who appeared deep in thought. "What are you thinking?"

"Maybe someone should… tag along, you know? Make sure the path of true love runs smoothly, or whatever the saying is."

 _"Someone?_ Why are you looking at me?"

"I'm looking at us," Fletcher chirped in reply. "We can hang back and listen in, ascertain whether they need any help getting on the path of true love or not."

Fenris stared at the table, wondering what the hell he was getting himself into. "They will not thank us if they discover our presence. What possible reason would we have for being there?"

"Lots of couples go for a moonlit walk along the coast," Fletcher reasoned. "We can take a little picnic hamper, make it look authentic."

The elf rolled his eyes. "Any excuse to bring food."

"Is that a yes, then?"

"Will you go alone if I refuse?"

Fletcher nodded and Fenris scowled, folding his arms, a quiet 'tch' escaping his mouth.

"I think this is our cue to get a drink," Filbert piped up. He, Davy and Anders pushed their chairs back and sped towards the bar, leaving the couple alone.

"It'll be fun," Fletcher encouraged Fenris, who did not look convinced.

"We had _better_ remain hidden," he warned.

"Have I ever let you down?" Fletcher shifted uncomfortably in his chair, hoping his words wouldn't return to haunt him.

"Are you all right?" Fenris asked quietly.

"I'm fine. These chairs aren't very comfortable," he said half-truthfully, leaning closer to the elf. "I'm glad to see _you're_ sitting down, too. I bet your little bum won't stop going up and down when you stand."

A sudden, unexpected snicker was wrested from the elf and he looked back to the bar before sharply rapping Fletcher's arm. "Stop it," he implored, his voice unsteady.

"All right," Fletcher said. "Far be it from me to embarrass you in a public place. But once we're out of here I'm making up for it."

"I would be concerned for your wellbeing if you _didn't."_ Fenris firmly pushed down a smile which rebelled and pushed back.

"Any news on Tintop?" Fletcher asked, changing the subject as he cheekily finished off Fenris's wine.

The elf nodded. "Some promising leads. Last night it was ascertained that he is selling his assets, and is doing so in a hurry."

"Sounds like he's running away," Fletcher speculated. "Maybe he knows he's been discovered?"

"Perhaps. He was not diligent in covering his tracks, which would indicate that either he is _not_ absconding, or…"

"That he's an idiot."

Fenris nodded. "I am inclined towards the latter. In one way, it _was_ sensible of him to flee once he knew the Arishok had discovered the theft. Where he erred, however, was in sharing his plans with the denizens of the local taverns whilst inebriated."

"Definitely an idiot, then."

"I agree."

At that moment, the other three men returned to the table and set their drinks down, having bought one for Fletcher and another for Fenris.

"All sorted out?" Anders asked cheerfully, taking his seat.

"All sorted out," confirmed Fletcher. "Tomorrow evening, Fen and I will take a stroll along the Coast… with a picnic hamper, of course."

Fenris gave the mage a long-suffering look. "Of course."

"I'd like to propose a toast," Fletcher announced, raising his glass, and the others followed. "To true love." He grinned, his eyes on Fenris.

"To true love!" the others saluted enthusiastically, all with the exception of Fenris, who mumbled under his breath, his cheeks as red as the wine in his glass. They all took a gulp of their drinks and set them down amid contented sighs.

"Right, when we've had this," Fletcher said to Fenris and Anders, "you two are coming shopping with me."

"Do you not have _enough_ food?" Fenris challenged.

"No, it's not for food! I have a house to decorate. Now let's see…" Fletcher's brow creased as Fenris's rose in dismay. "…I'm going to need several bolts of the finest silk, a seamstress... no, a few of them... can any of you sew? No? Ah well, neither can I. Ooh! And flowers! Each room will have freshly-cut flowers. I like gladioli. What do _you_ think, Fen? Do _you_ like gladioli?"

The elf recoiled in horror, his eyes flitting to Anders, who quickly drank up.

"I'd better get back to the clinic," he said, standing up. "I've had enough daylight for now. Ta-ta!"

"Suit yourself," Fletcher called as Anders made a hasty exit. "We don't need him, anyway. Merrill will help us out. She has a good eye for colour."

Fenris roughly cleared his throat and looked pleadingly at Davy and Filbert, who were no help as they sniggered behind their pints. "I, uh… I have something to do," he claimed weakly.

"Like what?" demanded Fletcher.

"Elf business?"

 _"What_ elf business? According to you, elves don't _do_ anything! You don't chuckle, you don't forget, you're not ticklish and you certainly don't f-"

"Enough!" Fenris interrupted. "Fine. I will accompany you, if only to prevent you from making a dreadful show of yourself." He folded his arms and glowered at the table, which rattled as Davy and Filbert's mugs were slammed down.

"Have fun at the coast, you two," Filbert said as he and his partner beat another hasty retreat.

"I hate you all," the elf inveighed miserably.

"No pink, I promise." Fletcher grinned with a nudge to the elf's arm.

"Calla lilies."

"Eh?" Fletcher asked, confused.

"I rather like calla lilies," Fenris elaborated, sipping at his wine, "as opposed to gladioli. I find them less… ostentatious. But do what you will."

"Then calla lilies are what we will have. In every room," promised Fletcher.

"I still hate you, though," murmured Fenris, an impish gleam in his eyes as Fletcher tapped his goblet against Fenris's glass.

"I hate you, too, love."

Finding it impossible to stay annoyed with his handsome mage for long, Fenris sank back in his chair and listened as Fletcher reeled off a new list for his new home... a list he was actually enthusiastic about.

Perhaps he _had_ just needed to sleep, after all.

Perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Gooseberry--British slang equivalent of 'third wheel'.


	74. The Path of True Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, now I know what the Captain of the Guard wears under her armour. Interesting," Donnic interrupted, full of innuendo.
> 
> Fenris's head very slowly revolved in Fletcher's direction, his face devoid of expression. "That is not an appropriate way to speak to one's captain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, Mary, for your super-fast beta and for truncating my rambling phrases! I owe you a 'gotten'! :D
> 
> *Chapter re-edited 11/1/2016

Fletcher took in a deep lungful of the sea air and smiled at Fenris, who walked beside him. "This is the life, isn't it?" he asked the elf, feeling more relaxed than he had in days, although he knew he wouldn't feel that way for long. For now, though, he was content.

He'd visited the Keep to complete the paperwork for the estate in Hightown and had been given a set of keys. He'd decided not to announce he already had a set, acquired from the slavers he and his friends had killed or run out of his mother's ancestral home several months earlier.

He'd also employed young Cricket from Darktown as the new clinic's official runner. The main part of the lad's job was to bring and deliver messages, letters and crafting ingredients to Anders and Fletcher, and whatever else they found for him to do, for a few hours each day. His wages would be ten silver a week--a small fortune to a boy of his age--plus tips. Fletcher had also promised to help him with his letters twice a week.

Varric had visited the clinic to inform his partners of progress on the mine. He'd hired several people, most of them from Darktown, and the first batch of equipment was now being transported to the site where they'd found the _Tethracite_. He'd also hired a few specialists to booby trap the surrounding area and to keep an eye out for unwelcome visitors, given that a mysterious duo who had not yet been captured was being held responsible for one of the tunnel collapses.

They'd also discussed Bartrand, and Fletcher had promised to ask Fenris what was happening with him. He was also to ask Fenris if the city guard would be undertaking further investigations of the site, so any traps, and evidence of people working there, could be removed in time.

Fenris's day had been relatively slow-paced but he'd ascertained, after speaking to a couple of guards in Lowtown, that Javaris Tintop had been found and was due to be questioned that afternoon. He'd also discovered that Aveline and Donnic _were_ on speaking terms now, but only when absolutely necessary, and only concerning guard business. By now, the entire Kirkwall Guard was aware of Fenris and Fletcher's plans. The elf went on his way with many wishes of good fortune, which he decided would not go amiss.

It had been another hectic day for Fletcher, though. As he and Fenris ambled along the shore, he'd removed his boots and carried them in one hand, the cool, slightly abrasive sand massaging his feet as he walked. They'd arrived a good half hour before Aveline and Donnic were due, and had already broken into the picnic hamper, which was slung over Fletcher's back.

"How are your feet?" Fenris asked.

Fletcher halted, wiggling his sandy toes. "Lovely. They feel much better. I can't guarantee they stink any less, though."

"Indeed. I can smell your boots from here," commented the elf, wafting a hand in front of his face.

"Ah. Sorry. I'll put them back on."

Fenris smiled and held a hand up. "I would rather see you comfortable. I will manage... somehow."

Fletcher chuckled, matching Fenris's smile with a warm one of his own. "You're a real sport, you know that?"

Fenris nodded, his smile faltering slightly as he gazed out to sea. "Fletcher… before Aveline and Donnic arrive, there is something I need to tell you." He sighed, a troubled look coming over him.

Fletcher placed the picnic hamper and his boots on the sand. "All right."

"I… should have told you sooner. But there is a chance either Aveline or Donnic will mention it, and I would not want you to find out that way." He glanced at his feet and shrugged. "I am sorry I did not speak of this sooner, but there _is_ a reason for my silence."

"Tell me. Whatever it is, I'm sure it's not as bad as you imagine."

Fenris looked up at him, sighing again. "Bartrand," he said irascibly. "According to the city magistrate, we cannot try him for his crimes as they occurred in the Deep Roads, which are not considered part of the Free Marches."

 _"What?"_ Fletcher exclaimed angrily. "How can…? Won't there at least be a trial? Fenris, what--"

"Please," Fenris laid a hand on Fletcher's arm, "let me finish."

Fletcher took a deep breath and nodded, realising that he, too, was keeping something from the elf, and Fenris was probably just as nervous as he.

"Thank you," Fenris said, and paused briefly before continuing. "Donnic and I have been exploring… alternative avenues."

"Such as?"

"He's written to the Council of Surface Dwarves to ascertain exactly whom has jurisdiction over the Deep Roads. Bartrand _will_ pay for his deeds," he assured the mage. "It may not be by conventional means, that is all. He will not walk away from his crimes."

"We need to tell Varric about this," Fletcher said thoughtfully.

"I know, but not yet. Do you see why I kept this from you? If I had told you or Varric about this, you would probably have stormed the Keep and delivered retribution. And then two of my friends would have been tried for murder. Believe me, _I_ was tempted, on more than one occasion, to visit his cell. But he is _not_ worth it." He raised his other hand to rest on Fletcher's arm and looked at him anxiously. "Please, tell me you understand."

Fletcher looked out to sea and sighed before nodding. "I understand," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm not sure Varric will, though." He returned his gaze to the elf. "You must have been worried about telling me. I'm glad you did. I… _can_ understand why you waited. I'm not angry with you, I'm angry with him."

Fenris's shoulders sagged in relief. "I also understand why _you_ waited to tell me certain things. At the time, I could not see beyond myself. I could not see the larger picture. But being with you has made me think more… laterally. I am grateful for that."

Fletcher wound his arms around Fenris's neck and kissed his forehead, resting his chin atop Fenris's head. Fenris's hands hesitantly brushed down Fletcher's sides before coming to rest on his hips.

"Are _you_ going to tell me?" Fenris asked quietly.

Shards of panic stabbed at Fletcher's gut. "Tell you… what?"

Fenris pulled back, keeping his hands on the mage's hips and he saw Fletcher's fleeting apprehension, quickly concealed by a confused smile. "Something has been troubling you, Fletcher. I know you too well by now. Your smile does not hide it. I see it in your eyes."

Fletcher's mouth opened, a weak protest dying before it passed his lips.

"Tell me," Fenris gently insisted. "Whatever it is, it cannot be worth spending another sleepless night over."

Fletcher knew he could not deliver such distressing news where they were, and without more information, yet he was desperate to confide in the elf, desperate not to lie to him. He moved his hands to Fenris's cheeks and stroked them with his thumbs before kissing the elf's nose and drawing back. "You kept the news about Bartrand from me because you wanted to find a solution _before_ you told me, to make the news easier to bear. Is that correct?"

"That is correct, yes."

Fletcher chewed his bottom lip and looked Fenris in the eyes. "What if I told you I've also been keeping something from you for a similar reason--until I know more?" he ventured nervously.

"I _knew_ there was something wrong," Fenris replied, his brow wrinkling. "Can you be more specific?"

"I'm sorry, Fen... I can't. Not y--"

"If it has something to do with Danarius, if he has found me, if there are slavers here, I _need_ to know," Fenris rasped, his words tumbling out rapidly, his shoulders heaving, and he half-heartedly pushed Fletcher away before turning his back on him.

"I would _never_ keep that from you," Fletcher said firmly, moving in front of the elf. "Never again, I swear."

Fenris looked away and shook his head before covering his face with his hands, as if to block out his fear.

"Fen," Fletcher said softly, hesitantly laying a hand on the elf's shoulder.

Fenris uncovered his face and sighed. "I-I know. I… panicked. Forgive me."

Fletcher wrapped his arm around Fenris's slender shoulders. "I'm sorry I caused you to think that."

"You-you didn't," whispered Fenris, laying his head on Fletcher's shoulder. "I am sorry, dear."

"It's all right. I want you to know that if ever I hear of a _single_ slaver's presence in Kirkwall, I will come to you immediately. I give you my word."

Fenris faced Fletcher, determined to be as understanding as possible. "What is it, then?"

"It-it's to do with your markings," Fletcher quietly confessed. "Anders and I have been talking."

"Is this connected with the balm you were talking about? The one that would repel magic?"

"Shit," Fletcher murmured. "I'm so sorry. I don't think that will be possible now."

"You warned me not to raise my hopes, so I didn't. Do not apologise. I am grateful you even considered it." He smiled softly and stood on tiptoes, placing a kiss on the mage's cheek. "It is thanks to you I am able to bathe in warm water. You have already done so much for me. Now, tell me what troubles you so. It cannot only be the balm, surely?"

"I'm asking you to trust me," Fletcher said, causing Fenris to frown. "I _will_ tell you, but I need to find out more."

"About my markings? Is there something I do not know? Do you know something for certain, or are you speculating?"

"It's a conjecture at the moment," said Fletcher, although he was convinced there was truth in Quentin's theory. "There's simply no point telling you yet."

"You are making light of this, yet it weighs heavily on your mind. Whatever these theories are, they do not appear to be pleasant ones."

Panic again tightened Fletcher's stomach as he feared Fenris would ask more probing questions, and that Fletcher would be forced to lie or reveal more details--neither of which was acceptable. "I'm asking you to trust me," he repeated. "Please know that I don't enjoy keeping this from you, but there is a good reason for my silence."

Recognising his own words from earlier in the conversation, Fenris grunted softly and nodded. "I see."

"Just give me some time, please, and trust me. Trust that I would never hurt you, nor would I allow another to hurt you. You are _not_ in danger. I… must ask you to do something, though."

"What is that?" asked Fenris, tilting his head.

Fletcher took a deep breath and gulped. "Don't activate your markings."

"Why?" Fenris asked sharply, his eyes darting from side to side, myriad reasons presenting themselves. "Am I in danger when my markings are activated?"

"No," Fletcher said, shaking his head. "Just--"

"Is Danarius able to track me when I do?" he demanded with devastating accuracy.

Fenris's question was like a knife through Fletcher's chest and he reacted physically to it, his breath torn from his lungs, a strangled exclamation leaving his mouth.

"I have suspected as much for a long time," Fenris muttered, not needing spoken confirmation. "That first night we met--when you accompanied me to Danarius's mansion--I speculated as to how he was able to find me time and time again. And now you have confirmed it."

"I haven't confirmed _anything,"_ Fletcher argued, though there was no heat in his voice. "This is all just a theory. Until I know more, though, you should stop activating your markings… just in case."

"How would he track me via my markings, then? By what process?"

"Fenris, _please_. Let me investigate this properly. Let me give you the facts when I _know_ they're facts. Otherwise we'll be running around in circles and getting nowhere."

"Just tell me what you think, what your theory is."

"No. Not until I have the facts. I'm sorry," Fletcher answered with finality, fearing Fenris's reaction.

Fenris's eyes lowered, his lips pressed tightly together, and he was quiet for several moments. Fletcher watched him, expecting at any instant for him to angrily demand answers. To his relief, though, the elf merely sighed, his expression softening. "I should be grateful that a mage is investigating this," he conceded, his eyes moving up to Fletcher's. "One that I trust."

"Not just one. Anders is helping me. I'm going to speak to Quentin as well--he's very clever. I've also written to First Enchanter Orsino at the Gallows. They're all very knowledgeable, and if anyone can get to the bottom of this, they can."

Fenris gave Fletcher a hard look and, for a moment he feared Fenris would resent having more mages involved. However, Fenris surprised him again. "When we lodged at the hotel, you chastised me for allowing my past to cloud our future together. You told me you would no longer tolerate it. Well, I am telling you now--I will _not_ hear you comparing yourself unfavourably with other mages."

"But… I didn't."

"Yes, you _did_. 'Quentin is clever. They are all very knowledgeable. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, _they_ can'. At no point did you give yourself credit. _You_ are a fine example of a mage, Fletcher. The best, in fact. I have seen the worst of mages, and you, alone, have turned my prejudice on its head. Perhaps you do not realise exactly how much you have changed my life." Fletcher smiled hesitantly and Fenris moved closer, sliding his arms around Fletcher's waist. "I have faith in you. I will wait until you have the facts, and I trust that you will tell me. Do _not_ trouble yourself further over this. I will not activate my markings, as you have advised." Fletcher rested his forehead against Fenris's, his relief almost overwhelming him. "Do you see?" Fenris whispered. "You only have to say the word, and it is done."

Fletcher laughed softly. "After a lot of explaining."

"Never let it be said that we have nothing to talk about," Fenris quipped. They stood still for a moment.

"We've definitely become boring old men, though," Fletcher ventured. "Can you imagine if we'd had this conversation a few months ago? We'd have killed each other."

"There is nothing wrong with being boring." Fenris stepped back slightly and looked into Fletcher's eyes. "A 'boring' life is all I have ever sought. It gladdens me that we can now have discussions without anger and misunderstandings. Before we met, Fletcher, everything was black and white to me. Now, though, I see in colour."

"Not pink, though?"

 _"Definitely_ not pink," replied Fenris, wrinkling his nose, before his eyes moved to the coastal path. "Perhaps we should think about concealing ourselves. Aveline is nothing if not efficient, and will likely start her shift early."

Fletcher picked up his boots and the small hamper, slinging it over his shoulder. "Lead the way, love."

Fenris pointed towards a second, less distinct path higher up in the hills. "The rocks and brush should adequately conceal us up there. We will hear their conversation, but _we_ must be quiet."

"In other words, 'shut up, Fletcher'."

"Your words, not mine," Fenris said as he started up the path. "Can you manage?" he asked with a glance at Fletcher's picnic basket.

"I'm fine." Fletcher beamed, ready to burst with relief and joy that such a heavy weight was off his shoulders--at least partially. "Just carry your sweet little bum up there, and I'll carry the food."

Fenris gave a cheeky wiggle of his bottom, Fletcher's resulting laughter carrying high up into the hills, before the elf's "Shh!" silenced him.

They eventually found a spot which afforded them a good view of the path, but also provided sufficient cover. "I'll leave the basket here for now," Fletcher said as he opened it. He offered the elf a wrapped sandwich, which was declined. "How about a homemade scone with homemade strawberry jam, then?"

Fenris took the proffered scone. "I would not wish to… offend your mother with my refusal," he said, eyes shifting deviously as he took a small bite.

"Oh, _rat's_ gonvincing." Fletcher laughed around a mouthful of his own scone, crumbs bursting out of his mouth. "Actually, _I_ made them."

"I would not wish to offend you, either." The elf took a larger bite.

"If you must know, it was really Merrill who made them. Using blood magic."

Fenris glanced at the half-eaten scone in his hand, shrugged and crammed the rest of it into his mouth before snatching another and stowing it in his pocket.

"No standards, some elves," chortled Fletcher, putting a sandwich in his own pocket, having already eaten his second scone. He then removed two large glass jars from the hamper, each filled with a cloudy peachy-pink liquid.

"What _is_ this?" Fenris asked as he closely examined the small red particles floating in the liquid.

"Uncle Gamlen's rodomel." Fletcher unscrewed one of the jars. "It's honey wine made with rose petals, and it's absolutely delicious. Care to try some?"

With a dubious glance at the mage, Fenris held the jar and brought it to his nose, his expression brightening, and took a sip. "This is rather potent," he commented before sneezing violently.

"Shhh!" Fletcher remonstrated as Fenris scrubbed his nose with his palm. "I hear something."

They listened as the sound of booted footfalls drew nearer and then came to a halt. They peered down from their higher vantage point in the hills and Fletcher suddenly sprang back, pulling Fenris close to him. He pointed downwards, indicating that Donnic and Aveline were directly below them. He then cupped his hand next to his mouth and moved it back and forth to show they'd stopped for a drink. Both men fell silent and strained to hear the conversation.

"Isn't it funny how the water looks, well, _wetter_ when the sun sets over it?" Aveline mumbled from below. Fletcher and Fenris slowly looked at each other, Fletcher's mouth dropping open while Fenris looked distinctly confused. "Have _you_ ever noticed that, Guardsman?" she went on, eliciting a grunt from Donnic.

"Can't say I have. I'm not really one for sunsets."

"Of course not," Aveline said, a skittish note to her voice. "Too busy training and honing your sword skills, I expect. Just as a should guard good. I-I-I mean… a good guard should. Ha! I haven't even been drinking!" She noisily cleared her throat.

"Are you… feeling all right, Captain?" Donnic asked, sounding bored.

"I'm fine," she replied breezily. "I've probably been overdoing the late-night reading. Did I tell you I've been reading _A History of the Kirkwall Guard?"_

"No..." said Donnic around a sigh.

"It's fascinating," she went on regardless. "Did you know, for example, that in 8:16 Blessed, then-Captain Mulberry accidentally ordered two hundred swords to be crafted for a royal parade, when in fact he'd only wanted twenty? I'll bet his face was red!"

"Oh, right, yes. Very, um, embarrassing. Maybe we should get going?"

"Yes, of course." Aveline held in a sigh of her own, while Fletcher and Fenris watched as they moved off. "How about this, then? During one particular year, more than six thousand hundredweight of steel was used by the Kirkwall Guard to fashion weapons and armour. _Six thousand!_ The mind boggles, doesn't it? And that's not even the best part! This heavy consumption of _steel_ occurred during the... can you guess?" She paused, waiting for a response.

"Uh... the Steel Age, by any chance?"

"Right! How about that, then? Isn't it marvellous how things sometimes work out like that?"

"Yes. Marvellous." Donnic puffed his cheeks out and adjusted his helm as he walked ahead.

"What's she _doing?"_ Fletcher whispered to Fenris, who shrugged. "They stopped for a drink as the sun was going down--the perfect romantic setting--and she starts talking about bloody steel? She missed her chance there, you know--there are a dozen things she could have asked him, like, 'How big's _your_ weapon, then?' or, 'I'll bet _you're_ a skilled swordsman, aren't you?'" He gave an exaggerated wink.

"Perhaps she does not need to resort to innuendo," Fenris speculated dryly. "Unlike _some_ people."

"Oh, what, you think she's biding her time, then? She's going to beguile him with crappy jokes about steel in the Steel Age? I mean, he's hanging on her every word, isn't he?"

Fenris harrumphed softly and watched the two guards move further down the coastal path. "This is going to be a very long evening."

"Booze?" said Fletcher. Fenris nodded as they unscrewed their jars before tapping them together and taking a deep gulp.

~o~O~o~

The two would-be cupids slunk further along the high coastal path, occasionally ducking or crouching when they were in danger of being spotted, taking the opportunity to have another drink while they'd stopped. After half an hour or so, they drew level with Aveline and Donnic, who seemed to be sharing a thoughtful--or awkward--silence as they walked along. At length, Donnic cleared his throat and spoke.

"So, Captain, what do you do with yourself when not on duty?"

"Yesterday I gave my boots a good cleaning," she said, "oh, and I nourished my leather as well. Do you do that?"

"You _what?"_

"It's vital to nourish your leather. It simply won't do to show up on duty with cracked or dry leather. Leather's woefully underrated as a component of our armour, you know. Granted, it might not deflect a blade as efficiently as steel, but it has its uses, and we should take as much care of it as the rest of our armour."

"That's true, I suppose," Donnic replied. "I rather like the feel of leather next to my skin."

Fletcher's hand flew to his mouth and he started sniggering.

"What is the _matter_ with you?" hissed Fenris.

"He's being bawdy!" Fletcher whispered. "He said he likes the feel of leather next to his skin!"

"Well… so do I, but I fail to see how--"

"Is that a fact?" Fletcher said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Rolling his eyes, Fenris hushed Fletcher by placing his hand over the mage's mouth and they listened as Aveline went on:

"I wear woollen padding beneath my tunic, as it helps with chafing. I used to get terrible chafing under my arms and on my thighs until I discovered it. It soaks up sweat like a dream as well--sweat makes chafing ten times worse. Plus, Hawke and Anders make a very good cream. Smells a bit funny, but it disguises the sweat, so win-win."

"So, now I know what the captain of the guard wears under her armour. Interesting," Donnic interrupted suggestively.

Fenris's head very slowly revolved in Fletcher's direction, his face devoid of expression. "That is _not_ an appropriate way to speak to one's captain."

"It's not, is it?" Fletcher grinned, taking another glug of rodomel, while Fenris followed suit. "Now she's going to ashk him what _he_ wearsh under _hish!_ She's _got_ to! Heshe left it wide open for her!"

Fenris looked at Fletcher in dismay. "You're slurring your words! You had better refrain from drinking for the time being."

Fletcher dismissed the elf's concerns by drinking some more booze as Aveline gave her reply:

"Hm. Maybe I should find out what the rest of the guard wear beneath theirs. There's nothing more distracting than chafing, especially when you're on a stake-out. Make a note, Guardsman. Tomorrow, we'll--"

"And what am I supposed to make a note with, Captain? Fresh air?"

"You'll think of something, I expect. You're good at that."

"I'm good at lots of things."

Fletcher and Fenris eagerly leaned forward for a better listen but Fletcher leaned a little too far, almost losing his balance, before Fenris grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him back at the last second. "You are inebriated!" the elf hissed. "Have a care!"

"Did you hear something?" they heard Aveline say. Both men froze.

"No. Must be the wind." Donnic blew out a sigh before walking ahead, Aveline following.

"Zjhe had a golden opporzjunity, then!" Fletcher blustered. "Zjhe was gompletely oblivioush to what he was shaying!"

Fenris cocked his head, watching with amusement as Fletcher went cross-eyed. "'Oblivioush'?"

"Yesh! Thass what I shaid! _O-blivi-oush,"_ Fletcher reiterated with emphasis. "He was using his besht chat-up lines on her and zjhe didn't have a clue!" He threw his head back and glugged the last of his wine, emitting a loud burp.

"And I suppose _you_ are an authority on such things?" queried Fenris before clamping a hand over his mouth and hiccupping.

"Oh, I've got shome killer chat-up lines," Fletcher bragged, his eyes half-closed.

"Do enlighten me."

"All right, then… how about, 'Excushe me, I shuffer from amneshia. Do I come here often?" Fletcher collapsed into giggles, while Fenris pushed his lower lip out, coolly nodding his approval.

"Another."

"Not impreshed, eh? Well, what about thish one? 'Fanshy a shag? No? Well, would you mind lying down while _I_ have one?' Or, 'Have you jusht farted? Becaush you blew me away!'"

Fenris shook his head, failing miserably to suppress a chuckle as Fletcher unsteadily shifted his weight. "Such a pity you did not use those lines on _me_ the first night we met. A lot of time would have been shaved… _saved_ , for I would have fallen at your feet in rapture."

"Eehehehe! You're having me on, aren't you?" Fletcher tittered, attempting to tap Fenris's nose with his finger but missing. Losing his balance, he crashed to the ground before rolling onto his back.

Sniggering, Fenris crawled on top of Fletcher and collapsed on to the mage's chest.

"Oof!" Fletcher exclaimed, grabbing the elf's wrists and wrestling him on to his back. "You fat bashtard!"

By now, both men were laughing uncontrollably, having completely forgotten what they were supposed to be doing. "Give ush a kish," Fletcher demanded. Aiming for the elf's lips, he completely missed and ended up with a face full of sand as Fenris wriggled from under him. "But-but your fasche was there!" he rasped noisily, pointing to the Fletcher-shaped imprint in the sand. "It was _there!_ Whahdid you do with it?"

Fenris frowned at the sand before reaching for his jar and drinking the last of his own wine. "My fasche ish _here,"_ he slurred with a fierce frown, pointing over his right shoulder. "Are you dim?"

"I want a kish, and a kish is what I'm going to have!" proclaimed Fletcher.

Fenris scooted back on his bottom, thrusting a palm outwards. "No! I do not want a shandy kish! Be off with you!"

"Who's there?" demanded a loud, deep male voice from below. The giggling twosome gasped, looking at each other in horror before spluttering out a laugh in unison.

"In the name of the Kirkwall Guard, I order you to come out!" Aveline commanded. "You are interfering with a guard patrol! If you have an innocent reason for being here, show yourself now! If you don't, I'll take it that you're up to no good!"

"Are-are we up to no good?" Fletcher whispered blearily.

"Yesh," said the elf, nodding at a large rock, which they crawled behind.

Down on the ground, Aveline pointed to the portion of the route they'd already walked. Donnic nodded silently, drawing his sword and retracing his steps, while Aveline began to clamber up the rock.

"Captain!" Donnic called after a moment. "Someone's been here recently--I've found a half-eaten sandwich, still soft." He opened the sandwich and examined the contents. "Beef and mustard," he commented as Aveline arrived next to him. "Homemade bread, too."

"That doesn't sound like typical bandit fare," she deduced, grasping her chin.

"Nishe beef," he commented with a full mouth.

"Donnic!" She slapped the sandwich out of his hand and glared at him as he swallowed the stolen morsel.

"Looks like we're even when it comes to destroying evidence," he remarked with a casual shrug. "I won't tell anyone if you don't." With a cheeky glint in his eye, he walked away, resuming his search.

Aveline stared after him, not knowing whether to feel anger or gratitude. Deciding anger would better befit her station, she huffed and turned, walking in the opposite direction.

After carefully climbing up the rock face, she found a pair of boots and two empty glass jars, which she examined. Spotting Donnic farther along the high path, she beckoned him near, holding a finger to her lips.

"What do you make of this?" She passed him the jar containing the dregs of Fenris's rodomel. "And _don't_ drink it!"

He sniffed at the jar, a deep frown forming on his brow. "This is very familiar… it smells like the stuff Hawke's uncle makes. That'll get you sloshed quicker than curry negotiates its way through my guts."

"Nice," sniped Aveline.

"Looks like we're dealing with a couple of drunks." Donnic started to sheathe his sword. "I doubt I'll need this… unless, of course, you disagree?"

"You don't usually ask my opinion."

"I'm asking now. Captain," he said respectfully.

Averting her eyes to avoid looking at his nose, she shook her head and sheathed her own sword. "No, I don't suppose we'll need these. Let's go." She nodded at a large rock ahead of them and they walked slowly, not wanting the sound of their armour to give them away.

Behind the rock were several large bushes, a faint rustling sound coming from the one at the far end. As Aveline placed a finger to her lips again and pointed towards it, Donnic spotted a small black slipper on the ground and grabbed it, concealing it behind his back.

"Um, Captain, maybe there's no need to--"

"Shh! We have them!"

She strode to the large shrub, no longer caring about her noisy armour, and stopped dead at the sight that met her. On the ground, in various states of undress, were two men: a dark-haired human atop a moaning white-haired elf who was on his back, legs akimbo, his left ear apparently being eaten by the human.

 _"Guardsman Fenris!"_ She gasped, her gauntleted hands flying to her mouth as she tore her eyes away from the bare white, hairy bottom that mooned at her. "And Hawke! Cover yourself at once!"

Fletcher relinquished Fenris's ear and looked up, squinting, noticing a dark-haired blurry shape appear behind a ginger-haired blurry shape.

"Alevine!" he greeted. "Wazjh and learn. Thish is what you're _shupposed_ to be doing!" With that, he clamped his lips over Fenris's. The elf squirmed beneath him, thrashing his legs, a deep, throaty laugh rumbling through him.

At a loss, Aveline looked at Donnic, whose face had turned red with the effort of not smiling. "You-you men, stop! Or… or I'll charge you with a pubic order offence!"

"Public," Donnic amended.

 _"Public_ , then!" she spluttered, and snatched Donnic's helmet from him. "Give me that!" She walked across to Fletcher, placing it over one of his quivering buttocks.

"You will need two of thoshe, Hatpin," Fenris recommended from beneath the mage as he pointed vaguely in her direction, one eye closed to help him focus. "Shuch a magnifishent arshe will not be denied, even by a helm of the illushtrious Kirkwall Guard!"

"You shaid _arshe!_ Gyeehehehee!" Fletcher screeched, and both men cackled like two hens squabbling over a piece of corn.

"Come on, you two," Donnic sniggered, undeterred by a severe look from Aveline, "before you land yourselves in trouble."

"They're _already_ in trouble," she said sternly. "Hawke, if you don't pull your trousers up this minute, I'll arrest you for indecency! And as for _you_ , Guardsman Fenris--"

"I am _not_ on duty, I'll have you know!" argued the elf.

Donnic bit his lip to stifle his laughter, walking up to the couple and grabbing the back of Fletcher's shirt. "Neither of you say another word. Up you get, Hawke."

"Aw. We were just getting to the fun part." Fletcher braced himself on his hands and bent at the waist as he unsteadily pushed himself up, gifting Donnic a full view of his arse, as well as his swinging meat and two veg.

"Mate, I _really_ could have done without seeing that." Donnic grimaced as he helped Fletcher pull his trousers up before handing him his boots. "Makes me glad I missed supper, now."

A beetroot-faced Aveline looked at Fenris, who flailed on the ground, his exposed neck and chest splashed with bright red marks. "Just count yourself lucky you don't have _your_ tackle out, Fenris."

"He took advantage of me," Fenris claimed with a sly glance at Fletcher. "I am completely innoshent."

"Ooh, you little fibber!" Fletcher squealed, having to be supported by Donnic as he pulled his boots on.

"Get him up!" commanded Aveline as she roughly grabbed Fletcher's arm and dragged him away. "You two are shpending-- _spending_ , blast it!--the night in the cells!"

"Then I hope you're going to put ush in the shame shell," Fletcher demanded, making a comical attempt at being stern. "You people jusht dishrupted a very shentimental moment! Thersh no law againsht that, ish there?"

She gave him a withering glare. "No, but there _are_ laws against having a quick tumble in full public view, not to mention exposing oneself!"

"Public view? We were behind the bushes! I should have _you_ arreshted for vouyerishm! And nobody forshed you to look at my willy!"

"I couldn't very well miss it!" She drew her sword and pointed it at the mage. "Now get moving, Hawke, or so help me!"

Donnic crouched next to Fenris, who was still sniggering, and placed the lost slipper on the elf's foot. "Here, Fen. You'd better have this back."

"I'm going to be shacked, aren't I?" maundered the elf as Donnic grabbed his hands, hauling him up.

"I hope not, mate," he commiserated as he buttoned up Fenris's shirt. "It could have been worse, I suppose. You _were_ off duty--and you're not the first guard to spend a night in the cells to cool off."

Fenris's legs buckled and Donnic lowered him to the ground on his knees before unstrapping one of his pauldrons and handing it to Fenris. "Keep hold of this." He bent down, pulling the elf up and slinging him over his shoulder. "Whoo! You're heavier than you look!"

"That ish becaushe I have conshumed two shcones," Fenris declared proudly before burping. "I can shee your bottom from up here."

"And I can see yours," Donnic said with a glance at the small derriere on his left shoulder as he caught up with Aveline, who was having a hard time corralling Hawke as he lurched back and forth in a haphazard zig-zag. "If you fart in my face, Fenners," Donnic warned, "I'll--"

"Elvesh do not fart!" Fletcher yelled. "And keep your handsh off his bum, Hendyr--that belongsh to me!"

"My poshterior belongsh to no one, Mage!" roared the elf, while Donnic grabbed his legs as they kicked against his chest. "I am no shlave! I am free! _Freeeee!"_

"That's _it!_ The next man to speak _will_ be arrested!" Aveline threatened irately. "I've a list of unsolved crimes in my office and you two are getting on my nerves just enough!"

The rest of the journey to Kirkwall was conducted in silence, broken only by the occasional snicker.

~o~O~o~

When, after a couple of hours, they reached the outskirts of Kirkwall, night had fallen. Fletcher had sobered up to the extent he was now able walk in a straight line, and his daft mood had abated somewhat. Fenris, who'd regained the use of his legs a little earlier, was _very_ quiet.

Donnic had petitioned Aveline on behalf of his friends, stating that surely _she'd_ done silly things after a few drinks? Predictably, she was unmoved by his appeal, and replied that everyone does silly things from time to time, but when those silly things disrupt a guard patrol and leave a stretch of the Wounded Coast unprotected, then those _silly_ things become very _serious_ things indeed. After a while, Donnic had given up and walked alongside Fletcher and Fenris, still harbouring hopes of changing her mind, but he'd decided against arguing with her.

"My eyes have gone funny again," a bleary Fletcher mumbled, squinting as he looked up. "The sky's gone all wobbly."

"I've already _told_ you, Hawke, no more of your nonsense!" Aveline reprimanded, turning around to glare at him.

"You can't arresht… arrest me for talking! I'm telling you, the sky's all weird and shimmery!" He pointed upwards to emphasise his point. "Look! Do your bloody job and sort it out!"

"Shit, Captain, he's right." Donnic brought them all to a halt. "What _is_ that?"

The sky directly above central Lowtown seemed to ripple and undulate before their eyes. After staring for a moment, Aveline rushed ahead, hoping to get a better look.

"Fire?" Fenris guessed quietly as Donnic also took off, with Fletcher and Fenris doing their best to keep up.

"It can't be fire!" Aveline shouted back. "There'd be particles in the air, smoke… come on! This way!"

She led them via various side alleys and gullies, taking the quickest route to Lowtown. As they approached the residential quarter, she was hailed by one of her guards.

"Captain! Donnic!" he yelled, charging towards them. "I thought you were at the Coast!" He stopped, gasping for breath.

"Take it easy," she said. "Just get to the point and tell me quickly."

He pointed ahead as two spluttering guards carried an unconscious woman past, several other residents following them, supporting each other.

Fletcher ran towards them, his previous sense of warm fuzziness rudely pushed aside by cold, hard dread. "Put her down, quick!"

"Let him help!" Donnic ordered the guards, following Fletcher. "He's a healer!"

"Captain," the guard resumed. "I don't know what's happened! There's this cloud of gas, and people are dead in there! We can't get near them!"

"Fen!" Fletcher called, looking up from his patient. "Get Anders!" He removed a key from around his neck and held it up for the elf, who rushed to him and took the key. "Use this in case Lirene's is closed. We have a couple of oxygen masks at the clinic--bring them."

"At once." Fenris took off down an alley as quickly as his unsteady legs could bear him.

"Is that bloody dwarf we have at the barracks behind this?" Aveline demanded as she approached Fletcher. "The qunari poison gas?"

"I don't know," Fletcher replied briskly as he tended to his patient, trying not to lose his concentration.

"We questioned Tintop, Captain," the guard supplied. "He claims someone else stole the formula from him, an elf. To be honest, he didn't seem intelligent enough to have orchestrated something like this. He's still locked up, though."

"Pull everyone out of there," commanded Aveline. "I'll not have any of my men playing the hero. If they're dead in there, we can't help them."

"There might be survivors!" Fletcher protested heatedly, briefly looking up.

"Pull them out," Aveline ordered the guard, who nodded and ran down another alley.

"Aveline!" shouted Fletcher.

"We'll use your oxygen masks," she reassured him. "I'm not completely heartless, you know! But I'm _not_ risking any of my men, Hawke. That's my final word."

He stared at her for a second before nodding. "Hold your breath!" he yelled suddenly as an inauspicious gust of wind brought a sickly-sweet odour to his nostrils.

Everyone did as he instructed, and when they could longer hold their breath, harsh spluttering and coughing was heard all around as the deadly gas seeped further into Lowtown.

"Everyone cover your face and breathe through your nose!" Fletcher directed, pulling his tunic up to cover his mouth. The guards and civilians followed suit, using their clothing as masks.

At that moment, Anders and Fenris arrived, each carrying an oxygen mask.

"Somebody come with me!" Anders shouted. Aveline stepped forward, but was beaten to the punch by Donnic.

"Give me the mask, Fen." He stood up and held his hand out. Fenris's eyes darted between his friend and his captain.

"Give it to me, Fenris!" Aveline demanded, striding up to the men. Before she could take the mask, however, Donnic snatched it from Fenris and pulled it over his head.

"Can you manage, Hawke?" Anders asked, pulling on his own mask. Fletcher nodded before Anders looked at Donnic, thumbing towards the nearest side alley.

"Donnic! You get back here this _instant!"_ Aveline commanded to no avail as Donnic and Anders ran off, tightening their masks while they ran.

"Sorry, Captain, not this time," called Donnic, his voice muffled by the mask as they disappeared down the alley.

"You bastard!" she yelled, forgetting her professionalism for a second.

"Get over here! I could use a hand!" Fletcher shouted to her. She looked at the alley briefly, then at Hawke and Fenris, who were tending to the injured, Fenris determining the severity of each person's injury while Fletcher treated them.

Her heart beating wildly, she glanced back at the alley. "Maker's sake, be careful!" she hissed before running to assist Fletcher and Fenris.


	75. There Goes the Neighbourhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A refugee _and_ an elf moving into Hightown? We'll see about that! I shall be calling on the viscount first thing!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for staying up so late to beta this chapter. Have a nice lie-in!

Their hearts racing, Donnic and Anders charged past the last few civilians and guards who'd been ordered out of the deadly alley, occasionally coming upon a prone body which Anders conducted a cursory examination of. Sadly, he knew from the blue-grey tinge to their skin that nothing could be done and so they pressed onward, angrily dashing tears off their cheeks – the oxygen masks afforded no protection to their eyes, which began to stream and sting as the men reached their eerily-quiet destination.

A quick glance around revealed two open barrels at the end of the alley, surrounded by several bodies. "There!" shouted Anders, pointing the barrels out.

"All right!" Donnic replied, raising his voice as his words were muffled by the mask. "See if you can find any survivors! I'll try to seal the barrels!" With one final check to ensure his mask was secure, he ran forward.

With a brisk nod, Anders methodically began his search and went from person to person, his heart sinking further each time he turned over what he hoped to be a survivor, only to be met with a ghastly rictus of blue death, their unseeing eyes piercing his soul.

"Bastards!" he cried. "Who would _do_ something like this? I-oh, no… _please_ …" His shoulders sagged as he slowly walked towards a prone woman, her back hunched, her arms tightly clinging onto a small bundle. "Please don't let…please," he entreated in a whisper, falling to his knees next to the woman, his worst fears confirmed as he moved her arms, revealing the grey-skinned face of a little boy, to all appearances in a peaceful slumber.

"How _could_ they?" Anders looked up, real tears filling his eyes as his despair and sorrow were quickly supplanted by something altogether uglier. "Someone will pay for this!" he growled, a harsh note to his voice as he leapt to his feet. "They _will_ pay!" he averred furiously.

"I've sealed off the barrels!" Donnic announced from the far end of the alley. "But there's still a lot of gas in the air, Ande- _shit_!" He pressed himself to the wall in the nick of time as an arrow glanced off his breastplate and he stayed there for a second, panting, before gawking at Anders who strode past him, surrounded by a nimbus of blue light.

"Anders!" he croaked, his breath not quite seeming to fill his lungs as he breathed in. "What?" he uttered in confusion and panic, his hands going to his throat. "What's…?" He tried again, without success, to take a deep breath and he hurriedly checked his mask, which was securely fitted. He then checked the pouch strapped around his chest and cursed as his finger went through a small hole, presumably left by the arrow. Pressing his hand firmly over the hole, he squinted, his vision fading as he staggered across the alley, his lungs about to burst.

~o~O~o~

A triage was quickly set up in front of the Hanged Man and Fenris, along with the other guards, treated those who were not seriously affected by the gas, under Fletcher's instructions.

"That's the last of them, Hawke," Aveline told him, waiting a minute until he'd completed a healing spell. Her eyes darted towards the alley again, and Fletcher, seeing how agitated she was, decided he'd better keep her talking.

"Are you _sure_ the wind's not blowing towards the slums?" he asked her for the fourth time.

"Hawke, if I thought your mother or sister were in danger, I'd be there right now," she assured him. "The alienage is safe, as well. Looks like the Maker was smiling on _some_ of us, at least," she said, not taking her eyes off the alley.

"Okay, Aveline, I need you to take the walking wounded to higher ground where the air's clearer," Fletcher directed, hoping to give her something to focus on other than Donnic. "Take them to Hightown if they can manage the steps. Here's a key to my new house. It's empty at the moment but there might be some furniture you can use. Make them comfortable. Ask for food and water at the chantry. Anyone I've finished with who can't make it up the steps, just get them away from here. Even if Donnic and Anders can shut off the gas, it's going to linger around here for a while. _Aveline_!"

She blinked, tearing her eyes away from the alley for a second. "Right. Erm…Delaney, Fenris, see to that," she ordered.

"I want _you_ to do it, Aveline," Fletcher said firmly. "I'm trying to concentrate, here. Stop pissing about and get on with it."

"Take them to Hightown," she repeated to her guards, passing Fenris the heavy iron key to the Amell estate. "I'm _staying_ here," she insisted when faced with Fletcher's irritated glare.

"Fine! Someone just get them out of here!"

Varric, who had appointed himself Head of Boosting Morale, placed his finger and thumb inside his mouth and let out a loud whistle. "Everybody, follow the dwarf and the elf! If _we_ can make it up the steps on our bitty legs, so can you! Let's go!"

As Varric, Fenris and a handful of guards led the residents away, the elf passed behind Fletcher and bent down next to him. "Do not stay here for too long," he advised quietly. "And please, do not place yourself in danger. _Please_."

"Promise," answered Fletcher, smiling as he briefly looked up. "Count those outraged nobles for me, won't you?"

"Promise," Fenris replied, a fond look passing between them before the elf nodded once and joined the departing group.

"What's taking them so bloody long?" Aveline asked as she paced.

"Aveline! They have the masks! Now stop fretting and come and give me a hand – there are people _injured_ here. As you've sent Fenris away I need you to determine how bad they are! Get over here!" Fletcher commanded, his patience slipping away.

"Sorry," she mumbled and walked towards him before her eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of movement coming away from the alley. "Oy! Who's there?" she demanded, unsheathing her sword.

"On it, Captain!" shouted Blake as he and another guard took off after the shadowy figure that sped away from them.

"You'll be all right," Fletcher reassured his patient. "No strenuous exercise for a week or so. Rest as much as you can. Any problems, come and see us at Lirene's."

"Thanks Hawke, I owe you one," rasped the man, a regular at the Hanged Man, and Fletcher helped him to his feet before moving to Aveline's side. "That's the last of the serious cases taken care of," he said. "The rest just need something for a sore throat or eyes. It could have been a lot worse, I suppose…I wonder how many are dead?" he mused, looking troubled.

"Sorry, Hawke, I've been no use to you at all, have I?" she murmured, momentarily taking her eyes off the alley.

"I was just trying to keep you occupied," he explained. "I managed."

"I know, and thank you for trying. I just…shouldn't they be back by now? What are they _doing_ in there?"

Fletcher slipped his tunic off his mouth, taking a tentative gulp of air. "I think the gas is dissipating…whatever they did, they were successful."

"So where _are_ they?" she asked, impatiently moving her sword from hand to hand. "Why haven't they returned?"

" _I_ have returned," an unearthly voice boomed from behind them, and they turned, gaping as Justice strode towards them, dragging a disarmed and dazed female elf along by the arm. "I have wrought a confession from this malefactor," he declared coldly, and Fletcher quickly bundled him and the elf into a shop doorway, not wanting his patients frightened by the spirit.

"A confession? Was she behind this?" Aveline demanded as she joined them.

"Speak, elf," Justice ordered, roughly pushing the criminal forward.

"We had to make the hornheads pay for taking two of ours," the elf ranted before throwing her head back and laughing maniacally. "And we made them pay. Oh, yes. We made them _all_ pay!"

"Have you inhaled some of the gas?" Fletcher queried, closely examining her eyes, which had a glazed appearance. "And who are the hornheads? What did they take from you?"

"Hornheads took our own. Made them convert, made them believe their lies. We released their poison and now _everyone_ will see their evil ways, make them go away. Now everyone will see!" She shook her head, a pained look coming over her. "They had to sacrifice themselves. It's for the greater good. They will understand one day."

"Who the bloody hell are the hornheads?" Fletcher asked no one in particular, incredulous as the elf once again cackled after appearing on the verge of tears.

"Hornheads. The Qunari," Aveline muttered, her face twisted in disgust. "Well, if you had a grievance against the Qunari, there are other ways of going about it than murdering an entire street, you fucking lunatic!" She placed the tip of her sword against the elf's throat. "You're going away for a _very_ long time! Just count yourself lucky the death penalty isn't in force in Kirkwall, because I'm _very_ tempted-"

"Insufficient," decreed Justice, once again taking a hold of the insane elf. "Her spree of perniciousness ends here. She _will_ pay the price. Avert your eyes if you must."

"You can't _do_ that, Justice," Aveline asserted. "There is due process in this city, and _I_ am the one who-"

"Your words are superfluous and null, gaoler," Justice replied, unconcerned. "Her fate was sealed when the first of her victims' breath gave out."

"Now, just a minute!" Aveline began to argue, but Fletcher, knowing it was useless, grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. "Hawke, what are you-" Her protest was drowned out by a piercing scream and the snapping of bones. Shrugging off the mage's grip, she spun around in time to see the broken elf crumple to the ground. " _You_!" she blurted at Justice. "You…! I-I can't _believe_ you just did that!"

"You didn't witness anything, Aveline!" Fletcher began. "And you were just about to say she deserved to die! Go on, admit it!"

"Don't you start that with me, Hawke! Maker! I know that I said…but…shit!" She clutched the top of her head and gawked at the unemotional Justice in disbelief. "She didn't even tell us everything! How am I supposed to-"

"There are others," said Justice. "Assume your role and find them."

"Assume my _role_?" she blustered and, as they argued, Fletcher's attention wandered for a moment.

"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "Where's Donnic? Justice, did you or Anders see him? Did he go after the elf's accomplices?"

Aveline halted her tirade, sudden panic overtaking her anger.

"Justice?" Fletcher asked again.

Without a word, the spirit hastened away from them towards the side alley that Anders and Donnic had originally gone down, and, unable to hold himself back, Fletcher followed, his tunic once again pressed over his mouth and nose. Aveline, frozen to the spot in terror, could only watch helplessly as they disappeared, preparing herself for the news that the second man she'd fallen in love with was also dead.

~o~O~o~

After Fenris, Varric and the others had made their way up the steps, the elf led them to Fletcher's impressive family mansion, which was in darkness. Unlocking the door, he recalled a conversation he'd recently had with Fletcher; the mage had promised to carry Fenris over the threshold when he moved in. "Over my dead body," Fenris had replied, and, thinking of those who'd lost their lives, his expression became solemn as he entered the mansion, trying to concentrate on the more pleasant aspects of that conversation and not the haunting prescience of his words. He and his fellow guards entered first and began to light the lamps within before calling their charges inside.

Once the residents of Lowtown were settled within the mansion a runner was sent to the chantry to ask for any aid that could be spared. Shortly after, Sebastian arrived with three sisters, two of whom went inside the mansion to offer prayers and words of comfort, while the third returned to the chantry with some of the guards to rustle up food and blankets.

In the meantime, Fenris, Varric and Sebastian stood outside, Sebastian looking on in amusement as the dwarf and elf kept a tally of how many lights had been lit in the neighbouring properties.

"There's the eighth," Varric noted.

"Ninth," Fenris corrected, pointing to a small window across the way. "We are arousing a fair amount of interest."

"Someone's coming, Fenris," Sebastian warned, nodding behind Varric and they all turned to face an indignant-looking nobleman who, even at the late hour, was fully dressed in his finery.

The man looked disparagingly at Fenris and Varric before deciding that Sebastian alone was worthy of his time. " _What_ is going on?" he demanded shortly. "A dwarf, a tattooed elf and Maker knows how many roughs from Lowtown all in the one house? Do you even have a _right_ to be here? This house has been empty for years!"

"I have a right," Fenris answered, holding up Fletcher's key. "The owner of this estate gave his permission. If you _care_ , an incident in Lowtown has occurred. Lives were lost-"

" _What_ owner?" blustered the noble, either not hearing or not caring about the tragedy.

Fenris slowly inhaled through his nose, remembering his training in dealing with belligerent or unreasonable people. "You will meet him very soon, for he is due to move in shortly. Now, unless you are here to render assistance, I must ask you to return to your home."

"Return to my home?" the noble laughed derisively. "I don't know who you think you are, elf, but I don't take orders from the likes of _you_."

"Of that, I am certain," Sebastian interposed when Varric and Fenris tensed and took a step closer. "Undoubtedly the only elves you ever have contact with are your servants. But you _are_ advised to take orders from _this_ elf, as he is one of the viscount's guards."

"Don't be ridiculous!" spluttered the noble as Fenris closed the gap, standing mere inches away.

"I am Guardsman Fenris. _You_ are Lord Seavers, a permanent fixture at the keep, whose arrogance and ignorance are only matched by the shrillness and petulance of your complaints."

"H-how _dare_ you!" Seavers stammered, red splotches of outrage blooming across his face.

"Return home," Fenris ordered, "before I arrest you for causing a breach of the peace."

"This will not stand!" exclaimed Seavers as Varric laughed out loud. "I will speak to this _owner_ of yours and ensure that-that _rabble_ like you and your friends never set foot in Hightown again!"

"I will be sure to pass on the message," promised Fenris with a small bow, "as he is a personal friend of mine. You might have heard of him. His name is Hawke, and he is a refugee who, in his own words, had not a pot to piss in when he arrived here. He has done rather well for himself, don't you think?"

"A-a refugee? But I'm trying to sell my house! Nobody will want to move into a property with a refugee as a neighbour! House prices will plummet! Oh, calamity! Whatever am I to do?"

"Perhaps _I_ will purchase it," said Fenris thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his chin. "But I will wait until Hawke moves in and the price plummets, as you predict. I would be happy to make an appointment now, if you wish."

"A refugee _and_ an elf moving into Hightown? We'll see about that! I shall be calling on the viscount first _thing_!" Almost apoplectic with rage, Lord Seavers threw his hands up in the air, a strangled noise coming from his throat as he turned tail and stomped back to his own house, slamming the door behind him. Shortly after, every light in his house was extinguished.

"My hero!" Varric exclaimed, laying a hefty slap to the elf's shoulder. "Broody, I could kiss you!"

"That will _not_ be necessary," said the elf calmly, allowing himself a small smile.

"You certainly put him in his place," Sebastian congratulated. "I can't say I approve of the word 'piss', though."

"But you just said it yourself!" protested Varric, and Sebastian grinned, slapping a hand over his mouth to feign shock.

"Oops. So I did," he chuckled.

"Shame on you," joked Varric before turning to Fenris. "Well, my broody hero. How many outraged nobles is that, now?"

"Assuming each light counts as one person, I score thirty-one – a personal best."

"Well, I'd say that's cause for celebration, wouldn't you?" asked Varric. "When they bring the food, what say we throw a party here? Really bite those noble bastards on the ass, huh?" he coaxed, noticing, but ignoring, Sebastian's good-natured tut-tutting.

"I would enjoy that, but go on without me for now," answered the elf. "I will return to Lowtown to see that all is well."

"Okay, you go check on Hawke. Bring him back here, he can introduce himself to the neighbours," Varric quipped. "Come on, Choir Boy, let's find ourselves a chair, if there are any left."

Varric went inside, and Sebastian looked at Fenris. "Hawke will be fine," he told the elf. "The Maker's light always shines on the righteous."

"Will it shine on me after I said 'piss'?" asked Fenris, his tongue and inhibitions still loose after Gamlen's rodomel.

"It will perhaps be slightly dimmed, but there nonetheless. I will pray for forgiveness on your behalf," Sebastian said with a smile. "Go on. We'll have a warm welcome waiting for you both upon your return."

The friends bowed to each other before Sebastian also went inside, and Fenris paused briefly, turning in the direction of Hightown Estates, and Danarius's mansion. Then, without a second thought, he turned his back on it, literally and figuratively, before heading for the steps.

~o~O~o~

"There he is!" shouted Fletcher, his eyes blurred by stinging tears as he ran to the prostrate guard, Justice following close behind. "I need Anders back!" he demanded, crouching to examine Donnic. With a huge effort he turned Donnic on to his side, noting with alarm that the guard's lips had turned blue and the rest of his face was deathly pale.

"Anders!" Fletcher called and looked back, relieved to see that his friend, though somewhat disorientated, had been returned to him. Fletcher sprang to his feet and began undoing the ties of Anders's oxygen mask. "Breathe through your nose," he instructed. "Cover your mouth with something. Are you okay?"

Anders nodded, assisted Fletcher to remove the mask and then followed Fletcher's instructions, holding the collar of his coat over his mouth and nose. Fletcher moved like lightning and quickly removed the damaged mask before securing Anders's over the face of the stricken guard. "How much charge is left in this?" asked Fletcher, not waiting for an answer. "He's breathing…we need to get some oxygen into his blood, quick."

"We'd better get him out of here, then," Anders spluttered, attempting to talk around a cough.

"How far can we drag an armoured guard, Anders? He must weigh eighteen stone even _without_ the armour. And the air quality isn't much better out there," Fletcher said as he watched Donnic's chest rise and fall. "We need to clear this gas." He stood up, his eyes cast to the ground as he quickly considered, and rejected, several options. "Wind… we can make wind, can't we, between us?"

Anders clasped his chin and nodded, slowly at first, until the idea took root. "Yes! We'd need to create a pressure differential to form an air current."

"Warm air meeting cold air," Fletcher finished, readying his staff. "Heat on the ground will rise. I'll take care of that. Can you whip up some frost? We'd need to keep it going for a few minutes."

"Yes. Good idea, Hawke. How's your mana?"

"I have enough. Let's do it. Aveline!" he yelled at the top of his voice. "Get a couple of guards in here, now!"

Anders and Fletcher each grabbed one of Donnic's arms and dragged him as far as they could manage before Aveline arrived with three guards at her side.

"Is that…?" She gasped and ran to the mages, looking down at Donnic. "Shit. All right, Hawke. Anders. Whoever! Just tell me how bad it is! Is he-"

"Get him out of here!" Anders ordered, panting from the exertion of moving Donnic. "He's getting oxygen for now but we need to clear this gas! Just keep him comfortable and sit him up!"

Aveline's eyes searched Fletcher's, seeking a sliver of hope, of reassurance, but finding none. "I'm sorry," he murmured with a shrug. "I don't know, yet." His last word fractured as he broke into a coughing fit.

"Everybody, out of here!" commanded Anders. "Now!"

"Will you two be all right?" Aveline asked, her eyes darting between the mages and Donnic, who was being dragged out of the alley.

"Just go," Fletcher spluttered, heading for some scaffolding which Anders had already started to climb. "Don't let anyone in here--the ground will be red hot! Look to the rooftops when we've finished. We'll need help to get down."

"All right! Be careful!" she shouted, breaking into a run as she led her remaining guard out of the alley.

She quickly caught up to the two guards who were dragging Donnic and, grabbing a leg, the four of them transported him to the front of the Hanged Man, where reinforcements had arrived.

"Captain," called Lieutenant Bradley, who deputised for Aveline when she was on patrol. "The viscount sent his healer, Sam, with us and most of the casualties have been passed as fit, although they'll need some form of after care. Temporary lodgings are being arranged for them now. Is that…is that _Donnic_? What's that on his face?"

"An oxygen mask," she sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Bradley, you're in charge until further notice. Donnic's…not good. I'm going to stay with him."

Bradley looked at Aveline sadly and nodded. "Leave it to me, Captain. We've caught two of the elf's accomplices and they're being taken to the barracks now. Captain…what _happened_ to the elf? Looks like someone broke her in half."

"I…I'll discuss it with you tomorrow. Or whenever." She stared blankly at Donnic, who had been propped against the side of the pub, a fellow guard at his side. "Just…sort it out, will you? To be honest, at the moment, Bradley, I don't much care."

"Yes, Captain – you can rely on me. I hope Donnic's okay," he commiserated, touching Aveline's arm. "There is one more thing," he said apologetically. "The templar patrol wanted to know who was casting. I told them it was Sam, but that was before he arrived. Then they wanted to know why a templar from Hightown hadn't accompanied him, and I explained it was an emergency. There might be some questions."

Aveline looked up at the sky, which had turned white, and felt a spot of moisture on her nose as tiny flakes of snow began to fall. "Keep them away," she said firmly, holding her hair out of her eyes as the wind started to pick up around them. "I don't care how you do it – get them drunk, knock them out, whatever it takes. There'll be a lot of casting going on in a minute and I'll not have them interfering. Send them to me in the morning – I'll deal with it then."

"Or _I_ will if you haven't returned," he promised with a bow. "Go to Donnic. I can handle things here."

"Thank you, Bradley," she called as he sped toward a small group of guards, shouting orders on the way. She then walked to Donnic and sat down next to him, dismissing the guard who'd been with him. "Keep breathing, Donnic," she whispered, supporting him as he slumped against her. "Just keep breathing."

~o~O~o~

"It's working, Anders!" Fletcher shouted from one of the rooftops as a strong gust of wind swept through the alley.

"I know it's working, just watch that none of their clothes catch fire!" Anders ordered, pointing to the bodies that littered the alley.

"Don't worry, I haven't directed it near them," Fletcher assured him, keeping his staff trained on the ground below, which glowed orange with the intense heat he'd summoned.

"The cold front's coming!" said Anders. "Quick, grab that chimney!"

The mages clung on as two currents of warm and cold air collided, forming a small but powerful funnel that originated on the ground and spiralled upward, forcing the remainder of the poisonous gas out of the alley and into the sky.

"Are we good or what?" laughed Fletcher, his face dropping when Anders didn't return his smile.

"I don't think we should be celebrating," he reprimanded. "A lot of people died tonight."

"Sorry," Fletcher murmured, looking up. "This wind will be around for a while. We'd better try to get down in case we're caught by another strong gust. Lucky for us these roofs are fairly flat. Come on."

Gingerly, they crossed the rooftops until they reached the rear of the Hanged Man, but they were forced to go around it as its roof was sloped. "There, Anders." Fletcher pointed to the Hanged Man's stables which had a flat wooden roof, a metre gap separating it from where they stood. "We're going to have to jump. Can you make it?" Fletcher asked, looking down. "It's about a two metre drop."

"It might be a rough landing, Hawke," Anders replied. "I think we should call for the guards, see if they can give us a hand." He looked closely at Fletcher, who was staring off into the distance, a look of dismay slowly forming on his face. "Hawke? What is it?"

"What-what's _he_ doing here?" Fletcher cried, and Anders looked ahead, seeing Fenris, who had returned from Hightown, crawling on all fours, one of his fellow guards running towards him.

"His markings! Shit, the spells!" Fletcher exclaimed in panic, taking three large steps back.

"You're not going to jump, are you? Hawke!" Anders yelled as Fletcher ran to the edge of the rooftop.

"Out of my way, Anders!"

Anders, realising that if he tried to stop Fletcher they'd both go over the edge, quickly stepped aside as Fletcher leapt off the small lip of the building. "Roll into a ball when you land!" he shouted, watching in horror as the rotten timbers of the stable roof gave way and Fletcher crashed through.

Anders's blood rushed through his ears and his heartbeat pounded in his head as he waited for signs of movement from below. "Hawke?" he called. "Hawke!"

"M'all right," called a quiet voice from the stable. "The hay broke my fall. And this horse just kicked my bum. I don't think she liked me landing on her dinner."

"Maker!" Anders exclaimed, bracing his hands on his thighs and exhaling.

After a minute, Fletcher emerged, covered in hay and clutching his hip. "Stay there, Anders," he called up, staggering in Fenris's direction. "I'll send someone to help you."

Fenris, who had seen the whole thing, sat upon the ground, nodding his reassurance to his fellow guard, who departed as Fletcher hobbled closer and, with a wince, sat next to the elf, favouring his left side. "Are you all right?" the mage asked, taking one of Fenris's arms and examining his markings.

"I'm _fine_. _You_ are the most reckless, foolhardy…" Fenris shook his head, his lips tightly pressed together. "Ugh! You should have remained on the roof! What were you thinking?"

"And _you_ should have remained in Hightown. You _knew_ we'd be casting."

"I wanted to…I _needed_ to know that you were well," answered the elf with a grimace as the pain from his markings lingered.

"And so did I," replied Fletcher, before both men sighed. "Donnic," Fletcher said quietly with a nod at their friend, who lay in Aveline's lap in front of the Hanged Man. "I don't know if we can do anything. I'm sorry, Fen…you should prepare yourself."

He touched Fenris's arm and the elf stared at the two guards for a moment, slowly nodding. "I understand."

"Come on, we need to get Anders off the roof and then we'll move Donnic to the clinic – it's the nearest safe place for him."

"Are you injured?" Fenris asked, pushing to his feet and helping Fletcher up.

"I think I've broken my arse," he answered humourlessly.

"No harm done, then," Fenris replied quietly and they looked at each other, seeing weariness and sadness in the other's eyes.

"No, none at all." Fletcher nodded ahead and they went to Donnic and Aveline, saying no more.

~o~O~o~

Later that night, Aveline supressed a yawn as she fought off sleep. She, Donnic, Anders, Fletcher and Fenris had moved to the clinic, where the mages had worked long and hard on Donnic, attempting to repair the damage to his lungs. They'd had partial success – he no longer needed the oxygen mask but he had not regained consciousness, and both healers had strongly advised against reviving him with magic, preferring his natural healing mechanisms to do their work.

Privately, Anders and Fletcher were gravely concerned about the possibility of brain damage, but had not voiced those opinions in front of Aveline. She, however, was no fool and knew that Donnic remained seriously ill.

He'd been made comfortable on an examination table, the top of which had been removed and placed on the floor so he wasn't in danger of rolling off. Aveline had not left his side once during the mages' treatment of him. Fenris, however, had been sent outside at Fletcher's insistence until they'd finished casting. Not wanting to delay his friend's treatment by arguing, Fenris had complied.

Now, Aveline was the only one still awake. The mages, exhausted from their efforts and mana expenditure, had fallen asleep as soon as their eyes were closed. Fenris had talked with her for a while until he, too, had succumbed to fatigue. He'd laid down next to Fletcher at first without touching him but gradually, over an hour or two, their arms had found their way around each other, and Fenris's head now rested on Fletcher's shoulder, his hand splayed across the mage's chest.

She watched them, marvelling at how different Fenris looked when he was asleep. There was no scowl, no frown lines, no tension telling in the tautness of the sinews in his neck. Instead, he wore a faint smile, every line smoothed, every contour of his face softened. He appeared so young, so content.

So in love.

She wanted that. She wanted what the two of them had so much it hurt. But her inability to let go of the past, to be herself, to _allow_ herself to be a woman probably meant that she'd left it too late. She didn't know if Donnic would ever wake up and, if he did, whether he'd even be the same man.

The man she loved. And she'd never told him.

Weighed down by regret, longing and shame, her own exhaustion soon overcame her and, no longer able to fight it, she joined the rest of her friends in the Fade.


	76. Hope in the Twinkle of an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You stupid sod," Aveline hissed, her voice unsteady. "You stupid bloody sod! Why didn't you follow my orders? Why don't you _ever_ follow my orders?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Mary, for your beta and extra advice and suggestions.

Woken by the ache of his markings, Fenris shifted, first slowly taking his hand off Fletcher's chest, not wanting to disturb him. Upon opening his eyes, however, he discovered that his arms had not been wrapped around the mage at all, but a pillow, which seemed to have been deliberately placed next to him.

He raised his head slightly, seeing Anders lying a short distance away, sleeping soundly. Then he heard soft talking, coming from behind the large supporting pillar in the centre of the cellar, and guessed that Fletcher had risen to check on Donnic. Turning on to his opposite side, he made himself comfortable and settled down, straining to hear the conversation, hoping for some news about his friend. He remained where he was, though, as he didn't want to intrude on what might be a private discussion.

"I took a chance," he heard Fletcher say. "I decided to test a supposition. At the time, Fenris was still somewhat distrustful of mages. I just had a feeling there was something between us, but I didn't know whether it was real or wishful thinking on my part. I've never been so frightened in my entire life."

Fenris sat up, leaning on an elbow, wondering what they were talking about.

"What did you do?" Aveline asked quietly.

"I visited him at the barracks to take him his medicine. I was absolutely shitting _bricks_ , Aveline. The night before, I'd kissed him while drunk and then passed out. When I woke in the morning, he was gone and I feared the worst. The medicine was an excuse, really. I just wanted to see him but I didn't know what to say. I didn't know if he'd hate me or feel humiliated, or what. When I saw him, though… I had to kiss him again. I just _had_ to."

"You kissed one of my guards _inside_ the barracks?" she demanded.

"He wasn't technically a guard yet."

"So?" she asked impatiently. "What happened when you kissed him again?"

There was a pause and a sigh before Fletcher answered. "He kissed me back. In that moment, it all became worthwhile. All the misunderstandings, the arguments, the harsh words, no longer mattered. It was one of the best moments of my entire life, and every day since then has been better than the preceding one."

Fenris smiled and lay down, waiting as another pause took the conversation.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked after a while.

"Because all it takes is a simple gesture to make everything all right. It seems so hard but it's unbelievably easy. All you have to do is conquer your nerves."

"You're talking about Donnic, aren't you?"

"Talk to me," Fletcher prompted her. "Tell me what's holding you back."

 _"Apart_ from the fact he's lying unconscious? I can't very well bare my soul to him now, can I?"

"Stop making excuses. You've been stalling for a long time before tonight."

"You're really annoying, you know that?"

Another, longer, pause followed and Fenris started to drift off before Fletcher once again spoke, jolting the elf into consciousness. "Tell me about Wesley."

"Hawke, _don't,"_ she warned.

"Why not? He's what's stopping you from moving forward, isn't he? Do you really think he'd want you to be lonely?"

"He doesn't _want_ anything, Hawke! He's dead, in case you'd forgotten!"

"Shush! Bloody hell, Aveline. You're your own worst enemy. Why are you depriving yourself of something that's within easy reach? Why won't you allow yourself to be a feeling, loving person? Do you still blame yourself for his death, is that it?"

 _"I_ killed him, Hawke. I put the knife into his chest. Who else is to bloody well blame?"

Fenris pushed himself into a sitting position, one hand covering his mouth. He held his breath before slowly releasing it, hoping the other two couldn't hear his pounding heart.

"The _darkspawn_ were to blame. _You_ did him a kindness, Aveline. Never forget that. He was brave and you owe it to him to remember him that way."

After another lull, Aveline grunted in frustration. "All right, Hawke. You asked. Just remember that. _You_ were the one who wouldn't leave it alone."

Fenris drew his knees against his chest, feeling guilty about hearing something so private, but he was too fascinated to ignore the conversation.

Aveline exhaled slowly and took a deep breath. "Wesley and I weren't… I mean… we didn't…"

"Didn't what?" Fletcher asked.

"We didn't have what you'd call a _conventional_ marriage."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maker's sake, Hawke! Do I need to spell it out?" she whispered harshly. "We never… we just _never_ , all right? I'm still a sodding virgin! Are you happy? Do you want to get the smart comment out of the way now?"

Fenris's stomach knotted and his hand once again went to his mouth. Guilt and shame ate away at him and he knew he had no right to be listening, but found he couldn't _not_ listen.

"Was that because he was a templar?" Fletcher asked in a measured tone.

"He… he wanted to rise in the Order. Only the purest of heart and virtue rise in the templars."

"So Wesley was also a virgin?"

"Of course he was."

"Well... forgive me if I'm being flippant, but how would the Order know? Is there some kind of virginity test?"

"Yes, you are being flippant," she said angrily, "and if you keep on-"

"Don't be like that, I just don't know how it works. Is it done on trust? Are Meredith and Cullen virgins because they're high up in the Order?"

She let out an impatient huff. "Templars have to embody all virtues as laid down by the Chantry, Chastity being one of them. I suppose as long as they're embodying the other virtues, Chastity is assumed. Any more stupid questions you want to ask? Or can I continue telling you some really personal stuff about my deceased husband?"

He sighed. "All right. No more stupid questions. Did you... did you know about the chastity requirement before you married Wesley? If you don't mind me asking."

"Yes, I knew the score. I thought I was all right with it, but…"

"You ended up resenting it."

"I cried myself to sleep some nights," she confessed quietly. "I loved him, but I wanted more than a peck on the cheek or a squeeze to my shoulder. I… yes, I _did_ resent it. He was-he was nothing like Donnic. He was so gentle and sensitive. I-I thought that was what I wanted but… shit, I shouldn't be talking about this. I can't _believe_ I'm telling you this."

"You needed to tell someone," Fletcher said softly. "I'm honoured that you chose me."

"You had to torture it out of me."

"Absolutely."

"Don't you _dare_ tell anyone."

"As if I'd do that. Look, there's nothing wrong with being a virgin, you know. We're all born as one."

"A _married_ one?" she asked incredulously. "A married virgin who wishes her husband had been the man she wanted him to be, and now that he's dead feels like a piece of shit every time she even thinks about it? And is now lusting after one of her own guards who's ten times the man her dead husband was?" she blurted out, looking stricken for giving voice to such a disrespectful thought. She paused to regain the breath that had rushed out of her lungs. "What sort of person does that make me?"

"A normal one. We all have needs. It's _normal_. And I think there's more to it than simple lust where you and Donnic are concerned."

"Maker, I don't know. All I _do_ know is that I turn into a complete moron every time he's nearby."

"That happened to me when I first started developing feelings for Fenris, but no one noticed the difference."

"I'll not argue with that." She laughed mirthlessly. "I've tied myself in bloody knots over this. I don't even know what's right and what's wrong any more. I just don't know what to do. I feel so guilty for… well, feeling like this. Am I wrong, Hawke?"

"Fancy some tea?" Fletcher asked.

"Go on, then," she said miserably.

When the tea was made, Fletcher checked on Donnic again before he and Aveline made themselves comfortable. "His temperature's fine and his heartbeat's nice and strong," he told her. She nodded, taking a sip of tea. "The first man I loved--you know, in _that_ way--was called Dalton," he said, resuming their earlier conversation. "Well, I loved him as much as a fifteen-year old _can_ love someone. I resented him too, although I didn't do so until after his death."

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "How did he…?"

"He killed himself."

"Oh, Hawke. I'm..." She fell silent, lost for words. Fenris, still listening in secret, groaned inwardly and frowned, wishing for the conversation to end soon so he could comfort Fletcher.

"For a long time I blamed myself," Fletcher went on, "but the truth is no one really knew why he did it. For the first few weeks... it was like there was a dark region of my mind that I refused to acknowledge. I kept pushing it away but it always returned, whispering to me, over and over again. It told me that Dalton was a coward, and that I hated him for what he'd done to his family, his friends, and to me. Most of all to me. And I believed it. It was selfish, I know, but I was the last person to see him alive. I just couldn't get my head around why he did it. Yes, it's fair to say I hated him for a long time afterwards."

"Did you ever find out? Why he did it, I mean?"

"No, but I forgave him a long time ago. The reason I'm telling you this is because I think you also need to forgive Wesley."

"But Wesley didn't do anything wrong."

"Of course he did. He left you."

"Are... are you for real? That wasn't his fault!"

"Try telling _that_ to your sense of resentment and guilt. Those negative feelings we have when dealing with grief don't discriminate when it comes to apportioning blame. Wesley left you at the worst possible time, when we were fleeing the darkspawn, and wasn't there to support you during that first piss-poor year in Kirkwall. He wasn't there to see you made guard-captain, one of your proudest moments. He never did rise in the Templar Order, despite the sacrifice the two of you made. You'll never know if he ever wanted to start a family, and whether he would have eventually shared your bed and been the man you wanted him to be. Now _you'll_ never know either because he left you. What an inconsiderate, selfish thing to do. And part of you hates him for it."

"No I don't!" she hissed. "I fucking don't, Hawke! How can you even...?" There was a pause during which Aveline's heavy breathing was audible. "Maker," she rasped after a minute, her voice shaking. "I... I do. I hate him for leaving me. I... I hate him for that! Maker forgive me!"

"I'm sorry," Fletcher said remorsefully. "I didn't say that to hurt you. I want you to know feeling like that doesn't make you a monster. I know what I'm talking about because I hated Dalton for a long time, and I _still_ hate Carver for being such an idiot and throwing himself at the ogre. Which, funnily enough, is exactly what I did in the Deep Roads. But that doesn't get Carver off the hook, oh no. Mother will never get over his death and Beth was his twin--twins share a bond the rest of us can't understand. I'd wring the little bastard's neck if I could for doing that to them, and I'm _perfectly_ comfortable with that." She gave no answer, so Fletcher went on: "Dalton was nothing like Fenris, you know. He was shy, but that's where the similarity ends."

"Fenris is _shy?"_ she queried sceptically.

"Oh, yes. But he's also very brave and proud, so you'd never know. The funny thing about Fenris is that he only shows his shyness to people he knows well... isn't that peculiar? But I love him for it. I love how complicated he is. I love what a contradiction he is. I love his intelligence, his sense of humour and his gentleness. I'll bet you haven't seen that side to him but I have, and I'm very privileged to have done so." He sighed before continuing. "I suppose it sounds like Fenris is the better man when compared to Dalton, but I don't mean that at all. They're just different, as Wesley and Donnic are. Just because you have feelings for Donnic, it doesn't mean he's better than Wesley in any way--he's simply a different man. It also means that you're capable of loving more than one person, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's fine to love them both, and in different ways."

"Maybe," she said quietly, her sense of relief palpable as Fletcher's words resonated with her. "I… need to think."

"Do that," he advised "but I'd say the fact you _do_ have feelings for Donnic means you're ready to move on."

"What's going to happen to him, Hawke?" she asked, her voice softer and tinged with anxiety. "Give it to me straight."

"He was deprived of oxygen, but I don't know how long for. When we found him, his hand was covering a hole in his oxygen reservoir. I _think_ he was taking some of it in, but it might have been tainted by the gas. Between the time Anders and Donnic entered the alley and when Anders and I found him, ten to fifteen minutes had passed and the gas was less concentrated when we removed him from the alley. It all depends on how much oxygen he was able to take in through the punctured mask before I gave him the fully-functioning one."

"All right," she said briskly. "How long does the brain have to be starved of oxygen before damage occurs?"

He groaned, perturbed because there was no right answer. "Everyone has a different theory. Anywhere between four and ten minutes. _But,_ if he took in sufficient oxygen through the damaged mask, he has every chance of making a full recovery. It all depends on the concentration of the gas and oxygen he inhaled and the degree of oxygen starvation that occurred. I'm really sorry. There are so many variables I can't give you a satisfactory answer. Not until he wakes up, anyway. The only thing I _can_ tell you for certain is that his reflexes were spot on--there's no paralysis, scant comfort though it is."

"It's something." She sighed. "I know you and Anders have done your best, and I'm grateful for that. And for… you know, the talk. I just need to sort things out in my head. Maker, I hope he comes through it."

Fenris heard the sound of a kiss to a cheek or hand, and then quiet shuffling.

"Well, when he does wake up, we can't have him seeing you with huge black bags under your eyes, can we?"

"I can't sleep," she complained.

"Here, drink this," Fletcher said. "A sleep spell would be quicker, but I don't want to use magic with Fenris around. It'll only take a few minutes to work."

"Thanks, Hawke. I suppose this mean's the wedding's off, then?" she quipped wryly.

"Actually, I meant to speak to you about that. I'm sorry to break it to you, but I've been seeing Fenris for quite some time, now. I don't think he'd be very pleased if we got married behind his back."

"Damn," she muttered and Fletcher laughed quietly. "Thanks again. Go on, you'd better get some sleep yourself."

"Drink it," he reminded her. "We'll talk again in the morning. Goodnight, Aveline."

"Night, Hawke."

Fletcher pushed himself up and walked to his and Fenris's makeshift bedroom, finding a very shame-faced elf sitting in the corner, his huge eyes following the mage's every move.

Fletcher placed a finger to his lips as he sat next to Fenris and they waited a few minutes before Aveline started to snore, the sleeping draught taking effect.

"How much of that did you hear?" Fletcher whispered.

"Enough," Fenris replied with a rueful look at Fletcher. "I did not mean to eavesdrop. I was awake and heard my name mentioned. Forgive me."

"Don't worry, I would have listened as well," confessed the mage. "By the way, that stuff about me marrying Aveline…"

A half-smile curved the elf's mouth. "I apologise for ruining your plans."

"I'll let you off," murmured Fletcher, pulling the elf close.

"How is Donnic?"

"No change. He's a strong one. I just hope… well, I hope strength will be enough."

"What will happen if he _has_ sustained brain damage?"

"He'll be well cared for," Fletcher said resolutely. "I'll see to that."

Fenris frowned and nodded. "I would like to render assistance, if it comes to that. He is a dear friend of mine."

"I know, love, and I'll certainly take you up on your offer if and when. But we shouldn't sell him short yet. The morning's not far off. Let's see what a new day brings, hm? And let's get our heads down. We'll be no use to him if we're exhausted." Fletcher pulled Fenris into a hug and kissed the top of his head before they moved to their cots, lying on their sides, facing each other. "Will you make sure I'm up early, Fen?" Fletcher asked. "Your Lieutenant Bradley was good enough to let Mother know we were safe but I just want to show my face at home before I return to the clinic. I can relieve Anders for a bit, then. Will you come with me? There'll be a cooked breakfast in it for you."

"There is no need to bribe me. Of course I will go with you. And then I will return here with you. I will rouse you at seven bells."

Fletcher glanced at one of the candles dotted around the clinic and surmised from its length that the time was after four bells. "Thanks," he murmured around a yawn. "Let's get some sleep, then."

Fenris reached beneath Fletcher's blanket and took his hand. Fletcher smiled, curled his fingers around the elf's and they closed their eyes, appreciating how lucky they were to have each other as they slipped into a light sleep.

~o~O~o~

"He's early," said Acting Captain Bradley upon hearing the news that a templar representing the knight-commander had arrived at the barracks, demanding an audience with Aveline. "All right, this should be interesting. Send him in."

The messenger exited Aveline's office and showed in the visitor before closing the door. The templar moved in front of Aveline's desk and bowed stiffly.

"I am Knight-Captain Cullen, here at the behest of Knight-Commander Meredith."

"Lieutenant Evan Bradley, deputising in the captain's stead. What brings you here?" he asked politely, but did not stand or return Cullen's bow.

"I _think_ we are both aware of the reasons for my visit," Cullen said tersely. "Where is Guard-Captain Vallen?"

"She's not here, obviously. What are these 'reasons' you speak of?"

Cullen sighed and moved his jaw from side to side. "Our night patrols in Lowtown reported heavy usage of magic but were prevented from investigating by guards under the captain's command."

"Actually, they were under _my_ command. Are you aware of what happened in Lowtown last night?"

"I have heard, yes," Cullen replied. "Were many lives lost?"

"Yes, many lives were lost. Most of an entire _street_ was wiped out. The death toll hasn't been fully calculated yet, as my resources are stretched thin, but the latest estimate is close to seventy."

"Andraste preserve us," whispered Cullen. He bowed his head, offering silent prayers.

Bradley folded his arms and waited, his impatience growing, only speaking when Cullen had finished. "Forgive me for saying so, Knight-Captain, but from what I understand, between eight and ten of your men or women were stationed in and around Lowtown at various times during the night. I personally spoke to four of them. Instead of offering sorely-needed help, they made every attempt to block the relief effort that was taking place. I had to post extra guards--guards I could hardly spare--to prevent them from entering the affected area."

"Forgive _me_ for saying so, Lieutenant, but your men prevented _my_ men from doing their duty," Cullen retorted. "Unsanctioned magic was used for an extended period of time. I have heard the official line that the Viscount's healer had been sent to render aid, but let us not insult each other by pretending he was capable of that level of mana expenditure for so long a duration. By your silence you are harbouring and protecting one or more apostates. I am here for their names and locations."

"Been practising that little speech, have you?" Bradley sneered, leaning forward. _"Whoever_ used magic saved countless lives. Do you care about _that?"_

Cullen cleared his throat and deliberately softened his voice, realising he would get nowhere by antagonising Bradley. "That _will_ be taken into account, as will their conduct when they are captured. I require their names and current locations, if you please, Lieutenant Bradley."

"You can _require_ all you like," Bradley replied, irritation bleeding into his voice. "I've been awake for more than twenty-four hours and so have close to thirty of my guards. I'm trying to find reliefs for them that I currently don't have. We're counting bodies and arranging letters of condolence to be sent to families. We're arranging for pyres to be built. I have prisoners to question as soon as I can find the staff," he continued, his voice rising in volume until he was almost shouting. "I also have a city to protect with a skeleton staff as a large portion of my guards are dead on their feet. Your _requirements_ are way down my list of priorities, Knight-Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"You will not co-operate, then?" Cullen interrupted.

"Are you in the habit of making people repeat themselves?" the exhausted lieutenant snapped. "Was I unclear just now? Unless you're here to offer assistance, I'll ask you to kindly stop wasting my time." He picked up his quill and continued to write a letter of condolence.

"I'm sorry to hear you feel that way," said Cullen, his cheeks flushing with barely-contained anger. "Perhaps I will have more success speaking with your captain. When will she return to duty?"

"When she's ready, and she'll give you the same answer. Oh, before you go, tell your commander that the next time one of her patrols is insulted or assaulted, it's the City Guard's job to apprehend and detain the perpetrators-- _not_ the templars'."

"What do you mean?" Cullen asked, confused.

Bradley slapped his quill on to the desk and huffed, fixing Cullen with a hard stare. "On the night your men ransacked the clinic in Darktown--despite finding _no_ apostates in residence--some of the templar patrols were insulted and pestered by groups of refugees. One pair of templars was even pelted with stones. Unacceptable, obviously, but I have it on good authority that those miscreants were detained and questioned at the _Gallows_. Since when have the templars had powers of arrest over non-mage citizens? Tell your men to stick to their duties, and we'll stick to ours, got it?"

Cullen's brow creased. "I am not certain where you heard that rumour, but-"

"If it's a rumour, then you're accusing my colleagues of rumour-mongering, because it came from them. Are you aware there are laws against slander?"

"There is no need to take such a belligerent tone with me," Cullen warned.

"Isn't there? Are _you_ going to take over for me and sort all this shit out so I can get some sleep?" He waved a hand over his desk, which was strewn with documents. "No? There's the door. See yourself out. And when you see your commander, tell her to put her own house in order before telling us how to run ours."

"You speak of our ranks 'sticking to their duties'," Cullen said, not budging an inch, "yet, as I have already stated, my men and women were obstructed from doing that very thing last night, and you are _continuing_ to obstruct that duty by failing to provide the names I seek. It is a very simple request, and one made in the spirit of the concordance our two orders have enjoyed for many years."

Bradley once again laid down his quill and rose from his chair, hastening to the door and opening it before he pointed outside. "You want to do your duty so much? Go out and find your 'dangerous' mages. That _is_ what your lot's supposed to do, isn't it? Now, if you don't leave this office and let me get on with _my_ duties, I'll have one of my guards do _their_ duty and escort you from the premises. Good day to you."

"The news of your lack of co-operation will _not_ be well received by the commander," Cullen threatened, quietly bristling.

"Like I said, I have a lot of things to do, and worrying about that isn't one of them. Good _day_ to you."

The men stared at each other, an intransigent silence filling the room. After a moment, Cullen shook his head and strode past Bradley, who firmly closed the door before rubbing his eyes and returning to the desk.

~o~O~o~

Fenris kept his promise and roused Fletcher at around seven bells. The elf had been awake for a while and had sat with Donnic, watching him carefully. Once or twice a twitch of Donnic's face had raised his hopes, but the guard remained unconscious by the time he and Fletcher left for the slums, promising to return with breakfast for Anders and Aveline, who'd remained at the clinic.

They were warmly ushered into Gamlen's house by Leandra, who fussed over the men for a while before inviting them to be seated for breakfast. Gamlen and Bethany were also at home, Fletcher's uncle due to join the mining operation in the Deep Roads in a few days' time.

While Fenris chatted with the ladies, Fletcher sifted through a few missives that had arrived for him, disregarding the usual begging and scam letters. The first one of interest was from Ser Emeric, the templar who'd been investigating the disappearance of Ninette. Fletcher had written to him explaining that he was no longer able to visit the Gallows. Believing the veteran templar to be a man of honour, he'd promised, in a carefully-worded way, to assist him if Emeric also promised to overlook his status. Emeric's reply was suitably brief and made no mention of Fletcher's status at all, simply stating that he would be at the Hanged Man every lunchtime for the next few days.

Fletcher put the letter away and turned the second one over in his hands. It was a very plain letter but Fletcher felt an unmistakable remnant of mana when he ran his fingers over it. With a quick glance at the dining table to ensure no one was watching, he turned to the wall and ripped the letter open, his heart racing as he read it.

_H,_

_I am very familiar with the paper you mentioned, as well as other works by the author. Alas, I do not possess a copy but would direct you to the Silent Sanctum, an excellent bookstore just north of Hightown (I have enclosed directions). Mention my name to the proprietor and I am certain he will assist you to procure what you seek. I fear I can be of no further help but I will gladly correspond with you if you wish._

_I am also pleased to hear that you are acquainted with Q. I have known him for a long time and I'm certain he will be invaluable to you. Make use of his knowledge and wisdom, my friend._

_For now, I wish you luck in your search, and your research._

_-O._

Fletcher quickly tucked it away in his pocket and drew a steadying breath before returning to the dining table, a grin plastered across his face.

"Fletcher, dear, Fenris has just told us about poor Donnic," Leandra said as he took a seat between Bethany and Fenris. "Do you think he will recover?"

Fletcher sighed and rested his chin on his hands, his elbows propped on the table. "I wish I knew, Mother. We won't know anything until he regains consciousness, and I don't know how long that will take. His body will know when it's time."

"Poor Aveline must be going through the mill," said Bethany. "She likes him, doesn't she?"

Fletcher and Fenris glanced at each other, the mage nodding. "She hasn't left his side all night. She's still there now, getting in Anders's way and asking annoying questions," he joked half-heartedly. "Anyway, let's talk about a more cheerful subject. The new house is ready for us to move into," he declared, puffing his chest out and grinning at Fenris. "We used it last night but temporary homes have now been found for all of the residents until the dead can be cleared. Hm. that's not really cheerful, is it? Sorry."

"Varric has secured the estate," said Fenris, "and informed me that two vases were purloined from the property, but otherwise it was left quite tidy. If you wish, I will investigate the thefts."

"No need, Fen. The vases didn't belong to us. What colour were they, by the way?"

"What?" asked Fenris, screwing his face up. "What difference does that make?"

"It's life and death to him," Bethany teased.

Fenris frowned and thought for a moment. "I believe they were… orange and brown?"

"Ugh! They can keep them," Fletcher answered with disgust before a quiet but rapid succession of knocks came at the door. "I'll get it." Fletcher stood up, pre-empting his uncle's groan, and opened the door, frowning when it appeared no one was there.

"Down 'ere," spoke a quiet voice.

Fletcher gasped, crouching next to the small young boy. "Cricket! Is it Donnic? Is he-?"

"'E's awake, 'Awke. Anders told me to get my arse down 'ere quick, like, an' to fetch you an' Cap'n Fenris."

"I am no captain, child," Fenris informed the lad as he moved to the door. "Merely a guardsman."

"Don't matter," said Cricket. "You'd best get down there sharpish, both o' ya."

"How is he?" Fletcher asked, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Did you see him?"

"That I did, Ser 'Awke. 'E's… talking funny, like 'is words ain't coming out proper. You know what I mean?"

Fletcher slowly drew up to his full height, his eyes locked with Fenris's as dread suffused his core. "Well done, Cricket," he said quietly, ruffling the boy's hair. "Go on inside and get some breakfast."

"You-you sure?" asked the boy, blinking as Bethany appeared at the door and smiled down at him.

"We've sausage, bacon, bubble and squeak..." she began.

"You got any pop?" he asked cheekily.

"Well now, let me see," she said, grasping her chin. "Do you like blackcurrant cordial?"

"Do I!" he sang, before averting his eyes and twisting his fingers. "I mean… that'd be lovely, miss."

"Well, you'd better come in, then." She gestured for the boy to enter and he stepped inside, bowing several times.

"Thanks Beth," Fletcher said, worry deeply carved on his brow.

"I hope he'll be all right, Brother," she said with a sympathetic look at both men.

"So do I." He stared at the floor for a moment before Fenris touched his arm and nodded away from the house. "It might-it might only be temporary."

Bethany nodded and watched as Fletcher turned and followed Fenris down the steps before closing the door.

~o~O~o~

"Donnic, it's me," Anders said, waving his hand in front of the guard's face. Aveline watched, pacing, from a short distance away after instructions from Anders not to crowd his patient. "It's Anders. We were in Lowtown last night, remember? The gas? The barrels?"

"Zazz Azza?" maundered Donnic from his makeshift bed, his eyes rolling in his head. Anders placed a hand on his brow, while Aveline covered her face with her hands and turned away.

"He's not running a temperature… Donnic, do you know who I am?" Anders shouted. "Look at me! You know me, don't you?" He leaned over Donnic and watched him until the guardsman's eyes settled on his face, but Anders saw no signs of recognition in his gaze. _"Anders,"_ he repeated. "I'm Anders, and you are…?"

"Zazz azza," Donnic said again.

Anders held back a sigh. _"Donnic._ You are Guardsman Donnic Hendyr, lieutenant and second-in-command of the Kirkwall Guard."

"Avvvv-av-av-av," Donnic mumbled. Aveline slowly turned around, uncovering her face.

"Aveline? Is that who you want?" Anders asked, his heart quickening.

"Av-av-av," Donnic repeated before sighing, exhausted by his efforts.

"Aveline's here," said Anders, beckoning to her. "Here, you know Aveline, don't you?" He stepped back.

Aveline gulped, affecting her stoniest expression as she leaned over Donnic, though her insides were quivering. "Look at me," she commanded, her voice deceptively steady.

"Av-av-av."

"That's _captain_ to you, Guardsman," she said sternly, hoping to shake him out of his stupor, noticing Anders's approving nod to her side. "You did quite well last night, but I need you back on duty. I'll not have any malingerers in my ranks. Do you _hear_ me, Lieutenant?" Donnic blinked a few times and looked directly into her eyes. Involuntarily, her hand went to his cheek, stroking along the length of his sideburn. "You stupid sod," she hissed, her voice unsteady. "You stupid bloody sod! Why didn't you follow my orders? Why don't you _ever_ follow my orders?"

He grinned up at her and, in that moment, she saw the cheeky twinkle in his eyes that had made her stomach flip the very first time they'd met, and in that twinkle she saw hope. She turned away, tears spilling from her eyes as she cursed her weakness, feeling a large, warm hand cover hers.

When she'd finally regained control, she turned back to him. He was asleep once again, his hand not relinquishing its vice-like grip on hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Pop' is a blanket term in the UK for soft drinks, and does not necessarily mean soda. I've quite rightly had it pointed out to me that soda, as we know it, would not have existed in the 14th/15th century, the time period upon which the game's based. Bethany offers Cricket blackcurrant cordial - fruit squash, which did exist during that time period. I always research things like this but then I go and use British names/terms that non-Brits might not understand. Sorry for any confusion. :-)


	77. Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've already seen your arse, Hawke," Aveline called from out back. "No point going all shy now, is there?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere thanks to my patient and gracious beta, Magic Mary, in particular for her help and many suggestions for an entire scene that didn't work until she'd cast her spell of subtlety on it. :-)

Halfway to Lirene's, Fletcher and Fenris were waylaid by Mallory – Anders's assistant at the old clinic – who called to them as they passed the Hanged Man.

"Hello, Mallory," Fletcher greeted pleasantly, his eyes wandering around the market distractedly.

"Hello, Hawke, Fenris. I've been hoping to catch up with one of you –I haven't seen Anders for a while. I've heard a rumour that a new clinic's been set up, but no one seems to know where. Is he okay? I was worried about him when the Templars came to Darktown," she said with a note of anger – or was it hurt? - in her voice.

"I've seen him about," Fletcher answered casually. "How are _you_ doing, anyway?"

"All right, I suppose," she replied. "I learned a few things from him, like how to make poultices and a few simple ointments. I've been treating some of his old patients, but we all miss him down there. It's not the same," she admitted with a shrug, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Is, um…is he around at all?"

"I've heard he's usually in the Hanged Man at happy hour," Fletcher helpfully supplied. "Six bells. I'm sure he'd be pleased to see you there."

"Oh, well, thank you, Hawke," she smiled. "I might see him there tonight, then."

"You might see us, as well. Have a good day," said Fletcher.

"You too," she replied and both men waited until she'd disappeared from view before they started moving – more slowly - toward Lirene's.

"Since when has Anders participated in 'Happy Hour'?" Fenris queried. "Does he not avoid it, as that is the time the Templars change over?"

Fletcher glanced at the elf and raised his eyebrows.

"You do not trust her, then?" asked Fenris quietly.

"I don't know," Fletcher said thoughtfully. "She seems nice enough, but _someone_ down there tipped off the Templars. I'm not willing to discount anyone at this point. I'd better tell Anders to be careful who he tells about the new clinic."

"Your decision to exercise circumspection was a wise one," complimented the elf. "You would make a fine guard."

Fletcher frowned and feigned a confused look. "But I'm not circumcised – you of all people should know that."

"Idiot!" Fenris teased, and Fletcher laughed.

"I couldn't be a guard anyway," he informed the elf. "My conscience wouldn't allow it."

"How so?"

"I simply _couldn't_ wear those colours, darling," he declared in his campiest voice. "Maybe separately, but together? _Please_."

Fenris shook his head. "It is fortunate, then, that the current guardians of the city have such a _wretched_ sense of style. Had they not, the Kirkwall Guard as we know it would not exist."

"You could always change the colours."

Fenris pointed ahead. "Lirene's?" he reminded the mage.

They entered quietly and were relieved to see that Anders, though tired, was smiling. "He's said a few words," he told them quietly. "A bit garbled, but he asked for Aveline. Look." He pointed to the far corner of the clinic where Aveline sat next to the slumbering guard, holding his hand, and she waved to them with her free one.

"Aw," Fletcher intoned with a grin.

"What is his prognosis?" asked Fenris.

"We're going to need to discuss that," Anders said to Fletcher seriously. "It's a little early to tell, but I'm encouraged so far. First things first – Hawke, I need to look at that hip of yours. You're still limping."

"I'm fine, just a bit bruised," Fletcher protested.

"You fell through a roof, if you remember," Anders scolded. "You could have chipped a bone. Come on, let's have a look."

With a sigh, Fletcher moved next to an examination table and began to undo his trousers. "Um," he mumbled with a furtive look at Aveline.

"I've already _seen_ your arse, Hawke," she called from the back. "No point going all shy now, is there?"

"I suppose not," he laughed, "but I'm sober now. It'd be weird. Fen, come and stand next to me, will you?"

Reminded of his appalling conduct at the coast, Fenris sighed and moved next to the mage, occasionally sending a rueful glance Aveline's way, but she was too occupied with Donnic to notice.

"Ooh, that's nasty," Anders tutted. "Look at this, Fenris."

The elf craned his neck and gritted his teeth at the huge black bruise that encompassed his lover's entire right buttock and much of his hip. Anders placed a hand on Fletcher's hip and began to manipulate the area, eliciting a few winces.

"Well? Is my arse broken?" Fletcher asked through a grimace, noticing how concerned Fenris was.

"No, you're just badly bruised."

"Nothing beats a Circle education, eh?" joked Fletcher. "Fenris could have told you that!"

"For that, you can make your own balm," sniffed Anders as Fletcher pulled his trousers up.

"You can't get the healers, can you?" Fletcher asked Fenris, who had not stopped frowning. "I'm fine!" he reassured the elf. "I've a tough old bum, you know."

Fenris shook his head and, when Anders turned and walked to Aveline, Fletcher stole a quick peck to Fenris's cheek.

"Why don't you go and get cleaned up?" Anders suggested to the captain. "There's nothing you can do here for now, plus Hawke and I need to work on his care plan."

"I suppose I _could_ do with a bath," she conceded, "and I should relieve Bradley – I'll bet he's still on duty." She gently released Donnic's hand and stood up. "All right, I'll go and see what's what at the barracks. I'll be returning, though. A lot."

Fenris stepped closer, his hands tightly meshed together over his belly. "Do you require assistance, Captain?" he asked quietly. "If, that is, you deem it…appropriate."

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, puzzled.

"Well, after…the _coast_ ," he mumbled self-consciously.

"Maker, Fenris, that seems like a week ago," she groaned, rubbing her eyes. "I need as many decent guards as I can get my hands on at the moment. Consider yourself back on duty as of now. Just don't do it again, all right?"

Fletcher beamed at the elf as Aveline headed for the trapdoor, and a small smile, as well a flush of pink, warmed Fenris's face.

"Oh, wait," Fletcher said. "May I take Fenris to see the Arishok before he resumes his duties, Captain? I need to tell him what happened, if he doesn't already know. I think he likes you, Fen," he said to the elf.

"He likes no one," answered Fenris.

"Fine," said Aveline. "Fenris, come to the barracks afterwards – I'll probably be with the viscount but I'll leave instructions for you." She paused to look back at Donnic one last time before nodding to the men and heading up the steps.

~o~O~o~

"Do you think the Arishok would be impressed if I showed him my bruise?" Fletcher asked Fenris as they stood before the gates to the Qunari compound. "Would he consider me a grizzled, battle-scarred warrior? His equal?"

"More likely he would have you put to death," answered the elf with a smile. "I am unfamiliar with Qunari salutations, but I doubt the baring of one's buttocks would be well-received. Especially _your_ buttocks."

"Maybe I'll keep them in reserve, then, in case things go awry. I'll stun him momentarily, allowing our swift and heroic getaway."

"Nervous?" Fenris asked with a knowing glance at the mage.

"Who, _me_? Whatever makes you think that?"

"Just a hunch. Come on."

They were granted entrance into the compound and, once again, Fenris walked behind Fletcher, quietly reminding the mage how best to deal with the fearsome Qunari leader. They waited a few minutes while the Arishok was sent for, and Fenris took the opportunity to congratulate Fletcher on his conduct the last time they'd visited. Knowing the elf was trying to ease his nerves, he smiled at Fenris, quickly straightening up when the Arishok arrived and took a seat on the dais.

"Arishok," Fletcher began without preamble, "after consultation with the City Guard we've determined that Javaris Tintop was duped. The formulas were switched by a splinter group that had a grievance against the Qunari. Its leader is dead and the remainder are being questioned. They will be severely punished."

The Arishok stared at Fletcher without responding and the nervous mage softly cleared his throat. "This…splinter group was aggrieved that two of its 'people' had recently converted to the Qun," he elaborated. "The gas has so far killed over fifty people and affected many more. We – I mean, the City Guard and I – believe it was the group's intention to lay those deaths at _your_ feet, Arishok."

"All of this is known to me, Hawke," said the Arishok in a low growl. "Do you not think I have eyes and ears, here and elsewhere?"

Firmly suppressing an urge to blurt out an apology, Fletcher kept Fenris's advice in mind and remained silent.

"I did not expect to see you again," the Arishok went on, "nor for you to relay these tidings. You were _not_ so forthcoming when you and this elf destroyed an entire karataam and its arvaraad. Do you truly believe I also knew nothing of that?"

Fletcher froze, clamping his hands tightly together behind his back as he remembered the incident with the collared Sarebaas. "I was not aware that the karataam was acting on your behalf, Arishok. Had I known that, I would have informed you."

He heard Fenris's sharp intake of breath and the elf took a step forward. "The karataam acted on behalf of the _Qun_ ," he sternly corrected the mage before addressing the Qunari leader. "This man is unfamiliar with your ways, Arishok. I, however, am not, and should have informed you of what transpired. We will _not_ make that mistake again. You have my word." Fenris bowed and once again stepped behind Fletcher.

"And you have mine," Fletcher added with a dip of his head.

The Arishok regarded them both for long moments, his expression inscrutable, before turning left and right to look at his guards, who shifted their weight and twirled their axes, which were hefted on their shoulders.

"What we need to discuss, Arishok, is that there are elements who would see the Qunari maligned," Fletcher ventured, his stomach in knots, "and would garner opposition against you."

"Those who hide behind masks and strike from the shadows are of little concern to me," replied the Arishok. "They are phantoms. Their swords have no edge and their words no substance."

"Be that as it may, Arishok, if enough of these elements emerge, you can't ignore the fact they might eventually pose a danger to you, especially if more outsiders convert to the Qun."

"Let them come," the Arishok decreed arrogantly, his lip curling. "We will see who prevails between smoke and mirrors, and steel and honour. Viddathari seek the strength and certainty of the Qun. I am not here to influence them – their choices are their own."

Fletcher briefly glanced at Fenris and took a deep breath. "Why _are_ you still here, then?" he ventured.

The Arishok leaned forward, a savage glower on his brow. "We are stranded here until what was stolen from us is recovered. Until then, we are denied Par Vollen and are forced to suffer this hub of bedlam and turpitude," he snarled, pushing to his feet and immediately, his guards stood to attention, their enormous weapons held ready at their sides. "You will leave. _Now_ ," he commanded.

Not needing to be told twice, Fletcher and Fenris turned and made a quick exit. Fletcher – with Fenris close behind - strode along the dockside for a few minutes, turning back occasionally, until the compound was well out of sight. Eventually he stopped and turned back to the elf.

"My hands are shaking," he breathed unsteadily, holding them up. "Maker, I've never been so frightened in my life!"

"Calm down," Fenris counselled. "If we had displeased him, we would not have left the compound alive. Clearly, he is perturbed, but not with _us_ – remember that."

Fletcher nodded, gulping to catch his breath. "He was talking about Isabela's book, wasn't he?"

Fenris nodded gravely. "It is too much of a coincidence that both the Qunari _and_ the pirate were stranded here after losing their ships. We _must_ find her."

"But how? She's run off," protested Fletcher.

Fenris looked out to sea and drew a deep breath. "The dwarf," he said after a moment's thought. "If she is still in Kirkwall, he will locate her somehow."

"Yes…that's a great idea. Do you have to return to the barracks straight away?" Fletcher asked. "If you have time, I'd like you to come with me. If you want to."

"Of course," smiled the elf before his expression grew serious. "Fletcher…I owe you an apology for overruling you when the Arishok spoke of the karataam," he sighed, lightly rubbing his forehead.

Fletcher's nervous energy was expelled in a rush of laughter and he laid his hands on Fenris's arms. "Please, don't _ever_ apologise for saving my neck. I know why – I lied to him, didn't I, when I said I would have told him about the karataam? I couldn't help myself, it just came out. Maybe it would be better if you do most of the talking next time. He seems to respect you."

"He _tolerates_ me, as he tolerates the foreign lands he finds himself in," Fenris corrected. "I doubt the Arishok was aware of your falsehood on this occasion, as he has no way of knowing your intent. Do _not_ lie to him again, Fletcher, particularly when it comes to facts that are already known; be certain he _also_ knows."

"You're definitely doing the talking next time," said Fletcher. "And thank you. For saving my neck."

"I've become rather fond of it," Fenris quipped with a slight tilt of his head. "Come. Let us visit the dwarf and find the pirate."

~o~O~o~

"Get some sleep, Evan," Aveline instructed her deputy after arriving at the barracks and being briefed. "You did a really great job, and I'll mention that to the viscount when I see him."

"Well, that's nice of you, Captain, but there's no need," he answered with a loud yawn. "There are just a couple more things-"

"Get some _sleep_ ," she repeated. "I'm sure they're in your report."

"Actually, they're not," he replied, and they both sat down at Aveline's desk. "Firstly, I wasn't able to find sufficient reliefs for the guards that stayed up during the night. As a result, I've had to deploy single patrols in all but the roughest areas. Hightown has no patrols at all. I'm sorry, Captain, it was the best I could do."

"They have to sleep," Aveline reassured him. "You know…I think it's about time I speak to the viscount about an idea I had a while back. A reserve Guard, which can be called on in times of crisis. What do you think? I mentioned it to Jeven once but he gave me the bum's rush. Bastard."

"Jeven was an arsehole," Bradley grunted. "I think it's a terrific idea, if the viscount agrees. I don't see why he wouldn't, though – they'd only be paid when needed, is that right?"

"That's right. They certainly would have come in handy last night. I'll mention it, then. Was there anything else?"

"How's Donnic?" Bradley asked, saving the worst of his news until last.

"He's…" Aveline drew a long breath and sighed, staring at the wall.

"Captain?"

"Oh! He's…well, he's in and out of consciousness but in good hands with Hawke and Anders. Were there any problems with the Templars?" she asked, remembering Bradley's warning of the previous evening that the Templars had detected magic being used in Lowtown – and her subsequent orders for them to be kept away.

Bradley's sour expression answered her question. "Meredith sent one of her flunkeys here, demanding their names. I told him to get stuffed."

"Good," Aveline answered. "They can talk to me if they don't like it."

"That's what I guessed, Captain. There's…something else, I'm afraid, and you'll like it even less."

She folded her arms and waited.

"You know Scott Leighton and Porky Cadwallader?"

" _That_ pair of reprobates? What have they done now?"

"We found out they were the ones who threw stones at the Templar patrol in Lowtown," answered Bradley.

"Bloody idiots," she groaned. "What did you give them? A fine? Night in the cells?"

"No, Captain." Bradley sighed and also folded his arms. "We couldn't find them for a while afterwards, but they've been telling anyone who'll listen that they were detained and questioned at the _Gallows_."

Aveline laid her palms flat on the desk and pushed herself forward. "Tell me you're joking," she seethed, her eyes glinting.

"I haven't been able to verify it yet because of everything that's been going on, but from what I hear they described Templar Hall in great detail. I doubt the likes of _them_ would have been allowed in there at any other time."

Aveline slowly sat back in her chair, releasing a long breath. Leighton and Cadwallader were born liars, especially when it came to talking their way out of trouble, so she decided to reserve judgement for the time being. "What about Meredith's lackey? What did he – she? – have to say?"

" _He_ didn't have a clue. Well, so he claimed. I have to admit, though – he did seem genuinely taken aback."

"Do you remember his name?" Aveline asked.

"Erm…Coulson? Cullen? Yes, Cullen, that was it."

"Knight-Captain Cullen? But he's Meredith's second," she said with a frown. "You'd think he'd have known about it."

"Could he have lied?" Bradley queried.

"He's always struck me as the straight type," she mused, shaking her head. "All right – I'll find them. If it's just a drunken boast of theirs, I'll get it out of them soon enough and fine them for wasting my time." She stood up. "If it's not…I'll be paying Meredith a visit. I hope for her sake it _was_ a boast, otherwise there's going to be trouble."

She gestured for Bradley to stand and then moved to the door, which was open. "Get some sleep, Evan," she directed, looking around. "Where is everyone?"

"In bed," he answered with a shrug. "Don't worry, Captain, I've sorted out the evening and night shifts. We'll still be a bit thin on the ground, though, until everyone's caught up on their sleep. What about you? Did you get any sleep last night?"

"I got a few hours, thanks to a mage's sleep draught," she replied. "Don't worry, it'll be enough, and it's more than you had. I'd better leave a note on my door – I'll be out for most of today. Actually…Fenris can sit at my desk and have a go at some of the paperwork, it'll be good practise for him."

"You sure you can manage, Captain?" asked Bradley. "Give me a shout if it gets too much."

"I won't be doing that. Go to bed, Lieutenant," she ordered, smiling. "And _thank you_."

He nodded and walked off. "Night, Captain."

"Morning," she corrected before glancing around the empty barracks and sighing. She removed her left gauntlet and stared at her hand, unable to stop her smile. She knew she was being an idiot, but Donnic had _held_ that hand. _And_ he'd smiled at her!

"Maker, what is the matter with you?" she asked herself, again looking around to ensure no one had been watching. Straightening her posture, she went into her office, penned a quick note for Fenris and then headed to the viscount's office, an uncharacteristic spring in her step.

~o~O~o~

"You're not the only ones looking for her, Hawke," Varric told Fletcher and Fenris as they sat in a quiet corner of the Hanged Man. "She owes a _lot_ of coin to a lot of people."

"But she's due her wages from the expedition," said Fletcher. "Granted, she didn't do much actual _work_ , but I can't deny she was good for keeping morale up."

"Quite," muttered Fenris. "I hear she _kept up_ the 'morale' of at least two of the workers."

"I heard three," Fletcher answered, waggling his eyebrows. "Still, she's owed some money. She could pay off her debtors if she came to us."

"Then you've just found the solution to your problem," announced Varric. "All we need to do is put the word out that coin is still owed to 'some' of the expedition workers – no one specific. She'll hear about it on the grapevine."

"You don't think…she might have sold the book, do you?" Fletcher asked Varric with an anxious glance at Fenris.

"I seriously doubt that, Hawke. An item like that would garner quite a bit of interest among my contacts."

"What if she had a specific buyer in mind?" Fenris asked. "What if she did not go through the usual channels?"

Varric groaned and rested his cheek on his hand. "Then we have a problem. I'll put the feelers out, but answers won't come cheap – lucky for us _we_ now have some coin."

"I'll pay back any money you need to spend, Varric," Fletcher promised.

"Uh-uh, Hawke, this one's on me," said Varric before turning to Fenris. "Listen, Broody – keep your guards and Pumpkin Head out of this one. Nothing sends rats scurrying down holes quicker than a guard uniform."

" _Pumpkin_ Head?" Fenris exclaimed as Fletcher laughed nervously. "To whom are you referring?"

"It's just his little joke," Fletcher stressed, nudging Fenris's drink closer to distract him.

"Actually, I'm glad I caught the two of you together," Varric sighed, draining his mug and wiping his mouth. "I heard from my contact in Tantervale," he began, thrusting his palm forward as Fenris sat erect in his chair. "Nothing to get in a twist over, Broody, I just thought you'd want to know. He confirmed that Danarius returned to Minrathous, and that's where he stayed. He's _still_ there."

Varric paused while Fletcher looked at Fenris in concern, the elf's eyes glued to the table.

"I want you to know that there's now a network set up between Minrathous and Tantervale," Varric told Fenris. "My people know what Danarius looks like, who he hangs out with and so on. If he ever heads back here, Broody, I'll get at least a few days' notice. And that means you will, too."

"You'd be able to prepare, Fen," Fletcher said to the silent elf. "And you have a lot of friends this time round."

Fenris frowned deeply, exhaled through his nose and, without looking up, extended his hand to the dwarf. "Thank you," he said quietly, obviously touched.

Varric shook the elf's hand before releasing it and standing up. "Got some business to take care of, Hawke. I hear you and ma have a house to decorate. Sunshine's quite excited by it, but very wisely decided to leave it to you. These artists," he mumbled to Fenris, "can be quite temperamental if they're not allowed to _create_."

Fenris slowly looked up and nodded, forcing a thin smile. Varric slapped the elf's shoulder and picked up Bianca. "Have fun, you two." He walked away, Fenris's eyes following him until he departed.

"He's a good friend," Fletcher murmured.

"Yes."

Fletcher reached for Fenris's hand beneath the table and gently gripped it. "Are you all right, love? I know that, well, just being reminded of him…" He inched closer. "At least you _know_ you're safe this way. Not many people get notice of their enemy's arrival."

"I know that," Fenris whispered softly, stroking Fletcher's hand with his thumb, "and I appreciate the dwarf's – Varric's – efforts. It is just…sometimes…" He raised his head and looked into Fletcher's eyes. "Sometimes, I forget my former life. When we are together…alone…I forget."

"And this has brought it all back," Fletcher guessed.

"I should go," Fenris murmured, moving to stand, but Fletcher kept a hold of his hand and he sat back down.

"We can talk about this if you like," offered the mage.

"Perhaps later…I would like to return to the barracks, make myself useful," explained Fenris, ending on a whisper.

"I understand, Fen." Fletcher released Fenris's hand and stood up, waiting until the elf had also risen, and they headed for the door. "Just think," Fletcher said as they stepped outside, "you don't need to keep looking over your shoulder, now. See the sun behind the clouds. You promised."

"I did," Fenris admitted, a smile in his eyes as he looked up at his mage. "You are my sun." He dipped his head, his hand brushing first his lips and then Fletcher's arm in what had become a gesture between them, in place of a kiss in a public place.

"Have fun at the barracks, Guardsman," Fletcher said with a grin. "I'm sure Aveline will find you a pile of work to do – just what you want." He returned Fenris's kiss gesture and winked at the elf. "I'll stop by later and let you know how Donnic's doing – I'll bring you a bit of food as well."

Fenris smiled genuinely this time, his brief black mood brightening in Fletcher's company. "And have fun shopping, Fletcher. I wonder, will your mother have any say at all in the colour scheme?"

"I'm not a complete tyrant, you know - she can decorate her bedroom however she likes." He winked again and watched the elf move off, waving when Fenris looked back. The elf nodded once and smiled before disappearing around a corner.

~o~O~o~

The apprentice pounded the cocktail of herbs in his mortar, slowly adding small amounts of boiling water to the concoction. An impatient rapping sounded at the door to his small room, breaking his concentration, and he laid down his pestle, tutting under his breath. "Who is it?" he demanded.

"Vionet," the visitor hissed.

The mage opened the door and pulled the elf inside before closing the door. "The master has called for his tonic," Vionet began.

"Yes, yes, I heard the commotion," snapped Delmar – Danarius's head apprentice after the presumed death of Hadriana. "Just give me a minute, will you?" He reached for a jar labelled _Mandragora Officinarum,_ opened it and gently tapped it, adding a small amount of the powder to his mixture. Vionet glanced at the jar but, as he was unable to read, could not understand the writing on the label.

After crushing the herbs again Delmar placed the ingredients on a square of muslin and tied a knot in it before passing a goblet and a bottle to Vionet.

Knowing the routine, Danarius's head bodyguard filled it half with mead and then slowly added some of the boiling water, stirring as he went, before passing it back to the mage.

Delmar then held the muslin parcel above the goblet and twisted it, eking a few clear drops out, which fell into the goblet, leaving a slightly oily film on the surface. "Here," he said, presenting the goblet to Vionet, who took it and eyed the mage, once again feeling frustrated by his inability to read. How could he be sure what Delmar was distilling into the drink without being able to read the ingredients for himself?

"Should this not be working more quickly?" he whispered urgently. "Should we not see a change by now? You said it would be a matter of weeks."

"This _cannot_ be rushed," Delmar answered. "Contrary to popular belief, magisters and their apprentices cannot just snap their fingers and get their heart's desire!"

Vionet looked at the goblet and then at the mage. "How much longer?"

Delmar groaned and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't _know_. I'm doing all I can but he keeps paying his demons."

" _I_ keep paying them, you mean," Vionet said dully. "Do you know how many I have slaughtered merely to stay his insanity? Sixty-one… First, it was one per week, then two per week…yesterday I killed two in one _day_. How many will it be today? I cannot go on like this. _Danarius_ cannot go on like this. We will be damned to the Void…damned, do you hear me?"

"Until we are able to stop this madness, we are all damned," said Delmar, opening the door and nudging the elf out. "Have patience, my friend."

The door eased shut and Vionet again glanced at the contents of the goblet, hoping that this would be the dose that stopped his master's insanity. He'd heard tales of those who'd administered medical concoctions and potions of any type without permission; he'd also heard of their slow and painful deaths when they'd been discovered – disembowelment being the execution of choice.

His heart beat wildly in his chest as he walked to Danarius's chamber. Although he placed no value on his own life, and would welcome the release of death's embrace, Vionet knew he could not rest until this was done.

Moving across the marble floor – which he didn't look at as he could see himself reflected in it – he arrived at his master's bed, where the sweating magister mumbled to himself, occasionally swatting the air in front of his face. Vionet sat on the edge of the bed and placed the goblet on the nightstand.

"Master," he whispered.

Danarius's eyes snapped open and he gasped, looking in the general direction of his _Scutum Primus_ but not directly at him.

"Fenris…you have returned to me," he groaned, raising a hand to brush Vionet's face. "I knew you would one day. I always knew you couldn't look after yourself. You are home now, Wolf. Come, comfort this sick old man."

"Yes, it is I, Fenris," said Vionet, deliberately lowering his voice. "I have brought you your tonic, Danarius. Here – let me help you."

Vionet wound an arm around his master's shoulders and assisted him to sit up, plumping the pillows behind him. He then reached for the goblet and placed it in Danarius's hands, keeping his own hands around the magister's as his grip was weak.

"Drink this, Master," he prompted. "It will make everything better."

"I always had a soft spot for you, Wolf," Danarius crooned softly, raising the goblet to his lips. "I never could refuse you, even when you defied me."

"Everything is as it should be," Vionet said soothingly. "Drink this and soon everything will be better. That is our hope, Master."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scutum Primus – Literally, ‘First Shield’. What Danarius calls his head bodyguard.
> 
> Mandragora Officinarum – Mandrake root. Can cause death in large quantities or hallucinations, sickness and insanity in smaller, regular doses.


	78. Pride Before a Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is just typical of you, isn't it? Blundering in without a thought for your well-being, or those who would mourn your loss should ill fate befall you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere thanks to Mary for (again) tackling such a long chapter - your hard work and insights are greatly appreciated.
> 
> My thanks also to Aynslesa and Wandering Lily for filling my week off work with fangirly goodness!

### Two days later

Fletcher took a leisurely stroll around the newly-furnished mansion – although he couldn't quite bring himself to call it _that_ yet – straightening drapes, deadheading floral displays and wiping imaginary specks of dust off tables. He had the place to himself and, unaccustomed to having nothing to do, was starting to feel bored and a little lonely.

"Hey," he called out, listening as his voice reverberated off the walls. "Wow. I have a house that echoes." Finding he was not especially impressed with that, he shrugged and headed for the kitchen. "Food kills boredom – that's a fact," he said to himself with a nod, in justification of the almighty pig out he had planned.

A sharp rapping on the front door caught his attention and he halted, his stomach turning over. Was it Fenris? He was due to call on Fletcher later, when his shift had ended, but it was too early. Or was it?

Fletcher had told the elf to let himself in but he knew somehow that Fenris would consider that impolite. However, there was something impolite and un-Fenris like about the knock, and Fletcher wondered who it could be.

The knock repeated, but this time it was more of a banging, and it was quicker and louder. _Much_ louder.

Fletcher stood rooted to the spot, his heart thumping as the banging came for a third time and he could see the front door rattling.

"Fletcher Malcolm Hawke!" a deep, angry-sounding voice boomed, and Fletcher clutched his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He remained where he was, not sure what to do and then a horrifying realisation dawned on him.

He hadn't locked the door.

"Fletcher Malcolm Hawke!" shouted the disembodied voice as another series of thuds sounded at the door. "In the name of the Templar Order I command you to open this door! I _know_ you are here – I have been following you! Make it easy on yourself, Hawke!"

Fletcher knew this was coming but was surprised by his physical reaction to it. He started to sweat and blood rushed through his ears, the commanding voice of the templar resounding in his head. He wiped his palms on his robe – _why_ had he worn a fucking _robe_? – and somehow forced his trembling legs to the stairs, almost jumping out of his skin as the door was battered for the fifth time.

"This is your last chance, Hawke! Open this door at once or I shall be forced to break it down!"

Fletcher debated for a second whether to tell the templar not to do that, as it was a very nice door – new, at that - and it was open anyway, then he quickly shook his head and started up the staircase, nearly tripping on his robe.

He entered his bedroom and quietly closed the door behind him, his heavy breathing almost deafening, and whipped off his robe, shoving it behind his wardrobe before he threw the doors open. "Robe. Robe. Robes…oh, no…where are my trousers? Shit! I should have been ready for this!"

Naked, he hastened to the door and listened, hearing the ominous sound of the front door being closed.

"Now I _know_ you are at home, Hawke!" the templar called from downstairs. "You're not terribly bright, are you?"

Fletcher heard the _shink_ of a sword being unsheathed and quiet, measured footfalls on the staircase and he grabbed the doorknob, his sweating hands struggling to grip it.

Why – _why_ hadn't he put a lock on his bedroom door?

He looked around his room for a hiding place and, finding none, in desperation he jumped on to his four-poster bed and pulled the drapes closed, panting as he waited on all fours before holding his breath until he felt his head would burst.

A thin, metallic tapping sounded at his door and cold sweat bathed him. He released his breath in a burst and held it again as the door slowly creaked open.

"I _know_ you're in here," the templar said quietly, a smirk in his voice. "I can smell your sweat. Now, _where_ would a mage who leaves his front door open be hiding? The evasive tactics of such a sophisticated master of cunning require special consideration. Hm…the wardrobe, perhaps?"

Fletcher, still on all fours, listened as the bedroom door was closed and the templar moved to the wardrobe, where he began rifling through Fletcher's collection of robes.

"No luck there," the templar muttered before closing the wardrobe and smiling smugly at the bed. He then moved to the other side of the room. "How about…the armoire?"

"Sadistic bastard," Fletcher growled and a low, smug laugh came from behind the drapes before they were flung open and a huge broadsword was pressed against Fletcher's chest.

"There you are, Mage. You really are no sport, you know. You didn't even _try_."

"You're not a templar!" Fletcher blustered. "You're not wearing the uniform!"

"I am off duty," the templar explained as his eyes roamed over Fletcher's naked body, "but the Maker's work is never done. I will receive special commendation for _this_."

"You-you can't capture me if you're off duty!" Fletcher shrieked as the templar advanced, placing one knee on the bed and Fletcher slipped, falling on to his back.

"Can I not?" The templar tossed his fringe out of his eyes and knelt between Fletcher's legs, his sword resting on the mage's bare chest. "From where I am standing, Mage, you are in no position to dictate."

"But you're not standing-"

"Silence, apostate!" growled the templar, slowly running the cold edge of his blade down Fletcher's chest and stopping on his heaving belly. "I have you exactly where I want you – at my mercy." He glanced at his sword and raised it, appearing to examine it. "But let us not be…uncivilised. Why would I need a sword when I can render you helpless with a mere touch?"

He slid his sword to the floor and placed a single finger against Fletcher's chest, applying the lightest of pressure. "Now…are you going to be _nice_ to me, Mage, or do I need to smite you?"

"This is not appropriate!" protested Fletcher. "You're abusing your position!"

"Oh, really?" asked the templar, once again tossing his hair out of his eyes. "It would seem the mage doth protest too much." His eyes wandered to Fletcher's burgeoning cock, and immediately the mage's hands covered it.

With startling speed, the templar rushed forward, grabbing Fletcher by the shoulders and pinning him to the bed. "Did I give you leave to _move_ , apostate?" he snarled, his long fringe brushing against Fletcher's forehead.

"You're-you're really good at this, you know," Fletcher whispered breathlessly. " _Really_ good."

"I _told_ you to be quiet!" snapped the white-haired 'templar', and Fletcher's eyes closed, his head lolling to one side.

"Holy Maker, Fenris, take me now," he panted. " _Please,_ just take me now!"

"That is _Ser_ Fenris to you, Mage!" bellowed the elf, a fine spray of spittle covering Fletcher's face. "And do not invoke the Maker's name in vain! I am going to have to subdue you – do not say you didn't ask for it!" He pushed up and sat on his heels, holding one hand over Fletcher's chest. "All it takes is one touch," he sneered and Fletcher mock-gasped, his eyes flying open as the elf's finger made contact with his skin.

Immediately, Fletcher's entire body went limp, his arms falling out to his sides. "Oh, no! You smote me!"

"And now," said Fenris, pulling his tunic over his head and letting it fall on to the bed, "I am going to deliver divine discipline, Mage. _Swift_ and _hard_ discipline."

"I deserve everything I get, Ser Fenris," Fletcher groaned, closing his eyes again as Fenris's hands went to the ties of his breeches.

When, after a moment nothing happened, Fletcher opened one eye and frowned because Fenris's head was turned towards the door, and he appeared to be listening to something.

"What is it?" whispered Fletcher.

"Downstairs," Fenris murmured, pointing to the floor. "I hear-"

"Fletcher dear, are you home?" called Leandra from the lower level.

"Shit!" Fletcher hissed as he and Fenris scrambled off the bed and hastily retrieved their clothes, throwing them on and smoothing each other's hair. "What's Mother doing here?" he whinged, noticing something fall from Fenris's pocket and roll under the bed.

"She _does_ live here," Fenris chided, tilting his head in amusement as the red-faced mage lay on the floor next to the bed, reaching beneath it. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"You dropped something," answered Fletcher, using the bed to haul himself up. He opened his hand, gaping at the ring he held in his palm. He immediately looked at Fenris's hand and, seeing that the elf was wearing the ring Fletcher had bought, he examined the one he'd picked up as Fenris moved to his side. "What…what's this?" he asked the elf quietly.

"A ring, of course," sighed Fenris, taking it from Fletcher's hand and scrutinising it with an intense frown. Fletcher waited a moment and then tutted when his mother called for him again.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." He went to the door and opened it. "I'm up here, Mother!" he called. "I'm getting changed – just give me a few minutes."

"All right, dear," she replied. "Don't be long – you have some visitors."

"Can't get _any_ fucking privacy," he grumbled as he closed the door and returned to Fenris, who was watching him anxiously.

The elf sighed again and held the ring out to Fletcher. "This…this is for you," he said hesitantly. "I purchased it the night you gave me this." He held up his other hand, showing his own ring. "I…have been waiting for the right moment, I suppose."

Fletcher nodded wordlessly, carefully taking the ring from the elf's palm. "This is lovely," he murmured, turning the aged pewter band over in his fingers, smiling when a clear brown stone glinted at him. "Is this topaz?"

"I am not certain," mumbled the elf, his eyes glued to the floor. "I-I bought it because the stone…well, the colour, it, um…matches your eyes." He cleared his throat nervously and scratched the side of his face, his eyes darting around the room, failing to notice that Fletcher's face had lit up. "It was not until I purchased it that I realised - the colour of the band and the stone appear to clash. I…know that you are very conscious of what colours you wear."

Fletcher laughed at how touchingly embarrassed Fenris was by his admission and brought his right hand to the elf's chin, nudging his head up. "Rules are made to be broken," he reassured, holding his left hand out. "Put it on for me, love."

"You do not need to pretend to like it for my sake," Fenris muttered. "I can return it-"

"Will you put it on my finger, you impossibly adorable man?" laughed Fletcher and Fenris bowed his head, his shoulders trembling.

"I am _not_ adorable," he protested through a laugh of his own.

"Romantic, too," Fletcher went on, placing a soft kiss to the crown of Fenris's head. "Nobody's ever bought me anything that matches my eyes before. You're a complete sap, and that is one of the many reasons I fell in love with you."

Fenris shrugged, dipping his head further to hide his bashful grin, but Fletcher once again nudged his head up and waved his hand in front of the elf's face. With a soft sigh, Fenris slipped the ring on to Fletcher's finger and held it there for a moment before glancing up at the mage.

"This ring has absolutely no significance, you understand," he told Fletcher. "It is merely in reciprocation for the ring you bought."

"I understand _completely_ ," said Fletcher, nodding exaggeratedly and flexing his fingers. Fenris could not help smiling as Fletcher admired the ring, a look of genuine delight on his face.

"You…really like it?" he ventured.

"It's beautiful and I love it," Fletcher whispered. "And I love you, Ser Fenris."

Fenris stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Fletcher's waist, laying his head on the mage's shoulder, and Fletcher buried his nose in Fenris's hair, running his hands up and down the elf's arms. "Thank you for this ring that means absolutely nothing," he joked with another kiss to Fenris's head. He then pulled back and held Fenris at arm's length, looking into his eyes. "I haven't spoiled any plans of yours, have I?" he asked seriously. "Did you intend to give me this at a specific time?"

"No," answered the elf truthfully. "Because, as I have already stated, the ring means absolutely nothing." One edge of his mouth turned upward and Fletcher bent down, capturing his lips in a sweet, tender kiss.

Drawing back, the mage once again admired his ring and winked at Fenris. "Let me get rid of these pesky people and I'll show you how grateful I _really_ am."

"Your mother is home," Fenris reminded him sternly. "You are not going to get rid of her, are you?"

Fletcher sighed. "No, of course not." He fumbled in his pockets and passed Fenris a small key. "Here. Go to the safehouse in Lowtown. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Fenris took the key but shook his head as he placed it in his own pocket. "I am _not_ going to leave this room while your mother is downstairs. There is only one possible reason for me being in your bedroom."

"I'll think of something," Fletcher promised. "Will you be all right? Just make yourself at home. I'll be as quick as I can."

"I will wait here," agreed the elf and Fletcher kissed his cheek before moving to the door.

Fletcher opened it, grinning as he looked at his ring and he blew the elf a kiss before exiting, closing the door behind him.

Fenris stared at the door for a moment and then moved to the bed, his posture sagging as he sat on its edge. "Get a hold of yourself," he said angrily. "It was a dream, nothing more." He meshed his fingers behind his head and flopped backwards, staring up at the ceiling. "It was just a dream."

~o~O~o~

Fletcher went down the stairs, following the sound of quiet conversation which led him to a room his mother had designated as the drawing room. He found his mother and Bethany taking tea with two elven ladies, the eldest of which rose when he entered.

"Keeper Marethari?" he asked in confusion, recognising the leader of the Dalish clan residing at the base of Sundermount. "Are you here to see me?"

"I am indeed, _da'len_ ," she answered with a small nod. "Forgive me for calling at your beautiful home, but this is a matter of utmost urgency."

Fletcher glanced at the second elven woman, who sat next to Leandra, her trembling hands tightly gripping a teacup, and Fletcher recognised her as Arianna, mother of Feynriel. He then remembered the letter she'd recently sent him which he'd skimmed over but not given his full attention to. "This is about Feynriel, isn't it?" he asked, feeling guilty for not having read the letter properly. Marethari nodded and Fletcher beckoned to Bethany, who stood and walked over to him.

"Please excuse us," he said. "I'll only be a minute." He led his sister out into the reception hall and lowered his voice.

"Beth, Fenris is in my bedroom," he whispered. "Can you sneak him out without Mother knowing? He'd be mortified if she knew he was up there."

"Oh, did we disturb you?" she asked with an apologetic grimace.

"Yes, so make up for it by getting him out of here. Please," he begged.

"Leave it to me, Brother," she declared confidently. "He… _is_ dressed, isn't he?"

Fletcher nodded his confirmation and Bethany winked before creeping up the stairs.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Fletcher re-entered the drawing room and closed the double doors behind him before taking a seat next to Leandra.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," he said to Marethari. "Please, go ahead."

"Perhaps…" Marethari glanced at Leandra but Fletcher placed a hand on his mother's arm.

"My father was a mage, as are my sister and I. Mother is aware of the need to be discreet in certain matters."

"Of course. Forgive me," said Marethari with a dip of her head, which Leandra returned. The elderly elf sat forward and glanced at the stricken-looking Arianni before returning her gaze to Fletcher and getting straight to the point.

"I fear that Feynriel has finally succumbed to the whispers of the demons that have haunted him for so long," she began. "He has entered a dreamlike state from which he refuses to emerge. I have tried, and failed, to reach him, as have the most experienced members of my clan. And so I come to you, Hawke, in the hope that you will have success where others have not."

Blinking as he absorbed her words, Fletcher politely held back from laughing in her face but there was no doubting the disbelief in his words. "Wait…you want _me_ …? You're telling me the most experienced mages of your clan have failed but I…? What makes you think _I'd_ have any success? I hardly know him! And he wasn't exactly my biggest fan when we parted, you know."

"You are the only one he's listened to," Arianni interposed.

"Only because I threatened to take him to the Templars," Fletcher protested.

Arianni shook her head. "I disagree. He has had no real father figure in his life and I believe he looks up to you, Hawke. He might not have agreed with your decision, but the keeper has told me that he respects you."

"He…what?"

"It is true," Marethari supplied. "He has mentioned you several times during his stay with us. When he saw that we could help him, he came to realise that your decision to send him to us was a sound one."

"Forgive me for being rude," said Fletcher, "but you say that you were going to help him? What went wrong, then?"

Marethari sighed and sat back in the chair. "I surmised at first that he grew weary of fending off the demons' attentions, but we have since determined the reason for us not being able to reach him…I believe him to be one of the Somniari, those who can shape and affect the Fade-"

"Malcolm once mentioned the Somniari," said Leandra. "They're very powerful, aren't they?"

"They are indeed," answered the keeper. "However, Feynriel is but a child and has not yet learned how to harness his powers. I do not need to explain the ramifications, Hawke, if he were to become possessed. That _must_ not be allowed to happen."

"You expect me – an ill-educated mage from Lothering – to talk down a _dreamer_?" Fletcher asked in astonishment. "Just how do you expect me to do that?"

"You're our last hope," a tearful Arianni replied. "You are his only chance, Hawke. You _must_ help us!"

Irritated that he was, in effect, being emotionally blackmailed, Fletcher scrubbed his face, feeling trapped. He then remembered that he might have perished without the aid of Marethari's clan when he'd been injured by one of Hadriana's lackeys, and sighed.

"I want to help, but I just don't see what good I could do," he explained. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

"I have prepared a ritual that will allow you to enter his dream," said Marethari. "Talk to him, make him see that not all is lost, that he is strong enough to resist. For if he is _not_ strong enough, he will become an abomination with terrifying powers over the dreamworld – what we call a dreamstalker in your tongue. You _must_ make him see, Hawke."

"And what if I can't?" Fletcher asked.

"Then there is nothing for it – we will have to sever his connection to the Fade," said Marethari gravely. "We Dalish have our own version of the rite of tranquillity."

"No!" Arianni cried, covering her face with her hands and sobbing.

"Will my son be in danger if he helps you?" Leandra asked as she passed Arianni a handkerchief.

"I cannot deny that your son will face temptation once he enters Feynriel's dream," she answered. "But, if he is strong, he will prevail."

"I'll be fine," Fletcher reassured her, guessing that a blood mage with his own demon would not be tempted by other demons.

At that moment, Bethany re-entered the room and sat down, giving Fletcher a discreet nod.

"You may bring others with you if you wish, for your safety, but no more than three in number," Marethari told him. "We must act quickly."

Fletcher drummed his fingers against his thigh as he considered who he could safely take with him. Anders, yes, but with Justice in the equation, Fletcher quickly disregarded that idea. Aveline and Sebastian were definite no-nos. Beth probably wouldn't want Varric going with him and as for Fenris…well, he'd likely hit the roof at the idea of Fletcher going at _all_ , let alone the idea of accompanying him.

"Are you going into the Fade?" Bethany asked her brother, having spoken to Marethari before Fletcher had arrived. "I'll come with you, Brother."

"No," Fletcher said firmly. "I'll go by myself. I won't put anyone else at risk."

"Perhaps that would be for the best," Marethari conceded. "There is less chance of temptation, the fewer of you there are."

"But will he be safe?" Leandra demanded. "Fletcher, you can't go by yourself. What about Merrill? Would she go with you? _She_ wouldn't be tempted, would she?"

Fletcher met his mother's eyes, wondering why she'd suggested Merrill and not Anders. Leandra looked away and, in that moment, they both knew for certain.

"All right, I'll ask Merrill," said Fletcher, standing up, unable to look at his mother. "I…have a small errand to attend to first, Marethari. I'll meet you at the alienage."

"Thank you, _da'len_ ," said a relieved Marethari as she stood up, followed by Arianni, and the keeper bowed to Leandra. "And thank _you_ for your hospitality, Mamae Hawke. I will do all in my power to keep your boy safe."

Bethany also stood up. "I want to come with you, Fletcher. I won't go into the Fade," she added quickly, "I just want to be there when you and Merrill wake up."

"If you plan on pestering me, Beth-" Fletcher began.

"I won't, I promise. You'll both be disorientated when you wake up, and I thought you might want to see a friendly face."

"A cheeky one, you mean," smiled Fletcher with a wink, and Bethany grinned in return. "All right, then. Beth, will you go with the ladies? I, um, I'll be along as soon as possible." He released a sigh and Bethany knew what his errand would be.

"Good luck," she said sympathetically as she led the two elven ladies to the door.

~o~O~o~

Fenris glanced out of the small window from inside the safehouse. Upon arriving, he'd bolted the door and tidied the place up a little, finding a couple of discarded Chantry robes in a wardrobe. After much internal debate, he undressed and slipped one of them on, guessing it would appeal to Fletcher's sense of humour – after all, he was still supposed to be Ser Fenris. Or was that now Brother Fenris?

He knew he hadn't been waiting long for Fletcher, but he grew restless and several times removed and replaced the robe. When the knock came at the door, he was wearing it.

It was Fletcher's rattattattattat-tat-tat knock but Fenris still hesitated, suddenly feeling like a complete fool.

"Fen!" Fletcher called quietly. Fenris quickly pulled the robe over his head, throwing it on the bed and moving to the door.

Fletcher peered cautiously around the door as it was opened, not seeing Fenris until he looked behind the door and his heart sank at the sight of the naked elf.

"Oh, Maker," Fletcher groaned morosely, closing the door and shaking his head.

"That…was not the greeting I expected," said Fenris, and Fletcher placed his hands over his mouth, letting them slide down to his chest as his head fell back. "I'm going to need to get dressed, aren't I?" guessed the elf.

"I'm sorry, Fen," Fletcher sighed, his eyes moving to the robe and the rumpled bed. "I can see you've gone to some trouble."

Silently, Fenris retrieved his clothes and quickly dressed. "Out with it, then," he said, facing Fletcher. "Who were your visitors?"

Fletcher took a step closer to Fenris and spoke quietly. "Keeper Marethari and Arianni, Feynriel's mother. Do you remember him? That young mage we sent to the Dalish?"

Fenris's eyes narrowed. "I remember..."

Fletcher looked down at his fingernails as he toyed with his hands. "I, um, well, they need my help. Feynriel needs my help, I mean. I…I have to go into the Fade."

"What, _now_?" demanded the elf.

"Yes, it's quite urgent."

"Tell me _everything_ ," ordered Fenris, and, when Fletcher did, the elf's reaction came as no surprise. "You are going to be sent into this boy's dream? Where demons stalk him at every turn? Do you really believe I am going to allow you to do that?"

"I'll be safe," Fletcher urged. "I already…I already have a demon, remember? They won't try to tempt me. It-it's hard to explain, but it's just not the done thing."

"So, demons have a code of _honour_ , is that is?" Fenris sneered. "You will have to forgive my scepticism, Fletcher, for I have yet to encounter one that exhibits high principles or morals of any kind!"

"It's true," Fletcher said softly. "Well, not that they're moral in any way, but I promise I'll be safe, and so will Merrill."

Fenris's eyed widened into almost perfect circles, fury and disbelief in them. " _Merrill_? You are entrusting that-that…" He grunted in frustration and started to pace. "You trust _her_ with your safety? This is just typical of you, isn't it? Blundering in without a thought for your wellbeing, or those who would mourn your loss should ill fate befall you?"

"Fenris, please, I'll be _safe-"_

"Safe? Like you were _safe_ when you fell through the roof of the stable? Or the time your heart almost gave out when you destroyed the ogre in the Deep Roads?" Fenris moved close to Fletcher, standing toe-to-toe with him. "Or when you jumped over the ledge into the tainted water?" he snarled, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging. "Yes, the dwarves told me about that! When are you going to get it into your thick head that people _care_ about you? _Festis bei umo canavarum_!" He threw his hands into the air and turned his back on Fletcher, one hand moving to cover his eyes.

"Fen-"

"No!" Fenris whipped around and moved to the door, sliding the bolt across. "I forbid you from going! You are _not_ going to do this to me again!"

"I _have_ to go," Fletcher protested plaintively. "I owe the Dalish – they helped me, remember? And I'm not going to just leave Feynriel to his fate! Do you really expect me to do that?"

His back still to Fletcher, Fenris took a deep breath, knowing that Fletcher was set on this. "Then I will go with you," he growled, terrified that the prophecy of his dream – where he professed his love for the mage only to wake in an empty bed - would be fulfilled now that he'd given Fletcher the ring.

"No! No _way!"_ exclaimed Fletcher, moving in front of the elf. "I know I'm an idiot and I know I don't think sometimes, but I'm not so selfish that I'd risk your safety! You're not coming, and that's that!"

Fenris grabbed his sword, which had been resting against the bed, and pointed it at Fletcher. "Then you are _not_ leaving this house. _Not_ without me. And, to avoid any confusion, I am _not_ playing this time!"

"Put that down!" Fletcher demanded, but Fenris pointed to the bed, the tip of his sword resting on Fletcher's chest.

"Sit _down,_ Fletcher. I will not ask again."

"So you're going to stab me if I try to leave?" he challenged before sighing. "Fen…please don't be like this. I _can't_ leave him to the demons' mercy. I can't. Let me go. This is not me being a moron and leaping off a ledge. I _know_ I'll be safe. I'm a blood mage – the other demons won't try to tempt me because there's no point. I'm taking Merrill – if she'll agree – for the same reason."

" _Not_ without me," Fenris maintained vehemently. "Now, sit down or open the door. If you choose the latter, I _will_ be going with you. There will be _no_ further discussion."

They stared at each other, Fenris's hard resolve not crumbling under Fletcher's mournful gaze. "I'm not going to win this one, am I?" the mage asked sadly.

"No," answered Fenris, his voice a little softer. "I…do not like pointing my sword at you."

"Then put it down," sighed Fletcher, walking to the door. He opened it and turned back to the elf, who had lowered his sword but watched Fletcher carefully.

"No trickery," he insisted and then, seeing the hurt in Fletcher's eyes, he finally sheathed his sword. "I did not mean…I know you would not attempt to deceive me."

Without answering, Fletcher exited the house and waited for the elf to emerge. He then locked the door and they walked to the alienage without saying another word to each other.

~o~O~o~

Bethany opened the door to Arianni's house and let Fletcher and Fenris in. Within, Feynriel's mother and Marethari were waiting, as was Merrill.

"I want to help, Hawke," she said eagerly, blanching when she spotted Fenris, who had fixed her and Marethari with a severe and distrustful look.

"This is Fenris," Fletcher told the keeper. "He'll be entering the Fade with us."

Marethari tilted her head and walked to the warrior elf, his scowl deepening as she looked at him kindly. "But he is not one of us," she said to Fletcher. "There are risks-"

"I'm _going_ ," Fenris growled, and Fletcher gave a forlorn nod when Marethari glanced at him. Sighing, she stepped back.

"Hawke, I would speak with you alone," she said.

"I do not intend to repeat myself," Fenris said firmly.

"Nor do I," Marethari replied. "I see that your mind is set. I wish to speak of another matter with Hawke."

"Oh. Well, in that case…I am sorry." Fenris harrumphed and moved away, watching as Fletcher and Marethari went into an adjoining room and closed the door.

"Don't worry, Fenris, you'll be safe with us," Merrill chirped, and Fenris shot her a look so icy the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Bethany smiled awkwardly and asked Arianni where she'd bought her drapes.

When Fletcher and Marethari emerged a few minutes later, the mage could not meet the others' eyes, his tension obvious in his hunched shoulders, flared nostrils and the tight line of his mouth. "Let's get this out of the way," he said grimly.

~o~O~o~

With the ritual complete, the threesome found themselves standing in a great forest and they squinted, but the fuzzy, shifting images of the surrounding landscape didn't resolve.

"If you start to feel dizzy, concentrate on your feet for a moment," Fletcher advised Fenris, who nodded as the mage looked around for a landmark or building. "There's a small shack over there," he said, pointing to the south.

"Something there as well, Hawke," Merrill stated as she looked behind them at a large, hollowed-out tree that stood out among the others.

"Feynriel!" Fletcher called out.

"Do you really think it wise to advertise our presence here?" remonstrated Fenris.

"Whatever's here already _knows_ of our presence," Fletcher answered. "Come on, then!" he shouted at the trees. "Where's the welcoming committee?"

The ground before them grew darker as though a shadow had passed over it, but there was no sun in the pallid, featureless sky. The shadow deepened and began to solidify as a twisted, hideous form rose from the ground. Without hesitation, Fenris pushed the mages back and drew his sword, holding it ready with both hands.

"No further, foul creature!" he commanded as the being drifted towards them. It stopped, a dreary, apathetic laugh oozing lazily from it.

"Say your piece and make it quick!" Fletcher commanded, blinking and stifling a yawn as the sloth demon's stultifying presence took hold.

"I am Torpor," said the demon in introduction, its voice as smooth and bitter as molasses.

"No small talk," barked Fenris. "What do you want?"

"I seek only what you seek," drawled the spirit, "but I tire so easily…the boy, Feynriel, is within my grasp but it is so difficult…with your help-"

"If you believe we are going to assist you in procuring the boy, you are _sorely_ mistaken," Fenris interrupted with a glance at Fletcher, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. " _Hawke_!" he yelled. "Do _I_ need to be the one to refuse this demon's bargain or are _you_ going to do it?"

Fletcher shook his head and blinked as though woken from a dream.

"Hawke," Merrill groaned, clutching her head and swaying. "I don't feel very well…feel like I'm…sleep…"

"Merrill-" Fletcher lumbered to her side and, having seen enough, Fenris raised his sword above his head.

"No more, demon. Release your hold on them. We will _not_ treat with you." His sword sliced through the air and passed through Torpor, who disappeared into thin air. "Is it still here?" Fenris demanded, looking around.

"No," Fletcher said with a huge effort as he and Merrill came to their senses. "It was… it was just a symbol."

"You told me you would be _safe_ ," hissed Fenris as he moved next to the mages, "and yet within seconds of arriving here, you fall under a demon's thrall – _both_ of you!"

"That _was_ a sloth demon, Fenris!" Merrill protested. "They're really, really powerful, you know!"

"All demons are powerful to the _weak_ ," retorted Fenris with an accusatory glare at the Dalish mage. "If I had not been here, you would have completely given yourselves over to it!"

"That's not fair," answered Fletcher firmly. "Yes, we were affected by it but that doesn't mean we would have made a deal with it! I thought you trusted me! First you suspect me of trickery, and now you believe I'd make a deal with the first demon we encounter?"

Fenris's eyes moved to Merrill, who stood behind Fletcher. "Leave us," he commanded.

"Hey, don't talk to her like that," defended Fletcher. "She volunteered to help us!"

"I'm going," she announced, walking a short distance away. "Just hurry up and get your row out of the way. We _are_ in the bloody Fade, you know – where demons and stuff like that live?" With a derisory snort, she turned her back on the twosome and waited.

"You don't trust me, do you?" Fletcher demanded of Fenris. "For all your talk about how much I've changed your life and how differently you see mages now, when it comes down to it I'll always be weak and easily corrupted to you, won't I?"

"No," Fenris answered, his voice quaking. "I-I _do_ trust you, it is just…I am _afraid_ for you. Can you not see that?"

"But why?" Fletcher asked. "Why are you so afraid all of a sudden? I enter the Fade every time I cast a spell and every time I sleep! What is it? What's the matter?"

Fenris looked sidelong in Merrill's direction and then stared at the ground. "I…have a feeling. I cannot seem to shake it."

"What do you mean, a feeling?" Fletcher asked in concern as Merrill turned around and headed for them.

"All right, I can't hear shouting so I assume you're friends again," she interrupted. "Shall we get on or do I have to wait for you to kiss and make up?"

"No, Merrill…I'm sorry," said Fletcher, but Fenris offered no apology of his own. "Let's check out that tree."

With a proverbial cloud over their heads, they trudged to the huge tree, Fletcher holding an arm out to slow their approach when he spotted a dark-haired young man seated at the base of the tree, reading a book. "Here we go," he muttered as they neared.

The young man looked up with a smile and bright eyes. Placing his book on the ground and pushing to his feet, he bowed to the men and reached for Merrill's hand but she snatched it away before he could kiss it. The man threw his head back and laughed, and Fenris's stomach knotted – the young man had Fletcher's laugh, his eyes, even his dimples.

"Yes, it _is_ laughable," Fletcher growled, his face reddening in anger. "You've got his eyes wrong _again_ , Synia. They're _blue._ "

"Synia? Who's that, Brother?" asked the young man and Fenris, brandishing his sword, strode forward.

"You are _not_ his brother," snarled the elf. "Desist this grotesque charade and show your true form, so I may slay you quickly."

"Why would you slay me? I've done nothing to you," protested the facsimile of Carver. "Besides, I'm only a visitor here, and you can't touch me. I just wanted to say hello to my dear brother. I've missed you, Fletcher. Come and give me a hug."

"Don't talk such rot!" Merrill exclaimed. "Hawke's brother would sooner have punched him than hugged him – even _I_ know that. Go on – scram!"

Carver laughed again but this time a feminine, if deep, voice left his mouth. Slowly, the image of Carver metamorphosed into that of a semi-clad female, the likes of which all three had seen before. Fenris lunged forward and jabbed at the demon with his sword but it winked out, immediately reappearing at the side of the tree.

"He _is_ passionate, isn't he?" asked Synia, laughing as Fenris bared his teeth and lowered like a rabid wolf.

"What's the point of this?" Fletcher blustered.

Synia pouted, feigning hurt. "It's just been _so_ long since I spoke to my favourite pet. And I have something to show you!" she chattered excitedly.

"Not interested," Fletcher snapped, turning on his heel, only for Synia to re-materialise in front of him.

"But I insist," she purred, cocking her head to the side. "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine – oh, but you've already met, haven't you?" She stepped to the side, revealing another youth who'd been standing behind her, but one who was younger than Carver.

Fenris's eyes moved between Fletcher and Synia but settled on the mage after a few seconds when it became clear that Fletcher was deeply distressed at the sight of the chestnut-haired teenager standing in front of him. "What's wrong?" he asked, appalled, as Fletcher staggered back, chest heaving, eyes unblinking and mouth agape.

"I thought you might be interested in that," said the demon with a triumphant smile. "Well?" she prompted the teenage boy at her side. "Don't be rude…say hello to Fletcher."

The boy squinted slightly. "Fletcher? I…know you, don't I?" he asked. "I know that name from somewhere…."

"Enough of this!" ordered Fenris, noting the inch-thick burn across the boy's throat.

"Yes, leave him alone, you big-titted cow!" Merrill cried, sending a bolt of energy from her staff into the centre of the demon and Synia's image, along with the boy's, melted away.

"Fine, we know when we're not wanted," cackled the demon's voice from overhead before a fraught silence settled over the forest.

"Who _was_ that?" Merrill asked after a pause. "I mean the boy, not the demon, obviously."

Fenris slowly moved to Fletcher's side, gravely concerned by the mage's demeanour and the desolation in his eyes as he stared into the distance. "Fletcher…it's not real. Your brother was not real, you knew that. The boy – Dalton, I assume – was also _not real_."

Fletcher shrugged off the small hand that touched his shoulder and stumbled forward, heading for the small shack he'd spotted earlier. Fenris gave chase, bristling as Merrill jogged at his side.

"Who _was_ it?" she asked again.

"Why must you go on about this?" he hissed, his eyes on Fletcher as the distance between them widened. "Can you not see how distraught he is? It was not real – leave it at that!"

"But it must have been real," she said simply. "Demons can alter their own appearance, and they can summon shades and whatnot, but they can't project images of other people – you know, normal people – unless they're in their own domain. Synia _wasn't_."

Fenris came to an abrupt halt, watching as Merrill sailed ahead before she also stopped. "Come on, then!" she encouraged. "You're the one going on about how upset he is – why've you stopped?" She turned and trotted on but Fenris only had eyes for Fletcher, who was well ahead of them and almost at the wooden shack. Spurred on by the sudden panic that seared his belly, the elf broke into a sprint, quickly overtaking Merrill and arriving, breathless, behind Fletcher just before he entered the small building.

"Fletcher!" gasped Fenris, grabbing his lover by the shoulders and moving to block his path.

"Fenris, _don't_ -"

"Stop, please stop," implored Fenris, knowing that Fletcher was capable of truly reckless behaviour when emotionally overwrought. He was _not_ going to lose Fletcher – as predicted in his dream – in the Fade of all places. " _Please_."

Merrill slowed her approach and hung back as the men stared at each other.

"What was he doing here?" Fletcher asked in a broken voice, his eyes moist. "He _can't_ be here…I-I don't understand!"

Fenris clutched first Fletcher's arms and then his face, forcing the mage to look at him. "Listen to me," he ordered. "You _must_ control yourself! When this is done, we will consult with Anders, or whomever you wish. For now, I _beg_ you not to lose sight of yourself. I do not want to see you hurt," he pleaded.

"But…I don't…why?" Fletcher mumbled, his eyes roaming the landscape, focusing on nothing.

Keeping hold of the mage's face, Fenris pulled him close. "Fletcher, I _love_ you," he whispered urgently. "Do you understand? Do you _know_ how important you are to me? You are everything to me. _Everything_."

Fletcher let out an anguished exclamation, his eyes finally settling on the elf's as his heart threatened to leap from his chest. "You…you said it," he breathed.

"I said it because I _mean_ it," the elf asserted, his hands sliding from Fletcher's face to his arms. "And I would not see you risk your life. That _demon_ of yours would like nothing more than to gain possession of you before your time. Why do you think she did it? You _know_ how you are when you are disquieted."

Fletcher briefly glanced over to Merrill, who remained a short distance away, and shrugged. "Demented?" he quipped humourlessly.

"Yes," Fenris answered candidly. "I fear so."

"You-you're right," Fletcher sighed, taking Fenris's hand that was out of sight of Merrill. "I-I'll focus, I swear. I won't do anything stupid. For your sake, my love."

"Good." Fenris squeezed Fletcher's hand before releasing it and stepping back. "We are ready," he called to Merrill, who stopped pretending to examine her staff and joined them.

"Thank you for telling me, Fen," Fletcher whispered before they headed to the shack, wondering what awaited them within.

Fenris paused for a heartbeat as he watched both mages closely. His profession of love had indeed appeared to give Fletcher his focus back, but it also meant that the prophecy of his dream had now been completely fulfilled.

The question remained: would the prophecy prove accurate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da'len = child
> 
> Festis bei umo canavarum! = You will be the death of me!


	79. We All Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't do this," Fletcher pleaded, a single tear carving a fresh, bright track along his dirty, bloodied cheek. "You'll never forgive yourself. Don't give in to them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve decided to disregard the ‘Mages turn tranquil if killed in the Fade’ rule set down in the game because it contradicts itself several times – I’ve ‘killed’ Anders/Justice and Merrill in the Fade and neither of them turned tranquil. So, in this story at least, if mages are ‘killed’ in the Fade their mortal bodies, and minds, are unharmed.
> 
> A huge thank-you to Mary for going above and beyond with your beta and hand-holding services! I appreciate you more than I can express. Thank you also to all who are following the story, and for your kudos and comments.

Fletcher stepped in front of Fenris as they stood before the door to the dilapidated wooden shack. "There are definitely no other landmarks around, are there?" he asked his companions, and they looked around again before replying in the negative. "This is it, then," he said quietly, turning to look at the shack once more.

"This is what?" asked Fenris.

"The Fade is full of symbolism," Fletcher answered without turning around. "Torpor was a symbol of our desire to aid or betray Feynriel. You refused to betray him, Fenris, by attempting to slay the demon, but it could not be slayed as it was only a visitor. You still made your intent clear, though, and so it disappeared."

"What was the tree, then?" Merrill piped up. "From what I saw, that was just your own demon being a bitch."

"Oh, she's that," Fletcher agreed with a sigh. "Maybe it was just a tree."

Fenris glanced back and forth between the two mages. "I'm sorry…I'm not certain I understand," he murmured.

Fletcher turned to face Fenris and the elf was relieved to see that Fletcher had calmed down, but now he seemed almost _too_ calm – fatalistically so. "This is the only true landmark in this place," answered the mage, looking around. "It's small and closed in…it makes me feel claustrophobic. It's also very old."

"And rotten," Merrill added flatly.

Fletcher breathed in and looked down, his eyes locking with Fenris's. "This is what we're here for. Whatever's inside, it's very powerful. Fenris, I'd like you to stay out here."

Fenris slowly shook his head. "Unequivocally, _no_."

"He's right, Fenris," Merrill urged, taking a few cautious steps closer. "You won't be able to just swish your sword at whatever's inside and make it disappear – this is _its_ domain. It has substance and power here. True power."

"The two of you were almost overcome by the sloth demon that greeted us," Fenris argued, "and you are telling me that it had no real powers? What if _another_ sloth demon lies within? One with 'true' powers, as you claim?"

"I don't think this _is_ a sloth demon," Fletcher intoned soberly, his gaze on Merrill. "I'm…not getting that feeling."

"Neither am I," she answered.

A deep, thick silence hung between the mages as their eyes met and Fletcher looked away, bringing his hands up to rest on Fenris's shoulders. "That trick of the sloth demon's was just that - a parlour trick. Some demons have more…substantial weapons in their arsenal – weapons enough to bring even a dreamer to his knees if he's unaware of his powers. Merrill and I _will_ be safe, Fenris, but I'm not sure _you_ will."

" _I_ will not be safe?" Fenris countered. "Fletcher…I have seen sights that I doubt even _you_ have seen. I am familiar with every type of demon and the thought that I would submit to one of them is, quite frankly, insulting."

"Some demons can play on your weaknesses," Fletcher explained gently. "They know your deepest fears and desires. They know things that even _you_ don't know about yourself - those things that we keep hidden or try very hard to forget. I don't know what-"

"I swore to you that I would stand at your side, always, and I am not about to renege on that promise," Fenris said resolutely. "Whatever dangers are abroad, we will face them _together_. Please, do not argue with me – it is pointless."

Fletcher closed his eyes for a moment before removing his hands from Fenris's shoulders and, opening his eyes, he looked mournfully at Merrill, who shrugged.

"Remember you told me you had a feeling?" Fletcher whispered in one last attempt to dissuade Fenris from entering the shack. "I _also_ have a feeling, and it's not a nice one. You're…a very proud man, Fenris."

Fenris lightly squeezed Fletcher's bicep before moving past him and gingerly pushing the door of the shack open, his sword drawn. Merrill followed, offering Fletcher a miserable glance before he, too, entered.

As soon as they stepped inside the landscape shifted and, before they could blink, they were standing on a plateau overlooking a vast plantation, stretching as far as the limits of their vision. Large squares of tilled soil and flourishing crops lay below them, although no one appeared to be working on them. The sun, high in the cloudless, lazuline sky, beat down upon them and Fletcher shielded his eyes from the glare as he surveyed their surroundings.

"This is a powerful one," Merrill commented grimly, her staff held ready.

Fletcher also gripped his staff tightly at his side and placed a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "Is any of this familiar to you?" he asked.

"No…should it be?"

A faint rustling from behind them caused them to turn and, listening carefully, they localised the noise. With a shared glance, they started down the small hill until they reached the edge of a large maize crop. They waited, their eyes darting to and fro as they listened for another sound and, for a few minutes, nothing happened.

Then, Fenris strafed to one side as an ear of corn went flying past his head.

"Sorry!" called a cheery male voice from within the crops. The rustling was heard again and several of the plants were parted as a young, blond elven man emerged, carrying a scythe. He was topless and barefoot, only a short piece of cloth, tied around his waist, hiding his modesty. "I didn't hit you, did I?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Who are _you_ supposed to be?" Fletcher demanded.

"Me? Well, I-" Setting eyes upon Fenris, the elf stopped smiling and frowned in confusion. After a minute's silence, he quietly asked, "Leto? What are _you_ doing here?"

" _Leto_?" Fletcher mumbled. "Who's Leto?"

"There _is_ no 'Leto' here, demon," Fenris barked as the mages moved closely to his side. "Do not waste our time. Bring the boy to us or attack us – what is the point of these games?"

The blond elf shook his head and placed his scythe on the ground, holding his arms up. "I'm not going to attack you – I'm your friend! Don't you remember me, Leto?"

"He doesn't know you!" growled Fletcher, his breathing quickening when he noticed Fenris's head tilt to one side.

"Wait," said Fenris, holding up a hand. "I…you… _do_ seem familiar. Who are you?"

"He isn't _anybody_ , Fenris!" Merrill exclaimed with a fearful glance at Fletcher. "Don't listen to him!"

"You _know_ who I am," said the blond elf, his voice gently persuasive, his pale blue eyes full of sincerity.

Fletcher moved his hand to Fenris's back, panic surging through him when it was shrugged away.

"Let him speak," Fenris commanded, an odd note in his voice.

"Fenris, please-"

"I _said_ let him speak!"

Merrill grabbed Fletcher's arm and pulled him a short distance away. "Let him say his bit and then we'll sort him out," she advised in a whisper. "Fenris might be mardy with you but it's best not to wind him up now, isn't it?"

"We were friends," the elf continued as Fenris took a single step towards him, scrutinising his face. "My name is Vionet. You were like a brother to me. We faced many hardships together but we always came through them. We were _unbreakable_."

"Vionet," Fenris whispered, his back to the mages. "I… _do_ remember you…I think. It-it is…hazy…" He turned back to face Fletcher. "I…remember him," he said, his voice quaking with emotion.

Fletcher's hands went to his mouth as Fenris turned away and resumed his conversation. Who _was_ this Vionet? A friend? A past lover? Was he really there – had he passed from the mortal realm or was he a demon's creation, if not the demon itself? Could Fletcher deny Fenris the chance of remembering even a small part of his past? And would Fenris be denied that chance if Fletcher intervened?

"I don't know what to do, Merrill," he murmured, fear and anticipation burning his stomach.

"Just…just wait a bit," she answered, also sounding uncertain.

"I can help you," Vionet told Fenris. "I can show you everything – all that was taken from you. Your parents, your sister – they are all here."

"My… _parents_?"

"Yes, Leto. Fabian, Silvestra and Varania – your family. I can help you remember them."

Vionet moved aside and a middle-aged elven man took a step forward, his appearance eliciting a gasp from Merrill – his dark hair, flecked with grey, huge, emerald green eyes and his high cheekbones and fine bone structure made it obvious he was Fenris's father.

"This-this can't be right!" she wavered. "Why would they want to help him?"

"I've been waiting for you, Leto," said Fabian, holding his arms out to Fenris. "It has been too long." Appearing grief-stricken, Fenris slowly neared him, bringing his own hands up to clasp Fabian's.

"Fenris, _don't_!" Fletcher urged, his voice tight with fear. "They're using your buried memories – that's not your father!"

"Don't listen to him," said Vionet as he moved to Fabian and Fenris's side. "This mage promised to help you recover your memories – has he done so?"

"I…do not know," answered Fenris, obviously confused. "He did say that, and yet…this is the first time since then I have remembered anything."

"That's not fair, Fenris!" Fletcher protested hotly. "I offered to help you but you said you'd think about it – I didn't want to pressure you! You haven't mentioned it since!"

"He _should_ have reminded you, my son," Fabian said with an accusing look at Fletcher. "He claims to care for you but what has he really done for you? Perhaps he does not _want_ you to remember."

"That-that's just not true," Fletcher choked out. "I've only ever wanted to help you. I love you!"

"He _loves_ you," Vionet mocked scornfully. "He is of the same kin that would keep us in bondage. He comes to this place – this place where we are finally _free_ \- and brings a demon with him! He is nothing but a magister in disguise!"

"You don't need him," Fabian urged, releasing one of Fenris's hands and stroking his hair. "He will only take from you – come with us, and we will give you everything, Leto. Everything you've ever dreamed of – your memories, your family."

"I've had just about enough of this!" Merrill shouted in outrage. "Fenris, don't you dare! Hawke loves you! They aren't your family! After all the times you've been on at me about being a blood mage, you're going to side with a pair of demons? Because that's what you're about to do, you know!"

Fenris slowly turned to the mages, and they were startled by the dullness of his eyes, their vibrancy and lustre gone.

"You know that he will turn on you one day," Vionet whispered, placing a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "He will give you to his demon in exchange for his own foul hide."

"Come back to me, Fenris!" Fletcher pleaded. "Don't listen to them! You love me – you told me so just now!"

" _I_ love you, son," Fabian murmured, gently turning Fenris to him and cupping his face. "Your mother and sister love you, too. Your family is waiting for you. This… _magister_ has been feeding you lies. He can offer you nothing but pain. Do _not_ let him take you away from us."

Fenris moved to fully face the mages, one hand moving behind his back for his sword, his eyes, locked with Fletcher's, conveying dubiety, fear and enmity – just like the first time they'd met.

"I won't, Father."

"Fenris, n-!"

A glimmer of steel and Fletcher was tumbling, lurching through the tall stalks, one arm held up to his face as they bent and whipped back at him, his other hand bunching his robe up above his knees to stop him from tripping. He didn't know where he was or where he was going – but he had to get away from Fenris, had to give him time to realise his mistake, for he had no doubt that the elf would kill him if he caught him. His mortal body would be safe but he was here for Feynriel, and Marethari would be too drained to perform another ritual so quickly.

He changed direction, trying to weave through the gaps in the maize so he wouldn't leave a trail of broken stalks. His breath started to come out in gasps, his heart battered his breastbone at a terrifying rate and his chest began to constrict – he knew he wouldn't be able to go on for much longer.

He changed direction again, his pace slowing as his calf muscles began to cramp and a stitch stabbed at his ribs. He finally stopped and bent double, clutching his chest as the tightness reached its agonising peak before slowly subsiding. If Fenris found him now, he'd have no chance – or he'd have to set him on fire and, while Fenris's mortal body would be unharmed, the pain his spell would induce, plus the deleterious effect such an action would have on their relationship, didn't bear thinking about.

"Hawke!" Merrill called out from some distance away. "Where are you? Are you all right?"

"Shut up!" he panted under his breath, his heart stilling momentarily. "Shut up, you stupid woman!"

"I'm lost! Where are you? I don't know which way he went! Hawke? Please, let me know you're all right!"

"Merrill, _please_ be quiet," he hissed, opening and closing his mouth several times, almost calling to her but backing out at the last second. "Shit!" he exclaimed as he started jogging in the direction of her voice, hoping against hope that he reached her before Fenris did.

"Please, Hawke, let me know you're all right! I'm panic-urk!"

Fletcher's eyes bulged and he stopped dead and listened, trying without success to slow his shuddering breaths. _Please call out, Merrill! I'll answer this time, I promise! Please!_

"Fenris, _don't_! You don't want to do this!" she cried and Fletcher felt the thrum of mana through his blood before it stopped abruptly.

"I have been waiting a long time for this, _witch_!"

"No, F-!"

Utter silence fell as suddenly as if a lead blanket had been spread across the field and Fletcher slowly backed away, arms held out at his sides before he realised he didn't feel the weight at his back he was accustomed to. He'd dropped his staff!

" _Do_ something Feynriel, you little bastard!" he railed bitterly, frantically retracing his steps. "Where in the Void _are_ you? You're supposed to be a dreamer! I'm trying to help you, you fucking ingrate!"

"Just keep talking, Hawke!" Fenris sneered, his voice louder and closer than it had been before.

Fletcher froze. Should he continue to look for his staff or move in another direction – both of which would make noise as he disturbed the maize – or should he stay put, hoping Fenris would pass him by? Should he just wander aimlessly through the field and get hopelessly lost? The methodical elf would eventually find him if he did that.

Or should he appeal to Fenris, try to reach the man who loved him? Fletcher believed _that_ Fenris was still there, deep inside the man who had been entranced by the demons.

"I'm here," he called out dejectedly, realising the futility of further flight. "It's Fletcher – I'm here."

A quiet rustling to his left caught his attention and he turned towards it, calling again and using his given name, noting that Fenris had called him _Hawke_. "It's Fletcher," he repeated. "I'm letting you know where I am because I _trust_ you. That's what you do when you _love_ someone. I know, deep down, that you don't want to hurt me," he appealed, once again scanning the ground for his staff. "We've been through a lot together, haven't we?"

The rustling sound drew nearer and Fletcher's stomach knotted, not convinced he was getting through to the elf. "Remember that garden you always wanted? You know the little patch I've saved for you at the house? I wonder if you could grow veggies as tall as these?"

The rustling stopped and Fletcher squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of Fenris to his left side, knowing he must be nearby.

Taking a deep breath, he resumed: "I wasn't going to tell you yet, but I bought a bottle of Aggregio Pavali for our first sunset – I know how much you like it. Let's hope we wake up in time for our first sunrise, eh? Depends what time we go to bed, I suppose…remember the first time we made love, Fen?" he asked wistfully, though his wits and senses were on high alert.

His heart slowed to a near-normal rate as the silence deepened around him. Had his words had an impact? Or was Fenris considering his next move?

"And remember the second and third times?" he added, softening his voice. "That third time – we really found our stride, didn't we? We really became comfortable with each other. When we lay together afterwards, Fen, and I watched you sleep, I knew – I knew this was forever."

Adrenaline trickled into his stomach and his heart picked up its pace as still no answer, or signs of movement, came from Fenris. "You know where I am," he said heavily, his chest heaving as he searched the crop for the tiniest movement. "Whatever you're going to do, do it now. Like you said before, this is pointless."

There was a rush of sound to his right and then something caught him across the face and he was on the ground, frantically crawling away from - or was that towards? – Fenris. He tried to shake his head, regain his sense of direction, but the stabbing pain in his cheekbone sent his senses and orientation into freefall. Panting, he continued to crawl, strings of bloody drool hanging from his mouth as he heard the scrape of gravel from behind him and then one of his ankles were grabbed, followed by the other, and he thrashed his legs, kicking out.

He heard a grunt and his ankles were released; too terrified to look back, he tried to get to his feet but something slammed into him again and arms wrapped around his waist. Clouds of dust erupted around them as they grappled in the dirt but the stronger elf – impelled by an all-consuming, white-hot rage – grabbed Fletcher's wrists and forced him onto his back.

"Fenris," Fletcher gasped, terrified and heartbroken as the elf released his hands and pinned his shoulders down, his handsome face twisted with malice.

"Magister!" the elf accused, his eyes barely focusing on Fletcher's face. "You would relinquish me to your demon – you have lied to me at every turn! I _trusted_ you!"

"You _can_ trust me!" Fletcher defended forcefully, noticing that Fenris's sword was still at his back. "Why haven't you used your sword? You _know_ it's me, don't you? You _know_ this is wrong! Stop this! Look at me – I'm bleeding! Is this what you want?"

One of Fenris's hands went to Fletcher's throat, applying just enough pressure to pin him in place, but not enough to obstruct his breathing. "Be quiet! You are attempting to deceive me, manipulate me – it will not work!" he growled.

"I'm not going to fight you," Fletcher said, laying his arms flat on the ground. "I won't hurt you and I know you won't hurt me."

Fenris's top lip curled and he squeezed gently, causing Fletcher to start coughing. "Arrogant, presumptuous man…just like the other magisters you believe you can speak for me, control my movements, my very thoughts?"

"I'm not a fucking magister!" Fletcher vociferated, gurgling when Fenris squeezed harder. "St-stop…!" His instincts kicked in and his hands went to Fenris's, desperately trying to prise them off but the elf placed both of his hands around his neck and leaned forward, distributing all of his weight through his arms and shoulders and onto Fletcher's neck.

Dizzy and unable to breathe, Fletcher's eyesight faded as enormous pressure built inside his head; out of options, he called on the Fade before he blacked out.

Fenris yelled as he was violently propelled several feet into the air and he slammed onto his back, groaning as he slowly pushed himself up. Driven by adrenaline alone, Fletcher was already on his feet, a hand protectively clutching his throat.

"Stop making me use magic on you!" he cried hoarsely and then cold, nauseating dread surged through him as Fenris rose and advanced, blue light streaming through his clothes.

"N-n-n-no! Don't activate your markings!" Fletcher blurted out as he backed off, slowly, holding one hand out in front of him. "We talked about this – you said you wouldn't!"

"And now I see why!" barked Fenris, advancing to match Fletcher's rate of egress. "Keep the slave down! Do not allow him any means of defending himself or anything that would threaten the magisters' monopoly of power!"

"I _told_ you why! Stop this, Fenris!"

"No! You did _not_ tell me! You and your collective of magisters – Anders, Quentin, Orsino - want to study me and use me for your own nefarious ends!" Fenris rushed toward Fletcher and the mage stumbled, treading on his robe and crashing on to his back.

"Your markings are powered by Danarius's demons!" he yelled up at the elf, almost in tears. "I'm sorry! Every time you activate them he's able to locate you!"

"You _lie_!" roared Fenris, dropping to his knees between Fletcher's legs and roughly pinning the mage's arms above his head. "You have done nothing but lie to me right from the start!" He moved one hand down and held it above Fletcher's chest, his fingers forming a claw.

"Don't _do_ this," Fletcher pleaded, a single tear carving a fresh, bright track along his dirty, bloodied cheek. "You'll never forgive yourself. Don't give in to them. Please, love-"

"Shut _up_!" Fenris snarled, bringing his face next to Fletcher's.

"I love you," Fletcher murmured, looking directly into Fenris's eyes. "I don't care what you do to me – just deactivate your markings. _Please_. We're in the Fade, Fenris. The _Fade_. Do you understand what that means?"

A split-second flicker of doubt in the elf's eyes gave Fletcher hope before Fenris's nose wrinkled and his clawed hand tightened.

"Do it, then," said Fletcher, closing his eyes, his fight deserting him.

"That's enough!" called a clear, authoritative voice and Fletcher's eyes flew open.

Fenris was gone.

He lay panting for a few seconds before his instincts again kicked in and he hauled himself onto his feet, retching and spluttering as he lurched through the maize, no longer knowing what he was doing, driven only by the need to survive. Green crops and blue sky blurred into each other and all he could see was grey; the only sounds to be heard the sharp snap of broken stems and the anguished moan that accompanied each convulsive exhalation.

"I said, enough!"

Fletcher halted, almost losing his footing, and gaped at the young man who blocked his path.

" _Hawke_? What are _you_ doing here?" he demanded, hands on hips.

Fletcher, gasping and gripping his throat, didn't answer, not knowing what to trust.

"I'm not a demon," Feynriel assured him, holding a hand out. "Here, let me heal you."

"No! No… I can do that myself," Fletcher insisted, but made no move to repair his injuries. "Can you-can you take this away?" he asked, gesturing to the seven-foot high stalks that surrounded them. "I don't feel safe."

"Take it away? How do you think I'm going to do that?" asked Feynriel in the belligerent tone that had irritated Fletcher upon their first meeting.

"You got rid of Fenris, didn't you? Just will it and it'll happen," Fletcher explained, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

"What are you _talking_ about? And you still haven't told me what you're doing here! What is going on?"

Fletcher sighed, his shoulders sagging in utter exhaustion and defeat. "You're a dreamer, Feynriel – a Somniari. You have the power to shape the Fade. You said 'that's enough' because I assume you wanted Fenris to stop attacking me, and he did stop – he disappeared. _You_ did that. You can do whatever you like, here."

"A-a Somniari? But-but I'm just a kid!" he spluttered.

"And that's precisely why the demons are after you," clarified Fletcher. "They want to take control of you before you learn to harness your powers, but all you have to do is wish them away. It's as simple as that."

"I _have_ wished them away! Do you think I want this, Hawke? I do nothing _but_ wish they'd leave me alone!"

"Maybe you don't _believe_ you can wish them away, and that's why they remain," speculated Fletcher, stepping closer the boy. "But I'm telling you that you're more powerful than any of them – even the demon that resides here. You can dismiss them with a mere thought, Feynriel – all of them."

"But…I…" Feynriel mumbled, bewildered.

"Try it out," Fletcher suggested, gesturing to the crops. "Take them away. Just _think_ it."

"I can't – this isn't my domain."

"You _can_ ," Fletcher insisted. "Domains are meaningless to dreamers. You have dominion over the Fade _itself_."

Not convinced, Feynriel huffed but closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the crops were gone and they stood on a plain, the sun still high in the sky.

"Now do you believe me?" Fletcher asked the stunned boy, who turned full circle, his mouth agape.

"I-I can wish for anything I want?" he asked excitedly, his expression turning more sober when he noticed Fletcher did not share his enthusiasm.

"Yes – now do you see why it's so dangerous for you to be here? Can you imagine what would happen if a demon took possession of you? Keeper Marethari has been trying to reach you – she and your mother are very worried."

Feynriel hung his head. "I heard her voice, but I was too afraid to go back," he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment.

Fletcher sighed as the image of Arianni appeared next to Feynriel and the boy burst into tears, wrapping his arms around her. "I'm so sorry, Mother, for everything I've put you through," he sobbed.

"You can do that for real on the mortal plane," Fletcher interrupted impatiently. "You must go back and do what Marethari says. She can help you. You need to learn how to use your powers for good. You're a smart lad, Feynriel – you know what I'm saying makes sense."

Feynriel pulled away from his 'mother' and wiped his eyes before nodding once, making her image vanish. "I'll-I'll do whatever you say, Hawke. What do I have to do?"

"You need to confront the demon here and tell it to leave you alone. There's no need for violence – the demons relied on the fact that you were frightened and ignorant of your powers. That no longer holds true. Do that and, the next time Marethari calls to you, answer her. She'll do the rest."

"All right," the lad agreed. "How do I find the demon, though?"

"Bring it to you – it assumed the form of a blond elven man. Make it stay in that form. Just believe you can do it, Feynriel – you're more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

"But I don't know what the elven man looked like-"

"It doesn't matter. Just keep the demon in its assumed form. Do it – _command_ it to come to you."

"I…just think it?"

"Just think it."

Fletcher's expression turned dour as the image of Vionet appeared before them. "Here is your demon," he growled as Feynriel opened his eyes. "Let me do just one thing before you say your piece."

Looking nervous, Feynriel nodded and watched as Fletcher stepped closer to the demon.

"This is for what you made Fenris do, you piece of shit." He made a fist and swung at the demon, landing a vicious blow to its nose. The demon staggered back, hands at its face to stem the flow of blood.

"What did you do _that_ for?" the demon shrieked.

"It's still trying to trick you, Feynriel," Fletcher advised, rubbing his knuckles. "Why do you think it hasn't attacked us? It's _frightened_ of you. Send it packing."

"Begone, demon!" Feynriel ordered, pointing off into the distance. "You have no power over me, nor do any of your kind! I'm a Somniari," he declared proudly with a glance at Fletcher, who nodded his encouragement. "Now, leave me be and never return!"

The image of the elf faded and floated away with the gentle breeze that wafted around them. "I-I did it!" exclaimed Feynriel, looking at Fletcher. "And you helped me – I can't thank you enough, Hawke." The lad held his hand out and Fletcher shook it.

"Will you send me back?" Fletcher asked. "And then return to your own domain and await Marethari – she'll join you. Listen to her, Feynriel – she might not be as powerful as you but she's lived a lot longer than you. Never assume you know everything. And show your mother some respect – she raised you singlehandedly and sacrificed a lot to protect you."

"Yes…I can see that now," he murmured, casting his eyes to the ground.

"You're a dreamer," Fletcher said with a pained smile. "And dreamers can wish humility upon themselves."

"I really must be powerful, then," he agreed with a tentative smile of his own.

"Goodbye, Feynriel," said Fletcher, shaking the boy's hand again. "And good luck."

~o~O~o~

"What happened?" Bethany asked as Fenris leapt up from the small couch he'd been lying on, his eyes immediately darting to Fletcher, who was still in the Fade, his mortal body unconscious.

"He stuck his flipping sword through me, that's what!" Merrill answered furiously from across the room, having awoken shortly before. "We might have been in the Fade, Fenris, but it still bloody well hurt!"

"I…I am… _deeply_ sorry, Merrill," Fenris mumbled thickly, picking up his sword and placing it at the far end of the room before distancing himself from it, not trusting himself, even out of the Fade. "I…do not know what came over-"

"I should blooming well think so!" huffed the Dalish mage, folding her arms. "Now, why have _you_ come back? Did Hawke set you on fire? I hope so, and I hope it hurt as well!"

"I do not know why – how - I returned," he breathed with a despairing look at his recumbent lover. "I…I almost-" He placed his hands over his face, unable to face anyone, nor wanting them to look at him, as the enormity of his deeds in the Fade hit him.

"He's coming round!" Arianni exclaimed and Marethari clutched one of her hands as Bethany and Merrill joined them, standing beside Fletcher as he stirred. Fenris, however, uncovered his face and stayed well back, feeling he had no right to stand with Fletcher's friends and loved ones, although he didn't blink once as he fixed his eyes on the mage.

"Welcome back, Brother," Bethany said with a smile when Fletcher's eyes opened. He quickly pushed up into a sitting position and glanced around the room, his eyes registering Fenris's presence but not lingering on him.

"Feynriel is safe," he reassured Arianni, and Bethany held the boy's mother as her legs gave way. "Sit her down," Fletcher ordered and they made the elven woman comfortable on a chair before Fletcher addressed Marethari. "He's going to return to his own domain," he explained. "I told him to wait for you. He knows how to protect himself until you arrive."

" _Ma Serannas_ , Hawke," she replied warmly with a deep bow before straightening up. "I once told you that you are a friend of the Dalish, but that is no longer sufficient. Know that there will always be a place for you next to our fire, and that our bread, our meat and our bows are yours."

"Don't take that lightly, Hawke," murmured Merrill as Fletcher returned the keeper's bow. "You're the first shem – human – to have such an honour bestowed upon them by my clan. I mean…the Sabrae clan."

Marethari smiled politely at Merrill and then sat beside Arianni.

"Are you both all right?" Fletcher asked, his eyes on Merrill, Fenris visible in his peripheral vision. Merrill nodded.

"Are…you?" Fenris asked in a fearful whisper.

"Fine," said Fletcher flatly, his eyes glassy.

"You should rest, Brother," Bethany advised, placing a hand on her brother's back, concerned at what had happened between them.

"No…no, it's all right," he uttered indistinctly, his eyes moving to the door as he felt an urgent need to escape. His heart quickening, he brushed past Fenris and opened the door. "I…have a patient to check on. Please excuse me, ladies."

Without waiting for a reply he closed the door and took several deep breaths. Anders – he had to… _Anders_.

He pushed, blindly, past several elves in the Alienage square, offering mumbled apologies, and stumbled his way to Lirene's in a dream. Had he been questioned later about his journey there, he wouldn't have remembered a second of it.


	80. A Fighting Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was wrong. So very, very wrong."
> 
> Caught off-guard for a moment, Fletcher looked away, suddenly overwhelmed by guilt for feeling so angry and then, like a returning tide, the anger surged back into him.
> 
> "So did it feel wrong when you were strangling me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mary for beta-ing, brainstorming and hand-holding. The chapter lost 58 words, one of them 'over', after your corrections. Now we're even for the 'gotten'. :D
> 
> And thank you to all who are following the story. I was nervous about publishing the last chapter but your reaction to it was very encouraging. I really appreciate your support!

"You've come on leaps and bounds, Donnic. I think you're ready to go to the infirmary at the barracks, if you want to, that is. It's just getting you there… I'm not sure if you could manage those steps yet." Anders sighed and placed a hand on Donnic's shoulder. The guard, who had made a good recovery – physically, at least – was seated on the edge of the examination table he'd spent the last two days and nights on, and was now strong enough to stand and walk around.

"I'm… I'm…" Donnic frowned and shook his head in frustration. He knew what he wanted to say but the bloody words just wouldn't come out! He slapped the heel of his hand against the table and pushed himself up, walking a few steps away before stopping and groaning.

"We're going to work on that," Anders said with a kind smile, moving to Donnic's side. "Don't be hard on yourself. You couldn't even say whole words a couple of days ago. When Hawke gets here, we'll… actually, he's late. It's not like him."

"I've heard he's quite in demand," said Mallory, who had bumped into Anders on his way back from the Hanged Man and had been invited to the new clinic. "Maybe he was held up?"

Anders frowned. "Still, he'd usually let me know, get a message to me or something." He moved in front of Donnic and patted the guard's arm. "We can make a start without him, anyway. Just a bit of speech therapy. Do you feel up to it?"

Donnic sighed, nodded and allowed himself to be guided back to the table by Anders, who took a seat next to him. "I don't mean to go on, but Aveline's been asking to see you again," said Anders, and Donnic held his hands up, shaking his head. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, you know," Anders consoled the guard. "She didn't leave your side when you were unconscious and she-"

"No," Donnic said decisively, a thunderous frown on his face.

"All right," Anders acquiesced softly, sensing Donnic's growing frustration.

"Shh!" Mallory hissed and pointed to the front of the cellar as the trapdoor slammed shut and the wooden steps creaked under heavy footfalls. "Who's there?" she called and the footfalls stopped abruptly, a large, still shadow cast across the foot of the steps. Quickly, she bundled Anders to the sleeping area of the clinic, which was in darkness, and waited as the footfalls slowly resumed.

"Oh, it's just Hawke!" she laughed in relief when the light of the lamps illuminated the mage's face.

"Maker, Hawke, I thought we'd agreed to announce ourselves!" Anders said irritably as he emerged from the shadows and then he stopped, tilting his head to the side. Fletcher was standing at the foot of the steps giving Mallory a very hard stare and, as soon as Anders became visible, that same stare was directed at him. For a moment they stood in silence, waiting for Hawke to speak.

"You…remember Mallory, don't you?" Anders asked cautiously. Fletcher gnawed his bottom lip, his hands clenching at his sides as his eyes darted around the cellar.

Mallory and Anders glanced at one another before Mallory broke the ensuing silence. "It's all right, Hawke – I understand why you didn't tell me about the new clinic. I don't blame you for being cautious."

Fletcher's eyes widened in surprise and anger and he snorted before turning his gaze to Anders. "Need to speak to you," he growled, oozing hostility from every pore.

"Go ahead, H-"

" _Alone_ ," Fletcher ground out, his nostrils flaring as he stared at the floor.

"I'll go," Mallory said hurriedly with an awkward smile. "I'll, um, see you later, Anders?"

"Yes," he answered tightly as she started up the steps, his eyes on Fletcher.

Donnic pushed off the table and also headed for the steps, only for Fletcher to grab his arm. " _You_ don't need to go, Donnic."

Not wanting to be caught in the middle of an argument, Donnic shook his head and went up the steps anyway.

The trapdoor was closed and Anders folded his arms, looking none too pleased. "Would you care to explain why you were so rude to Mallory?" he demanded. "I haven't seen her for ages and we were catching up! And she told me you saw her a couple of days ago – why didn't you mention it? And why didn't you tell her where the new clinic was?"

"Not now, Anders! I'm not in the mood!" Fletcher snapped before turning away and dragging his fingers through his hair.

"Well, I can see _that_ ," Anders retorted angrily. "Who rattled _your_ cage, then?"

"I didn't expect to see _her_! I just… I just needed… I thought it would just be you." Fletcher released a shuddering breath and his hands covered his face, his shoulders and chest heaving.

Sighing, Anders slowly walked to him and moved Fletcher's hands from his face when he noticed they were shaking. Placing a hand on his back, he led Fletcher to his desk and sat him down before fetching his own chair and sitting down next to him.

"Sorry," Fletcher mumbled, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "I… don't know what to do."

"What happened?" Anders asked, his anger dissipating in the face of his concern.

"We went-we went into the Fade… for Feynriel. Remember Feynriel?" Fletcher blathered, failing to notice Anders's frown. "I saw Synia and Dalton was with her and-and I don't know what he was doing with her because it wasn't her domain. He shouldn't have been there, should he? I just don't… I don't know. I don't know what to do."

"Slow down, Hawke," Anders urged. "You went into the Fade? Without me? When? And who's Dalton?"

"And Fenris," Fletcher went on, his voice breaking. "I can't-I can't take this… what he did…" He balled his hands together, resting his forehead against them, his eyes squeezed closed.

"What… did Fenris do?" Anders asked, his voice deceptively calm, but Fletcher shook his head, too upset to say any more. "All right," Anders sighed, pushing out of his chair. "Stay here. I'm going to fetch Bethany. Is she at home?"

"No, don't go…" Fletcher reached out for Anders, who sat back down. "I… need your help. I don't know what to do," he said for the third time.

Anders pressed his hand against his thigh, stopping the involuntary jiggling of his leg Fletcher's words had elicited. He drew a slow breath through his nose and decided this conversation wouldn't go well if he immediately enquired about Fenris, although that very subject was the cause of his tension.

"Let's start at the beginning, then," he said soothingly. "You went into the Fade to help Feynriel. Why did you do that?"

Haltingly at first, Fletcher recounted the day's events, his demeanour and speech more subdued when he began to discuss his encounter with Synia.

"Dalton… that's the boy you told me about? The one who-?" Anders stopped as Fletcher nodded, no further description of the boy needed. "So… Synia posed as him? Is that right?"

"No… she posed as _Carver_." Fletcher sighed deeply, as though speaking was a huge drain on him. "He was _there_ with her, Anders. Standing right next to her… how-how can that be?"

"Wait a minute…" Anders leaned forward, his brow heavy. "You're saying that he appeared _separately_ from her – _outside_ her domain?"

Fletcher's eyes, full of fear, fixed on Anders's. "Yes. That's… not right, is it?"

Anders placed one hand over his mouth and then absently rubbed his cheek before putting his hand in his lap, his eyes hooded. "No, it's not. I wonder…" He took a deep breath and shook his head. "Right. Let's get through the rest of it and then we'll talk about what to do. What happened with Fenris?" he asked in a casual tone, noticing an immediate change in Fletcher's posture.

"Nothing… I shouldn't have – it doesn't matter," Fletcher mumbled, staring at the far wall. Part of him knew that Fenris was not responsible for his actions in the Fade and, although another part of him was furious and devastated, he held back from telling Anders _that_ part. The last thing Fletcher needed to hear from Anders was 'I told you so'.

"It didn't sound like nothing not long ago," Anders said carefully, not wanting Fletcher to clam up as he was anxious to hear what had occurred. "You can tell me. I won't judge, I'll just listen." A half-truth, he knew, but he genuinely wanted his friend to unburden himself.

Fletcher shook his head, again feeling the urge to escape, to be alone, which warred with his desire to throw his arms around Anders and weep on his shoulder. Drawing his hands to his chest to stop himself from doing that very thing, he stood and moved quickly to the foot of the steps, Anders hot on his heels.

"Hawke, come back, you're upset – talk to me. Don't run away," Anders softly cajoled.

"I need to – I'll be back. Help with Donnic. Just need…" Fletcher shook his head and started up the steps.

"Where are you going?" asked Anders.

Fletcher pointed ahead, vaguely in the direction of central Lowtown. "Just… I'll be back. Soon. Promise."

He flipped the trapdoor up and Anders squinted as light flooded the small flight of steps, before it was closed and Anders was left alone. He groaned and went back to his chair, absently shuffling a few notes under the light of a torch perched on the wall above.

"Were you listening to that?" he asked softly.

"Yes, Anders. Every word of it."

~o~O~o~

After saying a polite goodbye to the three elven ladies, Bethany stepped outside Arianni's house into the Alienage. Fenris had exited a few minutes earlier – leaving his sword behind - and, expecting him to have gone after Fletcher, she was surprised to find him sitting on a wall at the side of the small house, staring despondently at the steps leading out of the Alienage. She guessed from the slight movement of his head that he'd noticed her, and she moved closer, sitting a few feet away from him, not wishing to draw attention to his distress.

For a few minutes, neither spoke as they watched the hustle and bustle of market day in the Alienage, glad of the activity for it meant they went largely unnoticed.

"How do you _do_ it?" he asked eventually, fear and awe in his voice. "How do you…resist? Over and over again?"

"Resist what?" she asked gently.

He bowed his head, closing his eyes. "How could I have been so wrong? All along I have believed that mages are weak. But you… are not, are you?" He opened his eyes and looked directly into hers, sidling a little closer. " _You_ have resisted the demons' calls, Bethany. Many mages do. Even the ones who did _not_ resist have proved stronger than-" He shook his head, releasing a weary sigh. " _I_ am the weak one. I should… but, no. I fear it is too late. There is no apology, no reparation enough for what I have done. I have… it is over."

"Fenris, whatever's happened-" She paused as the elf stood up, and she did the same.

"Go to your brother," he murmured, facing away from her. "He needs you more than I."

"I intend to, but he'll be with Anders now," she said, moving in front of him. "I'm not leaving you like this. You and Fletcher need to talk."

He slowly looked up at her and the sadness in his eyes pierced her heart. "I betrayed him… they offered me my family, all of my lost memories. They-they sounded so reasonable, so kind… and when I looked at him, all I could see was Danarius."

"You mean… the demons? Those bastards!" Bethany growled. "They tricked you! It's not your fault – we can work this out. Fletcher will understand, I promise you! All right, he might be upset at the moment, but-"

"I would have killed him," Fenris confessed, his voice almost lost on the gentle gust of wind that ruffled his hair. "He told me-he spoke of his love for me, but in my mind his voice was twisted, mocking – he was _laughing_ at me… or so I believed."

He brought a trembling hand to Bethany's cheek. "I would have called you Sister… but… I have a sister, even though I do not remember her. My name is… Leto? I have a family but I do not know if they are living or dead. My father… I… nothing seems real. Nothing makes any _sense_."

"You can _still_ call me Sister," she promised, reaching for his hand.

"No. I have forfeited that right," he said, slipping his hand out of hers. "You should go. I… do not deserve-"

Her slightly larger hand grabbed his and refused to let go. "You're coming home with me," she insisted. "I'll find Fletcher and the two of you can talk."

"He will not speak with me," Fenris answered, "and deservedly so. I have no right to expect anything of him."

"I _swear_ I'm going to knock your noggins together," threatened Bethany with a shake of her head. "Fletcher _will_ talk to you – I'll see to that. Now, unless you want to stand around here all day, let's go home. I'm not letting go of your hand."

"Please, Bethany, do not-"

"I remember when Fletcher first told you that he was a blood mage," she said, speaking quietly and not relinquishing his hand. "When I returned to the Dalish camp, you couldn't face talking to him because it was too much for you to take in – but you also told me that you didn't hate him. Do you remember that?"

Fenris slowly nodded.

"Fletcher doesn't hate you. He knows, more than anyone, how manipulative the demons are. It's just been a bit too much for him to take in, and he needed to get away, like you did – you went off, seeking solitude. Sometimes we need to do that. I know my brother. He'll have a good cry or a sulk, or he'll pummel his pillow or get drunk. Maybe all of those things. And then, when it's out of his system, he'll want to make things right."

"But _I_ wronged _him_ -"

"It doesn't matter. Fletcher hates falling out with anyone. He'll want to work at it, and that's what _you_ need to do as well."

"How can I _possibly_ work at it?" he asked, incredulous.

"By fighting for what you want," she answered with determination, "and not just giving up and assuming it's over! Do you _love_ my brother? Do you _want_ to make things right?"

Fenris squeezed his eyes closed, pain and anguish etched on his brow. "More than anything," he whispered, "but I do not know h-"

"Then you have to fight!" she urged. "The Fenris of old would have slunk off somewhere feeling sorry for himself but you're not that man anymore, are you?"

"Am I not?"

"No! Fletcher was telling me only the other day how much you've changed since he met you. Well, the basic 'you' hasn't changed, but the way you deal with things, and the way you perceive things, _have_. But I don't think Fletcher got it exactly right when he said that."

Confused, Fenris looked up at her. "What do you mean?"

"He said that you'd changed, but I don't think that's entirely accurate. I don't think you've changed so much as become the man you were always supposed to be. And I believe that man _fights_ when he risks losing something dear to him."

His stomach sinking, Fenris looked to one side. "I don't know if I can. What could I _possibly_ say?"

"Well, that's up to you, isn't it? You have a simple choice, Fenris. Either you're the Fenris of old – the one Danarius created - and you run away from everything and wallow in self-pity, or you're the Fenris you're _supposed_ to be. The one who fights. You said a minute ago that you were weak. Prove yourself wrong. Be the _strong_ one."

"The one… Fletcher created," he murmured.

" _No_. The one that was always there and just needed a little coaxing," she said with a faint smile. "Not to mention a bit of confidence."

Unable to return her smile, he cast his eyes to the ground, deep in thought. _Could_ he fight? And, more to the point, _could_ he accept or endure a future without Fletcher? The answer to that came with a shiver that travelled along his spine.

"I… will try," he said faintly, his eyes slowly moving up to meet Bethany's. "Yes. I _will_ fight for him. I… thank you. For making me see."

"I've had plenty of practise with Fletcher," she said, tightening her grip on his hand. "Let's go home, _Brother_. I want you to tell me everything that happened, and then you can stay there and do some thinking while I find Fletcher and talk to him. For now, I'll let him have his space. With any luck, the knocking together of heads won't be necessary."

Fenris snorted quietly as Bethany led him out of the Alienage. "Your optimism is… heartening, if perhaps a little premature."

Bethany's smile grew wider. "My other brother – Fletcher – once said that sometimes it's all we have. Don't underestimate its power."

"You are kinder than I have any right to expect," he said with a frown and Bethany cast him a discreet sideways glance, suspecting she saw a hint of doggedness in the elf's expression. He turned to her as they reached the top of the steps and gave a single, determined nod. "He _is_ worth fighting for," he declared solemnly. "A thousand times over."

"Then we're already halfway there," she answered, noting that Fenris's hand had relaxed and she loosened her grip on it slightly. "Tell you what – I still have a key to Gamlen's house but he won't be there. We'll make some tea and you can tell me all about this family of yours – whatever you can remember. I know Fletcher will encourage you to do that too, so let's get a head start on him. Unless, of course, it would be too painful for you to speak about."

"There is very little _to_ speak of," he replied thoughtfully, "but I remember some things, even though they were shown to me by… the demon," he said, ending on a whisper. "But somehow they seem… unreal, mere fragments of a life that no longer exists. I… do want to remember, but I will not lose sight of what I have _now_. Sister."

Squeezing his hand, she smiled then released her hold on him. He took a deep breath before exhaling slowly and gestured for her to go ahead, following her. They took the short walk to Gamlen's in companionable silence.

~o~O~o~

It wasn't until Fletcher entered the Hanged Man that he realised what a popular man he was becoming about town, and that he'd never really noticed it before. Almost everyone inside, or on their way out, greeted him, but he couldn't quite raise a smile for them today, merely doffing a curt nod their way. He briefly looked around for Varric and, not seeing him, ordered a pint and ensconced himself in a quiet corner, listening to the banter and occasional burst of laughter from the regulars, feeling completely disconnected from it all. How ironic, he thought, that he was surrounded by friends and well-wishers, yet he'd never felt so lonely or isolated in his entire life.

He stared at his pint, watching as the foamy head slowly melted into the golden liquid. He raised the mug to his lips and then set it down, not really in the mood for a drink. Still, watching the tiny bubbles rise to the surface and pop provided a distraction from what he really should have been thinking about, like finding Fenris and talking to him.

No – it was too soon. He knew himself well, realising that if he spoke to Fenris now, he'd say some very ugly things. It _wasn't_ Fenris's fault.

Actually, it _was_.

"Too soon," he said to his pint, returning his attention to the bubbles. As long as _any_ part of him felt Fenris was to blame, it was too soon. Or was that just an excuse not to see him? He groaned, resting his chin on one hand.

"Hawke. Am I disturbing you?" asked a gruff voice to his side.

He knew the voice and, looking up, was surprised not to see a Templar uniform as he'd expected. "No," he murmured, holding in a sigh.

With a nod, the middle-aged man took a seat at his table and glanced around. "I appreciate you meeting me here, Hawke. I would have understood had you decided not to."

"Um… that's all right," mumbled Fletcher, neglecting to mention he'd completely forgotten about Ser Emeric's letter. "You're… not wearing your uniform."

"I thought you would feel more at ease," Emeric said in a low whisper. "Besides, I am off-duty."

Remembering his and Fenris's recent game at the house, Fletcher held back a hollow laugh and took a gulp of ale to moisten his dry mouth, followed by another, larger, one. Whatever Ser Emeric wanted, it would be another distraction, and he needed as many of those as possible. "I appreciate your consideration, ser," he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. "How may I be of help?"

~o~O~o~

After a long chat and several cups of tea with Fenris, Bethany gave the elf some time alone and took a stroll to Lirene's, glad for a little thinking time. Fletcher, for all his strengths, did not deal with confrontation or conflict well; in fact, he didn't deal with stress of any kind in what would be considered a healthy way. What he usually did in situations like that was to disappear – and not necessarily in a physical sense. When they'd first arrived in Kirkwall, still raw over the death of Carver, Fletcher had been physically present, but for most of the time hadn't 'been' there. He'd kept to himself, only speaking when spoken to, and finding solace in a bottle.

Well, she'd be damned if she'd let that happen again. For the past eleven years Fletcher had been a brother _and_ a father to her, and his happiness was more important to her than even her own. She'd found happiness with Varric and, although their relationship was based more on friendship than the passion and fervour that was almost palpable between Fletcher and Fenris, it suited her. She liked that Varric was not always around, and that he had many interests besides her, because it allowed her to keep her own independence. It also made the time they did spend alone more special.

Fletcher had found Fenris – and talk about her brother being struck by a bolt of lightning when that had happened. He'd always been more romantic than her, while she was more pragmatic, and Fenris, fiercely loyal, profound and seething with barely-contained desire burning in the eyes of an unassuming and diffident man, was just about perfect for Fletcher. Even Leandra, who had once sworn never to marry again, was taking the first few tentative steps towards a romance with Quentin. Although he, like Varric, was not always around, that also seemed to suit her mother because, after being on her own for so long, she also prized her independence.

After her family had been blown apart in Lothering, Bethany once again felt part of a real, whole family, and that family included Fenris. He _was_ like a brother to her, and if Fletcher insisted on avoiding him, then, by the Maker, she'd drag him home by his hair. Fletcher often joked that he was the head of the family and his word was law, but once, during a relaxed moment, he'd confessed to her that he saw _her_ as the true head of the Hawke family – its matriarch. She'd laughed it off at the time, but today Fletcher was not fulfilling his duties as head of the family and so she'd temporarily assumed his mantle.

She entered the shop and quietly announced herself to Lirene. Recognising Bethany as one of the 'safe' people allowed into the clinic, Lirene distracted her customers while Bethany slipped out back.

"It's only me," she called, closing the trapdoor behind her, and Anders brought an extra lamp to the foot of the steps to light her way. It was the first time she'd entered the clinic since the new furniture had been moved in and Anders gave her a brief tour. She gladly assisted him to treat a couple of patients before having a chat to Donnic, who was still having difficulty speaking, but had markedly improved over the last couple of days.

Fletcher, however, was not there.

"He was here earlier but not for long. One of the patients saw him in the Hanged Man talking to a bloke with grey hair not long ago," Anders told her, "but when I sent young Cricket over there, he'd already left. I thought he might have gone home for a bit."

Bethany frowned. "He's not at Gamlen's… Fenris is there. I'm hoping to get them to talk about what happened." Before she finished speaking, she noticed one of Anders's eyebrows arch before he quickly assumed a casual expression.

"What _did_ happen?" he enquired. "He was pretty upset when he left."

"I think it's best that they sort it out between themselves," she answered diplomatically, and Anders gave a brief nod, although it was clear his curiosity wasn't sated. "I wonder if he went back to the Big House?" she mused. Neither she nor Fletcher could bring themselves to call it a mansion and both found it a great source of amusement that two apostate refugees lived in such a grand place.

"Nope. I sent Cricket up there, as well. And don't feel sorry for him going up those steps – he's got his eye on one of the Albelard daughters. Six years old, she is, and she plays with her stick and hoop in Hightown square. Any excuse to see her," he joked with a grin.

"Aw," Bethany trilled before her smile faded, and she sighed. "Looks like Fletcher has done his disappearing act, then."

"Will he be all right?" Anders asked in concern.

"Yes… he's probably getting hammered somewhere. Honestly, I'm going to smack some sense into him when I see him. Don't worry, Anders – he's done it before. He just needs time to think, that's all."

"Mm," Anders mumbled in agreement. "He's certainly got a lot on his mind. Well, if I see him I'll let you know, and will you do the same?"

"Oh, of course I will. He'll be fine. This is his way of dealing with things – by _not_ dealing with them, if that makes any sense. It makes sense to him, anyway," she said with a wry smile. "He'll come round."

"All right. Come on, I'll see you out," Anders offered. She gratefully accepted.

When she arrived back at Gamlen's, Fenris shot out of his chair as the door was opened before slowly sinking back onto the chair at the dining table.

"I'm sorry Fenris, I can't find him," she sighed. "Anders is going to let us know when he shows up at the clinic and Cricket is hanging around Hightown. He'll come home when he's ready."

"Are you sure?" Fenris asked with a worried frown.

She nodded and sat on the chair next to him. "Yes, it's happened before. He goes off on his own when he's upset but he always comes back. Funnily enough, Carver used to do it, too. That's men for you."

"Human men, perhaps," Fenris quietly commented.

"You could be right, there," she said with a smile which Fenris tried, but failed, to return.

"Wait," he murmured, looking to the side. "Today is Tuesday, is it not?"

"Yes," she answered. "All day."

He placed his palms on the table and sat forward a little. "I believe I may know where he is. In fact… I am almost certain of it."

"Would you like me to come with you?" she offered.

"No." He patted her hand and stood up. "No, thank you. I… appreciate your help, Bethany."

"That's what sisters are for," she replied with a kind smile, also standing up. "Good luck. You'll sort it out. You're too good together _not_ to."

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "If I do not return within the hour, know that I have found him," he said and released her hand before leaving, full of quiet and solemn determination.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher awoke abruptly with a snort and blinked, not remembering where he was until the quilted canopy of the bed came into focus. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, his head sinking back into the pillow as a debilitating heaviness settled over him. He looked at the quarter-full bottle of wine on the nightstand and groaned. He'd been stupid to drink it – he hadn't eaten since that morning.

A knock came at the door, not loud enough to startle him, but still his stomach clenched.

It was Fenris's knock. He'd remembered.

With a weary sigh he pushed up onto his elbows and looked at the door of the Orchidée Suite at _Le Petit Oreille._ It had been exactly one week since he and Fenris had fully consummated their relationship here. And now, seven days later, it teetered on the brink. Or did he only think it did? Was Fenris coming to end things between them? Apologise? Could Fletcher now speak to him without ugliness and blame being party to the conversation?

The image of Fenris's face, looming over him and contorted by murderous rage, invaded his mind and he screwed his eyes closed, shaking his head to banish the memory. The knock came again, four perfectly-spaced raps, just loud enough to hear but quiet enough not to disturb any of the other guests.

Fletcher opened his eyes and slowly got to his feet, his head swimming from the wine he'd imbibed at the hotel, as well as the four pints of ale he'd had at the Hanged Man. Realising that Fenris was not going to go away, and that he'd have to face him sometime, he moved to the door and placed his hand on the knob, retracting it when he felt the knob turn in his hand. The door opened.

"Oh," mumbled Fenris, his gaze momentarily sweeping over Fletcher before moving to the floor. "You _are_ here."

"Obviously," Fletcher muttered, walking away from the door and slumping onto a chair next to the window. "Welcome to date night. May a good time be had by all." He sighed and covered his eyes with his hand, hating himself for stooping to petty barbs, but he was hurt and he wanted Fenris to know that. The downside was that he knew Fenris would also be hurt by his words, but they'd tumbled out of his mouth nonetheless.

"May I… enter?" Fenris asked, quiet and uncertain.

"I don't own the place." Fletcher uncovered his eyes and sighed, staring out of the window. "Sorry," he whispered.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." The click of the door was heard as it closed, and Fenris silently moved to the bed, awkwardly perching himself on its edge.

"Don't I?" Fletcher sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and picked at his fingernails, ostensibly avoiding looking at the elf. After a long silence, he spoke. "Do you know what the worst thing was?" he asked, the roughness of his voice making him sound hoarse.

Fenris waited, not sure whether he should answer or let Fletcher speak in his own time. Venturing an anxious glance at the mage, he noticed how rounded Fletcher's shoulders were, how deeply his fingernails were digging into his hands, and Fenris braced himself.

"It wasn't the betrayal. It _wasn't_ the fact you _attacked_ me when I was baring my soul to you. It wasn't even that you would have _killed_ me if Feynriel hadn't stopped you. _Do_ you know what it was, Fenris? Do you?" he demanded, finally looking at him.

Fenris didn't move a muscle, his eyes, unblinking, fixed on his feet. "I… believe so, yes," he said softly and with dignity, though his heart was gripped by fear. "You used magic on me."

"I used _magic_ on you," Fletcher repeated rancorously. "Do you have any idea at all how that made me _feel_?"

"Knowing the kind of man you are, I imagine it broke your heart."

Fletcher stood up, grabbing the window sill to steady himself as nausea washed over him. Fenris instinctively moved forward, wanting to help him, but then, thinking better of it, moved back to the bed.

"Why didn't you listen to me?" Fletcher asked, hurt, and not anger, in his voice. "I _knew_ you'd be targeted. Merrill and I warned you, and I asked you not to go in with us. Why did you think you knew better than a pair of mages – blood mages, at that?"

"I… _did_ believe I knew better," Fenris confessed in a hush, looking down at his hands, "but I wanted to protect you, and knew with certainty that I would. The thought of you entering that place without me was inconceivable. I, _alone_ , would deliver the feeble-minded mages from the clutches of the demons," he went on, a harsh note in his voice, "and all would be well once more." He looked at Fletcher and sighed. "I was wrong. So very, very wrong."

Caught off-guard for a moment, Fletcher looked away, suddenly overwhelmed by guilt for feeling so angry and then, like a returning tide, the anger surged back into him.

"So, did it feel _wrong_ when you were strangling me?"

"It… did," Fenris whispered, "but… I could not stop myself. It was like there were two of me – one was a mindless puppet, convinced that his father stood before him and that _you_ –the man I… the man I love – intended to give me over to his demon. I was so _sure_ of their words… and yet another part of me knew it was all lies, but that part of me was…" He shook his head. "It was like being in a glass cage, watching events unfold outside of it. I pounded against it and shouted – screamed – at myself to stop but no sounds came out of my mouth… I-I was powerless. I wanted so desperately to stop it, please believe me. But it proved too strong - even for _me_ ," he added with a hint of bitter irony. "I was an arrogant fool."

The anger once again ebbed away from Fletcher and he faced the elf, no longer seeing the Fenris who had tried to kill him but the slightly-built, vulnerable Fenris, weighed down by shame and self-loathing.

"You were proud," Fletcher corrected. "Not a good thing to be when facing a pride demon."

"No," Fenris mumbled, closing his eyes and bowing his head. He felt a gentle stir in the air currents around him and opened his eyes in time to see Fletcher moving past him to the nightstand, where he retrieved his bottle of wine and took a long drink from it. He then approached Fenris and handed him the bottle before returning to his chair, where he sat.

"I'm going to ask you something," Fletcher said as Fenris knocked back the remainder of the wine, "and I want you to be completely honest with me. No more holding back – from either of us. I've been guilty of that on several occasions and I think that's why…" He took a deep breath and looked at the elf. "Do you… trust me? I want the truth."

Fenris opened his mouth, ready to utter the one word that might solve everything, that might mean he and Fletcher could go on like before. But would it, _could_ it be like before? Especially if he lied to Fletcher at this point? After what had happened, he deserved the truth, even if it hurt.

As if reading his mind, Fletcher murmured, "It was never going to be easy, was it? An escaped Tevinter slave and a blood mage. It hasn't been easy so far and let's not pretend it will be in the future. But if we're to have that future we need to start being honest with each other. And I speak as much for myself as I do for you. Just tell me the truth."

Fenris pushed away from the bed and glanced at the small armchair opposite Fletcher's. "May I join you?" he asked.

Fletcher nodded and the elf took a seat a few feet away.

"I…" He cleared his throat and fidgeted. "No, I don't trust you," he admitted heavily with an anxious look at the mage. "Not completely. I _want_ to. More than anything. Perhaps I have convinced myself on some level that I do… but the truth is, when you told me of your bargain with a demon, something… something…"

"Died inside you," Fletcher finished, remembering how he'd felt when he used his Mind Blast spell on Fenris. "I think I already knew that, I just needed to hear you say it." He looked into Fenris's eyes and nodded. "Thank you for being honest with me."

"Fletcher, I-"

"No… I should have known. I planted that seed of paranoia in your mind and all I've done is feed it. I thought I was protecting you from certain things, but… you're a grown man who's been through things that most people don't even have nightmares about. I should have trusted _you_. I should have told you from the start that I was a blood mage. I should have told you about Hadriana. I should have told you, as soon as I suspected, about the nature of your markings instead of just blurting it out when you'd been driven half-mad by a demon. I'm not surprised you don't trust me. I'm sorry."

Fenris was already out of his chair and kneeling beside Fletcher before he'd finished speaking. "You took what you believed to be the best course of action at the time – for everyone's sake," he implored.

"And yet, in doing so, I lost your trust along the way," Fletcher answered, his eyes moving to meet Fenris's, not shrinking at the touch of the elf's hand resting on his knee. "And that gave the demon the ammunition it needed."

"You… should not blame yourself," Fenris murmured, looking away.

"We've both been arrogant fools," said Fletcher without heat or accusation and Fenris closed his eyes, slowly nodding. "We both believed we knew what was best for the other. And look where it's landed us. We don't need to _apologise_ to each other – we need to talk, _really_ talk, about our differences and why we do the things we do. We need to say things to each other that might not be easy to hear, but that need to be said. I've been avoiding talking to you all day because I knew you'd blame yourself for all of this, and at first part of me also blamed you, but the truth is we were _both_ to blame."

Fenris opened his eyes, bottomless depths of regret and sorrow in them as he looked into Fletcher's. "How very like you," he uttered, his voice rough with emotion.

Sighing softly, Fletcher edged forward and slid to the floor on his knees, disliking seeing Fenris in a supplicant position in relation to his own. Fenris shuffled back a little, allowing him space, and, for a few quiet moments they sat back on their heels, hands in laps, contemplating the day's events.

"Do you think we can save this?" Fletcher asked ruefully, and their eyes met.

"We _must_ ," urged Fenris. "For what we have is the only thing that has ever truly given my life meaning. We _must_ fight for it."

Touched and heartened by the elf's determination, a gentle smile curved Fletcher's mouth. "You're right," he answered. "Let's talk. About blood magic, demons, making assumptions, trust and wretched pride. All of the things that have been hanging over our heads but we've been loath to give voice to. And then we'll talk about your markings and what you remembered in the Fade."

Fenris drew a sharp breath through his nose and his nostrils flared.

"Nothing omitted," said Fletcher, and the elf gave a brisk nod.

"And we will speak of Dalton," replied Fenris, touching Fletcher's chin and raising his head when he glanced down. "Nothing omitted."

"Agreed," Fletcher said sombrely.

Fenris released Fletcher's face before standing and offering his hand to the mage. Fletcher took it and stood up, not releasing the elf's hand. "This is going to be a very long talk," Fletcher intoned.

"We have all day."

"That we do."

They turned back to the chairs and moved them close together before once again taking their seats. "Begin," said Fenris.

"No, you first."

Fenris shook his head. "I insist."

"No, _I_ insist."

A soft sigh of laughter escaped them both and they shared a glance that conveyed unity and hope.

"Very well," Fenris conceded. "I will begin."


	81. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're going to need reinforcements," Fletcher said gravely. "He could be very dangerous."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, Mary, for your extra help with this chapter and for your significant contribution to the first section in particular.
> 
> Also thank you to xizor for help with the Orlesian!

Following much discussion, as well as a few heated exchanges, they'd finally found their way to bed in the early hours of the morning after reaching the point of exhaustion. There was no touching, and a distinct space separated them in the huge four-poster bed. Once settled, however, they'd turned to face each other and had bid each other goodnight. And then, they'd continued to talk until Fletcher could no longer keep his eyes open and had fallen asleep, mid-mumbled word.

Too quickly, morning had arrived and, as was usual, Fenris had woken first but had not yet risen. He'd sat up in bed and picked at a few leftovers from the food they'd ordered the night before, watching Fletcher as he slept.

Fenris felt as though there was nothing left of him, as though he'd given all of himself, and he expected Fletcher felt the same. He fought against his fatigue but did not allow it the upper hand; for some reason, he didn't want to be asleep when Fletcher woke. He wanted to be there, and he wanted to be available.

They'd covered some very difficult subjects during their talk. Fletcher had coaxed Fenris, gently at first, to discuss Vionet and his father. Fenris was initially reluctant and had tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but Fletcher had pushed, and had not quailed at the elf's subsequent anger, which they both knew was born of fear.

Fletcher's perseverance had paid off, though; after a halting start, Fenris began to talk, and the more he did, the more he remembered. Fleeting, tantalising glimpses of Vionet and his father presented themselves and, with Fletcher's help, those glimpses formed the beginnings of real, solid memories. Fenris was shattered by the intensity and pain of the emotions such memories provoked, long-dormant anguish awakening within. Fletcher, aware of how distraught he was, eventually called a halt to the discussion to order food and drink, a compassionate move that Fenris was grateful for.

They'd eaten in near-silence, making safe small talk, before Fenris had quietly thanked Fletcher for his efforts, tentatively reaching for his hand. The smile that had passed between them heralded an easing of the tension and formality between them, and Fletcher took his turn to speak.

Ever since Fletcher had said his first proper word at the age of fifteen months, he'd been taught how to exercise caution and circumspection in his speech and deeds, and even to lie when necessary. His father had known Fletcher was a mage the day he was born – the faint marks on the pads of his palms and fingers were a dead giveaway. Most parents of magi children were not privy to such information, but as Malcolm was a mage himself, he took immediate steps to ensure his first-born child never fell into the Templars' clutches. He did not teach his son to be a scoundrel, however – he ensured Fletcher knew the difference between right and wrong, and that he must always be honest and respectful towards his parents and elders – unless those elders were templars, of course.

By the age of six, Fletcher knew, and fully understood, what the Templars and Chantry were, what they stood for and why he had to keep his true nature a secret from those outside his family. By the age of eight, he was assisting his father to educate his baby sister, also a mage, on the dangers of the Chantry and Templar Order.

He'd been raised to keep certain things to himself and not volunteer unnecessary information, and he'd carried those formative lessons through to his adulthood. He admitted to Fenris that it was second nature to him to hide things, and that it was proving a very hard habit to break. He did concede, however, that he'd badly misjudged the times he'd decided to hold back information from Fenris, and that he'd had no right to. He merely offered an explanation why he was inclined to withhold information, but accepted that was no excuse, particularly as Fenris was neither a templar nor affiliated with the Chantry.

As Fletcher had related his upbringing, Fenris could hear the respect in the mage's voice when he spoke of his father's lessons, along with a certain note of wistfulness, as if he still missed them. Fenris also formed the impression that Fletcher did not resent his father for teaching him to be secretive, that it was a father's job to do all he could to protect his child, and that Fletcher accepted full responsibility for his actions.

Fenris then told Fletcher that he, too, had been conditioned to hold his tongue and that when he was a slave, sometimes several days passed by when the only words he'd spoken were 'Yes, Master'. When he'd been on the run, he recalled a period of almost three weeks when he'd survived by hunting or stealing and hadn't spoken a word to a single person. And now, as a free man, he was still very economical with his speech and was careful not to draw attention to himself. Because of his own experiences, he understood why Fletcher found it difficult to eschew old habits. Fletcher had argued that he'd hardly endured what Fenris had, but Fenris countered that the principle was the same.

Then they'd talked about Fenris's markings and the theory that Fletcher, Quentin and Anders had briefly discussed. Fenris was sceptical at first but as Fletcher elaborated further, Fenris could see that Fletcher was convinced there was some truth in it. Fenris fell quiet, knowing that Fletcher would not have baselessly shared such disturbing information with him. Fletcher reminded him that it was only a theory at this point, but promised that tomorrow he would begin exploring the theory further, and also promised to keep Fenris fully apprised. He asked the elf if he would mind other mages assisting him and, after some thought, Fenris agreed to _one_ other mage: Leandra's suitor, Quentin, deciding he didn't want Bethany exposed to anything unsavoury. He gave no reasons for not choosing Anders or Merrill, and Fletcher didn't ask.

The rest of the evening was spent discussing their differences, attitudes and why they'd felt it necessary to second-guess each other on occasion. Both agreed that they'd done so from a desire to protect each other, and they vowed to be more open with one another as well as more considerate and respectful of the other's opinions and views.

As they started to tire, Fenris raised the subject of Dalton and whether or not Fletcher believed the boy had really appeared in the Fade. This time, it was Fletcher who needed encouragement to speak up but Fenris, patient and gently insistent, was determined to know the truth and for Fletcher to face up to that truth. Fletcher admitted he didn't see how Dalton _could_ possibly have been there but, when he was ready, he would discuss it in more detail with Bethany and Anders. Fenris requested that Fletcher inform him of any new information that came to light, and the mage readily agreed, pleased that Fenris was genuinely interested.

They'd retired to bed by tacit agreement, both men 'talked out', as Fletcher had put it. They'd removed their shoes and lain on top of the bed, a coverlet not needed on the warm Bloomingtide eve. Sometime during the night, however, the embroidered throw had found its way around their shoulders, and Fletcher's hand had found Fenris's. Upon waking, the elf had released it briefly while he sat up and reached for the half-empty plate on the nightstand before clutching the mage's hand again.

He turned Fletcher's hand and smiled faintly at the mage's Ring of no Significance Whatsoever. He then looked at his own and a thought occurred to him: in eight days' time, on 10 Bloomingtide, five months would have elapsed since he and Fletcher had met upon the Alienage steps. An anniversary. His smile widened as he decided that was something he _would_ keep to himself for now. It would be interesting to see if Fletcher also remembered. Fenris had a feeling he would.

~o~O~o~

They'd finally risen and Fenris, fearing at first that he would not be able to take a hot bath as he hadn't brought his balm, was touched but not surprised when Fletcher produced a small bottle from his pack, kept 'just in case', allowing Fenris the luxury of a steaming bath. After briefly stopping by at the Big House, they'd taken a walk out of town to visit the Silent Sanctum, the bookstore recommended to Fletcher by First Enchanter Orsino.

Fletcher explained to Fenris that the store was situated outside Kirkwall because of the controversial nature of some of its tomes, and that the Templars were likely unaware of its existence. He also explained that it was essential to visit the store as he hoped to obtain a copy of _A Dissertation on Blurred Lines by Arcane Cavil_. Fletcher intended to keep his word and begin researching the nature of Fenris's markings immediately, but he would need that document to do so. After Fletcher left a note - addressed to Quentin's estate – with a messenger, they got underway.

On the way there, they chatted amiably about the weather and the local wildlife. Their conversation was deliberately light in comparison to the intense, heavy-going discourse of the previous evening. Fletcher felt as though, for the third time, they were embarking upon the 'courting' phase. It was almost becoming a regular, expected thing, but there was a difference this time, as there had been on previous occasions. Whenever he and Fenris experienced a setback, they came back fighting, but with an extra layer to the foundations of their relationship, having learned a valuable lesson each time. This made him feel hopeful that one day there would be no more setbacks, no more returning to an earlier stage. It also made him determined that he would _not_ let Fenris down again.

They also spoke of Fletcher's meeting with Ser Emeric, the templar who had investigated the disappearance of Mharen and had handed over the findings of his investigation to Fletcher, leading to the discovery of the remains of Ninette de Carrac.

"He's heard that women are still being murdered and said he took it to the Guard, who investigated a residence in Hightown," Fletcher explained. "They found nothing, however, and Emeric was reprimanded by the knight-commander and told to stay out of Guard business."

"I heard about that," said Fenris. "The DuPuis estate was searched with the full co-operation of its owner, Gascard DuPuis. The allegations were completely baseless. I was not aware that Ser Emeric was the one who made the allegations."

"Yes, that was the name – DuPuis," Fletcher replied thoughtfully. "Emeric seems to think there's a conspiracy against him, that higher powers are working to block his investigation."

Fenris gave Fletcher a doubtful look. "Do you really think that's likely?"

"He was right about Mharen and Ninette," Fletcher answered. "In his notes he determined that both women met with DuPuis shortly before they disappeared."

"That information was not made available to the City Guard," Fenris said, frowning.

"He told me he tried to present his evidence to the Guard again but no one believed him – do you blame him for keeping quiet?"

They walked on in silence for a few minutes before Fenris spoke again. "And what does Emeric want from you?"

Fletcher cleared his throat. "As he's been banned from going anywhere near the DuPuis residence, he wants me to pay a visit to the property – Emeric believes DuPuis is the murderer and that now he believes he's got away with it, he'll start up again."

Fenris shook his head, grunting his disapproval. "You cannot pay him a visit with the intention of investigating him on the basis of one man's suspicions."

"Emeric also believes DuPuis is a practising blood mage."

Fenris's head slowly turned in Fletcher's direction.

"Thought that would get your attention," smirked Fletcher.

"Then why did Emeric not capture him?"

"I asked him that. He told Meredith of his suspicions when she was dressing him down. She called him a paranoid old fool and that he was lucky not to have been thrown out of the Order. No one will listen to him. He's willing to risk censure and ridicule for what he believes in but has to make a living – he needs his job. He's reluctantly been forced to completely curtail his investigations."

"And so he came to you?"

"I'm the only one who believes him, Fen. He's a decent man. He was willing to risk being seen drinking with an apostate in public – do you have any idea what they'd do to him if they found out? He even wore his civilian clothing to put me at ease. I want to help him." Fletcher halted and faced the elf. "I'm not asking you to come along and I know I risk Aveline's wrath if-"

"Not to mention the attention of Knight-Commander Meredith," Fenris cut in.

"I risk that every day," Fletcher answered reasonably. "I know you can't be involved in this because of your position, but I feel sorry for Emeric and _he's_ risked a great deal – a lot more than I'd be. He told me that if I don't find anything, then he'll admit he was wrong." He sighed. "Look, if you're not happy about this, or if I might cause you problems because of your association with me, I'll drop it like a stone. Without hesitation."

Fenris tilted his head back slightly and looked up at the sky. "I suppose you _could_ pay DuPuis a social call – after all, you are now a neighbour of his. You could introduce yourself to him. If we happen to find evidence of… unlawful activities within his estate, then that is mere coincidence."

A smile slowly formed on Fletcher's lips before rapidly stretching into a goofy grin. "You, Ser Elf, are a bloody genius. Does the Kirkwall Guard have a detective branch? If so, you should head it up."

A faint smile curved Fenris's mouth and he shook his head. "No, there is no detective branch. I was merely suggesting a possible explanation should we be discovered."

"We?"

"Yes, _we_. I will accompany you," said the elf.

"Wait, no, you can't. If Aveline found out-"

"Found out what? That I visited one of your neighbours with you? I was not involved in the initial investigation of DuPuis and the captain has no reason to believe I even know of it. If you wish, we can call on him when we return to town – I am not on duty until this evening."

Fletcher groaned, his shoulders slumping. "I just don't want to place you in a difficult position, that's all."

"You haven't," Fenris answered simply. "Unless, of course, you believe you can take DuPuis single-handedly? I recall _someone else_ thinking similarly not long ago. It did not end well," he added in a wry warning.

Fletcher laughed, relieved that Fenris was still able to poke fun at himself. "Well, when you put it like that…" He reached for Fenris's hand, not worried about embarrassing the elf as they were alone on the road. "Thanks. I'm glad you'll be coming along."

Fenris inclined his head and tightened his grip on Fletcher's hand before they continued their journey to the bookstore.

~o~O~o~

They returned to Kirkwall with not only a copy of the document Fletcher had sought, but two books, one on demonology and the other on advanced Fade theory. The proprietor had sent them on their way with a dire warning not to let the books fall into the Templars' hands and, if they did, not to mention his name or establishment.

They stopped by at the Big House where Fletcher locked the books away, planning to read them later, and they took lunch with Leandra and Bethany before departing for the DuPuis estate. As they strolled through Hightown, playing 'Count the Outraged Nobles' Expressions', the sky grew overcast, a fact that was not lost on Fenris.

"This does not bode well," he muttered, abandoning the game for the time being.

"Doesn't mean a thing," answered Fletcher with unconvincing nonchalance.

When they arrived at the DuPuis estate, however, and found the front door ajar, Fenris gave Fletcher a look that said, "See?" Fletcher chose to ignore this, though - at least until they stepped over the threshold.

Fletcher made a strange sucking sound through his teeth and immediately held out an arm, pushing Fenris back.

"What is it?" demanded the elf.

Fletcher didn't answer at first and looked around the reception area in dismay before shaking his head and sighing.

"Fletcher?"

"Looks like Emeric was right," said Fletcher quietly. "This place is warded to the rafters."

"Can you dispel them?"

Fletcher shook his head again. "Not without blood magic, no. These wards were not placed using Chantry-sanctioned magic."

"A practising blood mage, indeed," said Fenris sourly.

"We're going to need reinforcements," Fletcher said gravely. "He could be very dangerous."

"Should we not just inform the Templars?" Fenris asked. "I will go to them. You need not be involved."

"And what will you say when they ask exactly _how_ you know he's a blood mage? They're a suspicious lot, you know. They'll investigate you and connect you to me and Beth. And any templars setting foot in here will be slaughtered – they won't be able to detect the wards as they're not powered by mana."

A low growl of frustration came from Fenris and they stepped outside, quietly pulling the door to. "Whom shall we ask?" queried Fenris.

"Um… I think we need Anders. I'll go to the clinic, see if he's free. Beth and Varric, as well, if I can find him – they work well together in a fight."

"Is it wise to expose your sister to such dangers?"

"She's a battlemage, Fen, and a bloody good one at that. Besides, she'll kill me if she hears I left her out of this – she's been itching for some adventure. Baking cakes and silhouette painting with Mother is not using her Maker-given talents. She made me promise I'd take her along on our next little outing. She's coming."

"Fine. I will call for her," Fenris volunteered.

"I suppose I'd be wasting my time asking you not to come in with us?" Fletcher guessed. "There could be a _lot_ of casting going on, you know."

"You are correct," Fenris quipped, firm resolve underscoring his words. "You _would_ be wasting your time."

"I thought so," sighed Fletcher. "All right, wait at the house for me - I'll be as quick as I can." He slapped the elf's arm and took off.

"As you wish," groaned the elf morosely as he glanced upward, not liking the look of the sky.

~o~O~o~

"Look, Donnic, she's the captain of the guard and she's throwing her weight about. I can't keep her away any more! She's upstairs and said she won't leave until I let her see you!" Anders entreated. "She's scaring all my patients away!"

"I don't… I don't _want_ her…" Donnic began, before screwing his eyes closed.

"She already _knows_ , mate," Anders consoled. "So you can't quite find the right words. You and every other man in Thedas. She just wants to know you're all right. Honestly, Donnic, she thinks you've popped your clogs and I'm hiding it from her! Just see her for a few minutes, for my sake? Please!"

"All right," he answered with a heavy sigh. "I owe you… that much. Pass-pass me-" Tutting, he pushed to his feet and approached the wash basin, pointing to Anders's toiletry bag. "Borrow?" he asked, stroking his chin.

"Of course," said Anders, sorting out his shaving implements. "You want me to do it?"

Donnic shook his head and Anders fetched him some water before heading for the steps. "I'll send her down in a few… I'll make sure she doesn't stay long. Don't get cutting yourself."

Hearing a grunt of amusement from Donnic, he headed up, hearing Aveline's voice before he opened the trapdoor. Upon opening it, he was relieved to see that she was talking to Hawke.

"He's _not_ dead, Aveline!" Fletcher laughed. "We might be apostates but we still register any deaths with the magistrate as soon as they've occurred. I'm surprised you haven't checked."

"Actually, I have," she retorted as Anders moved beside her. "But I don't trust that slimy bastard as far as I could throw him."

"Donnic is alive and well and having a shave," Anders reported with a grin. "He's agreed to see you. _He_ was the one stopping you, not us. He's embarrassed about his speech."

"But you told me it had improved!" she accused Fletcher.

"It _has_. But it takes time," said Fletcher. "He's fit enough to go to the infirmary at the barracks and see all his mates but he's decided to stay here, in a dark, cold cellar. What does that tell you?"

"He won't even see Fenris," Anders added.

"Really?" she asked, astonished, and Fletcher nodded.

"I've been keeping Fen up to date on Donnic's condition. Unlike you, however, he _believes_ me."

She hung her head and groaned, possibly uttering 'shit' under her breath, but the men weren't sure.

"Anders, seeing as you're free for a bit, do you fancy coming on a little adventure?" Fletcher whispered to him. "It might be right up Justice's street, but I'll need to talk to him first… or I'll need you to talk to him."

"Oh?" Anders asked. "Why?"

Fletcher nodded to the door of Lirene's, not wanting Aveline to know, not that she appeared to be paying attention. Anders nodded.

"Aveline, we're going out," he said to her. "Don't keep Donnic for long, all right? He's still not a hundred percent."

"Right," she mumbled. "And… thanks."

"Come and help me find Varric," Fletcher said to Anders as they closed the door.

She stood, staring, at the trapdoor and huffed. She'd been pestering Anders for days to let her see Donnic. Why, oh why had she done that? She didn't have a sodding clue what to say to him! Deciding this was a very bad idea, she headed for the door and opened it, startled to see a grinning Anders and Fletcher waiting outside.

"You've driven me up the bloody wall wanting to see him," Anders scolded her, pointing at the floor. "Get down there!"

"You owe me a sovereign, Anders," Fletcher said smugly.

"All right, you'll get it."

"Pair of arseholes," she growled before opening the trapdoor and glaring at them both as she descended. Anders very helpfully closed the trapdoor and their laughter was heard as she gingerly went down the steps.

She found him sitting in a well-lit corner on one of the small chairs kept for patients, and he'd placed another one opposite his own. He stood when she approached and waved her to the chair.

"Donnic," she said as they took a seat, and he nodded at her. "I've heard your speech therapy's going swimmingly. Well done. Hawke and Anders think one of two things might have caused your problem. Either you were traumatised by the incident in Lowtown and it's affected your speech, or the gas affected your nervous system. What we're looking at is either a psychological or a physical cause. I've been reading up on both," she went on blithely, not noticing the slight quirk of Donnic's mouth. "Not that I think I know better than Anders or Hawke, but you know what they say – hope for the best but prepare for the worst."

She glanced up at him, noticing a frown that he hadn't been wearing before. "Uh… just give me a minute while I change feet," she mumbled. "This one's a bit wet."

His frown melted away and she noticed the glint in his eyes that made her stomach quiver. She'd never seen him clean-shaven before – he always seemed to have a bit of stubble, even first thing in the morning – and she wanted nothing more than to reach for his jaw and stroke it. In lieu of that, she cleared her throat.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that Anders and Hawke are very optimistic. They said you're a big, strong man – uh, I mean… they didn't mean it like _that_. Well, I can't speak for Hawke because he likes men, doesn't he? You know, in _that_ way. But he's with Fenris so I doubt he _did_ mean it that way. Not that _I_ mean it that way, either. Um, I mean… you _are_ big and strong but that was just meant as a general observation and-and that's why-"

"Aveline?"

Her head whipped up, her mouth hanging open. "Yes, Donnic?"

"Shut up."

"Right, of course. I'm…" She laughed nervously. "This is just like old times at the barracks, isn't it? You're sitting there patiently, not able to get a word in edgeways because I'm talking complete bollocks."

The edges of his eyes crinkled and she looked around the clinic, unable to meet his gaze. "They've done it out quite nicely in here, haven't they?"

"Mm."

Again, a nervous laugh skittered out of her mouth and she cringed, clasping her hands together in her lap. "I'm… going to shut up, now. Yes, really. Would you like to say anything? Ask me anything? I can tell you who we've arrested over the last couple of days, if you like. Or-" She grimaced, realising that she'd just promised to shut up. "I'm… just… is there anything you want to ask?"

Donnic's frown returned and he scratched his chin, tutting when he examined his fingers and found a spot of blood. "Why?" he asked.

" _Why_?"

He sighed and pointed to his nose, which still bore a yellow bruise and an almost-healed cut. "Why did you-" He paused, remembering Anders's advice – if he couldn't get the words out, he should not give up and start the sentence again, but stop until he felt he could complete it. He took a deep breath. "Hit me?" he finished.

A look of horror crossed her face and she gulped. Why _had_ she hit him? Because he'd mentioned Wesley? Because he'd suggested she needed a break? Because he'd – quite rightly – been angry at her for destroying evidence and jeopardising a major investigation?

"I… struck you because…" She cleared her throat, sat up straight and tried to look him in the eye but couldn't quite manage it. "Because you were doing your job. Because you spoke the truth and I didn't want to hear it. Because… because I'm crap at saying what's on my mind."

" _You_?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, _me_ ," she said, getting to her feet. "Not when I can hide behind the uniform, of course. Not when I'm dealing with Guard business. But in matters of… oh, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry, Donnic, for what it's worth. You didn't deserve that. I'd… better go. Anders told me not to keep you for too long."

She turned to leave but was stopped when a large hand grabbed her arm and she was pulled against him. She twisted, not wanting her steel poleyns to injure him, and landed clumsily in his lap.

"Donnic," she breathed, her next words stolen away as he clutched her face and hungrily claimed her lips. She did not resist, nor did she speak again for quite some time.

~o~O~o~

"So, let me get this straight," Varric said to Fletcher as they, Anders, Fenris and Bethany stood outside the DuPuis estate. "You and Blondie did a deal with Justice?"

"He agreed _not_ to appear unless it becomes clear that DuPuis is a threat," answered Anders. "Hawke explained to him that he might have been spooked by the Guard investigating his house, and he might just be protecting himself."

" _Really_?" Fenris asked dubiously.

"If Justice appears straightaway, that might force DuPuis into action he might not have taken otherwise," Fletcher explained. "That house is riddled with wards and we can't afford to trip any of them. You'll all need to follow me because only I can see them. Justice agreed that things might get out of hand if we just go charging in without a plan."

"He wasn't happy about it, though," added Anders. "He thinks we should have got the Templars involved."

"As did I," said Fenris, holding his hands up when Fletcher reminded him why that was not an option.

"I asked Justice why he didn't believe _I_ should be handed over to the Templars," Fletcher said with a pointed look at Anders, "and he went all quiet. I'll still want an answer to that when this is done."

"Let's get it done, then," Anders said briskly, slowly pushing the door open and peering inside. "You'd better go first, Hawke."

Fletcher stepped inside and indicated a semi-circle on the floor where they were safe. "Let's give him a chance," he whispered to the others. "Gascard DuPuis," he called loudly. "Are you at home? We are _not_ templars or the City Guard, we'd just like to speak to you. Are you here?"

Silence answered them and they waited a minute or two before Fenris quietly cleared his throat. "DuPuis! Où es-tu? Nous voulons seulement parler avec toi! Tu n'es présentement pas un suspect. Si tu n'as rien à cacher, tu n'as rien à craindre alors montre-toi!"

"Was that _exactly_ what I just said, Fenris?" Fletcher asked the elf, who shrugged, looking a tad sheepish.

"Almost. With… perhaps a _little_ extra," he confessed, and Fletcher shook his head.

"Would it help any if I translated into Dwarvish, Hawke?" Varric helpfully offered.

"Can't hurt," said Fletcher. "I'd quite like to hear you speak Dwarvish, actually."

"Ah. I didn't actually expect you to _agree_ , Hawke. _I_ can't speak Dwarvish! Who d'you think I am, the sodding Shaper of Memories?"

"Oh, Varric, really!" Bethany scolded, and Fletcher turned his back on them, a hand covering his face, his shoulders quaking.

" _When_ you have quite finished sniggering," Fenris said in the tone of a headmaster reprimanding an unruly pupil, "…the wards?"

Fletcher involuntarily snorted like a pig and turned around, his expression sobering when he caught the looks on the others' faces. While they exchanged an exasperated glance, he quickly shook Varric's hand before announcing, "All right, follow me. _Carefully_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fenris actually said: "DuPuis, where are you? We demand to speak with you! You are not under suspicion. If you have nothing to hide, then you've nothing to worry about. Announce yourself!"


	82. Whatever it Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six people stared at each other for long moments, their chests heaving, the frantic beating of their hearts almost audible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of roses and Nathaniel Howe as a slave for the day for Mary - she pulled out all the beta stops for this chapter, which has gone back and forth so many times it should qualify for frequent flyer miles! Thank you, Mary, from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> And thank you to xizor for the Orlesian insults!

Varric's joke was soon forgotten as Fletcher slowly led them through the vestibule, frequently turning back to ensure none of his companions had deviated from the line. Fenris had fallen to the rear, sword drawn, where he also kept an eye on the others, and was pleased to see that Varric had steered Bethany into the centre. He was not happy about Fletcher being up front, but there was no other alternative.

They progressed in silence to the grandly-appointed reception hall with double staircase. Fletcher called a halt, shaking his head. "Just look at that," he said under his breath before snorting wryly and facing his companions. "Sorry, you can't see it, can you? The left staircase is clear, while the right-hand one doesn't have an inch that isn't warded. It's cruel, actually – you have a fifty percent chance of death depending which staircase you choose."

"Do we know that for certain, Hawke?" Varric asked. "Would it be, like, instant death if we stepped on one of those… things?"

Fletcher looked at the dwarf, who was illuminated by red light from the sigils of magic that were dotted around the room – light that none of the others could see. "I don't know," he answered. "I can't decipher any of them. If _I_ were a practising blood mage, maybe I could – I assume demons teach their _pets_ new tricks over the years."

A disapproving huff came from the rear of the line and all eyes turned to Fenris for a second before Varric released a slightly apprehensive laugh. "Well, we don't need to know what they _are_ , I guess – just that you can see 'em."

"That's right – stay with me and you'll be fine," Fletcher reassured them. "Wait here a minute – don't move, any of you."

Fenris craned his neck and watched as Fletcher took a couple of steps back before taking a running jump towards a small bureau situated between the staircases. On top of it were several items of correspondence and Fletcher sorted through them before turning around, holding them up.

"Can I read these, Fenris?" he asked. "You know, legally?"

"You already know the answer to that, else you would not have asked," replied the elf. "If you are asking for a way around the law, then say so."

"All right, I'm asking for a way around the law," Fletcher confessed with a chastened grin.

Fenris sighed and thought for a moment. "If anyone asks, you read them _after_ the visit. And then _only_ if we find anything amiss."

"Justice doesn't approve of that, Hawke," Anders warned.

"Why not? A Kirkwall guard has just sanctioned it."

"You _know_ it's not that simple," argued Anders.

"Just keep him under control," Fletcher ordered, pointing a finger at Anders. "He promised not to interfere unless our lives are in danger – it's unjust to break your word, isn't it?"

Anders folded his arms and shook his head.

"Thanks, Fen," Fletcher said, and Varric gave the elf an appreciative slap on the arm while Fletcher rifled through the items. After a few minutes, he turned back to them, waving a letter. "This is _very_ interesting." He leaped over the invisible ward and rejoined the others.

"This letter is from Knight-Commander Meredith," he whispered. "It's an apology for Ser Emeric's 'campaign of harrassment'. In it, she promises that from now on, DuPuis will be left alone – no more Templar or Guard scrutiny. Convenient for DuPuis, hm?"

"That proves nothing," Fenris stated, although he frowned at the letter.

" _Yet_ ," replied Fletcher, tucking the letter into a pocket. "Let's go."

After conducting a fruitless search of the lower level, he led them up the safe left-hand staircase and brought them to a halt while he surveyed the landing. To their left were two closed doors - both warded - and to their right was another door before the landing curved round, leading further into the house.

"Hello?" Fletcher called again and, for the second time, received no answer. He then nodded at the two doors to the left. Once again guiding his companions around the wards, he opened the first door, finding an empty room. Upon opening the second, however, he called the others inside, instructing them to take a small jump over an area he indicated on the floor. Varric, admitting that jumping was not his forte, remained outside the room to keep an eye out.

Inside were several large wardrobes, which they investigated.

"Here," said Fenris, and the others joined him. "This one is full of women's clothing. Is there a _Madame_ DuPuis?"

"I couldn't tell you," Fletcher murmured as Bethany sifted through the assortment of dresses.

"Some of these must have cost a fortune," she cooed enviously. "Oh, look at this one, Fletcher – what a deep shade of red the bodice… oh!" she shrieked, leaping back.

"Sunshine?" Varric called anxiously from outside.

Fletcher unhooked the dress and draped it over his arm, showing it to the others. "I don't think this was red to begin with," he said dolefully to Fenris, indicating the stiffened red bodice and the pattern of spattered blood on the white skirt.

"No, indeed," muttered the elf. "I believe we now have just cause to investigate this dwelling – with the law on our side. Does your spirit agree?" he asked Anders.

"He does."

"Draw your weapons," advised Fenris, who already had his sword at the ready. "We do not know what Gascard DuPuis is capable of. Or… perhaps we do," he growled.

"Are you all right, Beth?" Fletcher asked his sister.

"Yes," she breathed, slightly embarrassed for shrieking. "I was just taken aback… oh, Fletcher, that poor woman, whoever she was."

"We're going to stop him," he vowed. "There are five of us, and his wards can't protect him. Come on – let's find him, and quickly."

They joined Varric outside the room, and the dwarf made sure his Sunshine was all right before they continued.

Following the corridor around, they searched several other rooms, finding nothing of note until they happened upon a locked room, which Fletcher determined was not warded. Varric picked the lock before Fletcher entered the room, again checking for wards and, finding none, beckoned the others inside. They didn't need to search this room, as all five of them were immediately drawn to the desk by the window, and the rack of phials at its centre, all filled with red liquid.

Fletcher sighed and sat at the desk, removing one of the phials from its housing. He turned it upside down and then righted it; the fact the liquid clung to the sides of the vessel answered the question no one had asked.

"This has a label on it," he said, squinting to read it. He looked up at the others, who stood in front of the desk. "Ninette," he whispered heavily and Bethany closed her eyes, shaking her head.

"What about the others, Hawke?" Anders asked, his voice hushed out of respect for the murdered woman.

"They're not all labelled…" Fletcher turned the phials around, finding two others that were named. Taking a deep breath, he removed them and read the labels. "Mharen."

"Shit," Varric muttered.

"Wait… who's Alessa?" Fletcher asked, examining the third phial. "Emeric didn't mention her… who do you suppose she is?"

"His next victim," Fenris guessed with an intense look at the mage. "We had better find him before…"

Fletcher sprang up from the desk and hurriedly led the others out of the room. "How many more rooms did we say, Varric?" he asked the dwarf.

"Just those two at the end of this corridor," he answered. "They're the last ones on this floor."

They quickly checked the rooms, which were empty. "He's gone, then," Fletcher said fractiously. "All that for nothing."

To his surprise, Fenris and Varric shook their heads in unison. "There's a third storey to this house, Hawke," said the dwarf.

"A _third_? But our house doesn't have a third storey, does it, Beth?"

"The houses are bigger this end of Hightown," Varric explained. "Broody and I noticed it while we were standing outside – a smaller, third storey that has a balcony with thick vines hanging off of it. That tree near the front door probably prevented you humans from seeing it – I could see it clearly, but even Broody had to crouch down."

"I briefly considered scaling the tree and climbing the vines," Fenris told Fletcher, "but knew you would not approve."

"You were right," answered the mage. "Well, we haven't found any stairs leading up to the third floor – how do we get to this third storey?"

"We are currently at the northern aspect of the property," Fenris surmised. "The balcony was more to the south – at the front of the house. We should investigate that part again."

"All right," Fletcher agreed, and led his friends to the landing above the stairs, where they revisited each room, this time searching for trap doors, concealed panels, anything out of the ordinary – and finding absolutely nothing. They reconvened on the landing, Fletcher's frustration apparent.

"Are you _certain_ there was a third storey?" he asked Varric.

"We are _both_ certain," Fenris answered. "We saw it quite clearly."

Fletcher groaned, his head falling back. "Maybe… maybe the vines are the only way up there?" he ventured, grasping at straws.

Fenris shook his head. "I do not believe they would support the weight of a human. I assume DuPuis _is_ human?"

"Emeric didn't say anything about him being an elf. And, no offence, Fen, but an elf who regularly entertains ladies in Hightown would garner a lot of attention. He must be human."

"No offence taken," replied Fenris. "That makes sense."

"Hey, let's not leave the dwarves out of this," Varric butted in, and Bethany placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head.

"If he's a _dwarven_ blood mage, Varric, I'll have him stuffed and mounted above the mantelpiece," she joked.

"Yes, we could charge good money for people to come and see _him_ ," Fletcher added.

"Oh, I know all that," Varric protested, "I'm just making sure my people are properly represented in this conversation."

"This conversation is about _mages_ ," Fletcher reminded him.

"Yeah, and this _non-mage_ spotted a third storey that none of you _magical people_ noticed! So credit where it's due!"

"He's got a point, there," Anders grinned.

" _Thank you_ , Blondie," an indignant Varric huffed.

Fletcher clapped a hand over his eyes before sighing and letting his hands fall to his sides. "All right – now that world-shattering debate's done with, shall we get on?"

"Yes – _shall_ we?" Fenris echoed sternly.

"Well, sure! Lead the way, Hawke!" Varric invited sarcastically, and Fletcher folded his arms, his lips pursed. "What is it, Sunshine?" asked the dwarf as Bethany tapped his arm. She pointed to the wall behind them and they all turned, seeing nothing but the chintzy wallpaper. Varric approached the wall and stared at it for a moment before turning back to them, laughing.

"Superior _human_ eyesight, that is," she boasted.

"What are we looking at?" Anders asked in confusion.

"C'mere," Varric invited and they all stepped closer. "You see this?" asked the dwarf, running his hand along the wall. "This part of the wall bulges out just a little bit… see?" He moved his hands up in a straight line until he was reaching above his own height, then across and down again.

"A door?" Fenris asked.

"Looks like it," Varric said with a proud smile at Bethany. "Who's a clever mage, then?"

"Lucky she took after her brother in the brains department," Fletcher quipped.

"Yes, _very_ lucky," she agreed, rolling her eyes. "Even luckier I keep _my_ brains in my head."

"What are you trying to say, sister dear?"

"Shh!" Varric ordered. "I'm trying to concentrate, here."

They watched in silence as the dwarf tapped the wall in various places, listening to the sounds elicited by his touch. "There," he said quietly after a minute. "Any wards on this door, my magical friends?" he asked the mages.

Bethany and Anders exchanged a glance and shook their heads. "Not that we can see," said Anders.

"None," Fletcher supplied.

Varric nodded once and laid his hands on one part of the wall. "Let's… try… ha!" he cheered as a click was heard, and he pulled the hidden door outwards, revealing a dimly-lit flight of stairs leading up.

Fenris immediately appeared at the dwarf's side and peered up the stairs. "Any wards?" he whispered, and Fletcher shook his head. "Hah!" the elf scoffed contemptuously. "Not only a blood mage, but a complacent one." He pushed in front of the others and held a finger to his lips. "Follow me," he commanded in a low voice.

"No, Fen," Fletcher said quietly, stepping in front of the elf. "Not this time. This is a blood mage we're dealing with."

"I have dealt-" Fenris began before pausing, his shoulders slumping slightly. He moved to the bottom step, allowing enough room for Fletcher to walk at his side, and indicated that the mage should do so.

With a faint smile, Fletcher stood next to him on the step. "Deal," he agreed, and Fenris nodded once, slowly, almost suppressing his own smile.

The elf looked over his shoulder at the others. "Be ready for anything. Do _not_ risk yourselves unnecessarily."

"Gotcha," answered Varric, who was bringing up the rear.

Wordlessly, Fenris and Fletcher went up the steps, followed by the others, pausing outside another door at the top. Fenris looked at Fletcher, asking a question with his eyes, and Fletcher shook his head to indicate he could sense no wards up there. Fenris examined the door, puzzled when he could find no handle, and Varric pushed past Anders and Bethany to reach them.

"Allow me," he whispered, deftly moving his hand over the right side of the door, and a quiet click was heard. "Same as the one we just came through," he explained.

With a single nod, Fenris slowly pushed the door open and they stepped on to a large terrace, tiled in rose-coloured stone, its balcony choked by the invasive vines that trailed down to the lower level of the house.

Standing on the balcony, with his back to them, was a tall, elegantly-dressed man with long, brown hair, held back in a braid. He had one arm folded around his waist, his other hand resting against the balustrade as he looked over Hightown, seemingly unaware of their presence.

A throat was cleared – in the split-second he had to think, Fletcher guessed it was Varric's – and the tall man, who was apparently unarmed, spun around, gasping in horror.

" _What_? How did you-" He held his hands up, taking several rapid breaths. "Please – take whatever you want!" he pleaded. "I will do nothing to stop you! Just-just go, _please_!"

Unmoved, Fletcher made a quick assessment of the area, nodding his friends in. "There are no wards," he declared confidently.

"You-you can _see_ my w-" DuPuis spluttered in his thick Orlesian accent as Bianca, a sword and three staves were immediately trained on him.

" _I_ can," Fletcher announced menacingly. "Keep those hands where we can see them."

"Please," DuPuis implored, raising his hands higher, "whatever you think I have done, I assure you-"

"Where is the woman, Alessa?" Fenris snarled.

"A-Alessa?"

"We found the blood samples," Anders stated.

" _And_ the dress, covered in blood," Bethany added.

"You found the dress?" DuPuis asked in a small voice, his shoulders sagging. "Of course… now I see. _Now_ I understand."

"You'd better start talking sense, messere," Varric threatened, looking down Bianca's sights. "My trigger finger's getting awfully itchy."

"Please – let me explain. I know why you are here and I know it looks bad, but hear me out. Do I not deserve a chance? Do whatever you want to me, but let me speak first – I have a right, don't I? I am no match for five of you, surely you can see that?"

"Make it quick," ordered Fletcher, not taking his eyes off DuPuis's hands.

Keeping his hands in plain view, DuPuis sank down on the balustrade, carefully placing his hands, one at a time, beneath him. He blew out a breath and shook his head. "That dress… it belonged to my sister. She-she loved to dance, and it was her favourite ballgown. She was… murdered several years ago. I have dedicated my life to hunting down her killer, and have finally tracked him to Kirkwall, where he has started killing again. Always women," he said despairingly with a plaintive look at the group.

"You _kept_ the dress she was murdered in?" Bethany asked.

"It is all I have left of her," he answered, shaking his head, his voice wavering. "She was so beautiful… her whole life was ahead of her and it was extinguished by that-that maniac!" He stood up and leaned against the balustrade, shaking his head again.

"And?" Fletcher asked evenly.

DuPuis sighed and once again sat down on his hands. "The templar sent you here, didn't he?" he asked. "I admire his tenacity but I wish he would apply it to hunting the _true_ killer. He has the wrong man, messeres."

"You are a blood mage," Fenris accused in a hard tone, not believing a word of the man's story.

"Yes I _am_ a blood mage," he admitted, "and so is the killer. I turned to it because it was the only way I could track him. I am not proud of what I have done, but would you not do everything in your power to protect, to avenge someone you loved?"

Fletcher's heart clenched in his chest as DuPuis's words resonated with him. "Supposing this is true," he said to DuPuis, careful to keep his tone neutral, "how do you explain the samples of blood? And who is Alessa?"

"I failed Mharen and Ninette," sighed the Orlesian. "I took samples of their blood so that I could also track them, but he was too cunning for me. This time, I will _not_ fail."

"Wait, how did you _know_ that the killer targeted those women?" Fletcher demanded, scepticism creeping into his voice.

"He sends his intended victims a bouquet of white lilies as a macabre calling card – my sister received a similar 'gift'. It was a simple matter of bribing the local florists to inform me where the lilies were being sent. That bastard is clever, though – he sends children to make his purchases, but at least I knew where they were being sent. Then – and this is something I am also not proud of – I charmed the women into entering my home and-and… I drugged them. I took a sample of their blood so I could keep track of them and then I let them go – I swear, I did not harm them-"

"I have enough evidence to take you into custody right now," Fenris threatened. "Kidnapping, assault-"

"No! I was desperate!" pleaded DuPuis, springing up.

"Stay back!" Fenris barked, advancing on DuPuis, who again sat down. "You have one chance – _where_ is Alessa?"

DuPuis hung his head, a mewl of frustration and regret coming from him. "She is here," he confessed. "She is safe – I have not harmed her."

"Take us to her," Fenris commanded.

DuPuis slowly stood up, holding his hands up again to show he was no threat. "In there," he said to Fenris, nodding to a door on the far side of the terrace.

"After you," Fenris invited, using his sword to wave DuPuis ahead of him.

DuPuis slowly lowered one hand before taking a key from his pocket and approaching the door, unlocking it. Fletcher and Anders followed Fenris and DuPuis into the room but Bethany and Varric stayed behind in case of trickery.

The room was clean and nicely furnished. As soon as they entered, a middle-aged woman leapt from a chair and ran towards them, falling to her knees when she spotted Fenris and the others.

"Oh, _please_ tell me you're letting me go!" she wailed, tears streaming down her face.

Ensuring Fletcher was keeping an eye on DuPuis, Fenris crouched down and helped the distraught woman to her feet. "You are safe, madam," he reassured her gently. "Are you injured? Did he harm you?"

"No! I kept her here for her own safety!" DuPuis protested. "This is hardly a prison cell, is it?"

Fenris rose to his full height and locked eyes with the Orlesian, who stood a foot taller than him. " _If_ you were to detain a person against their will in Empress Celene's throne room, it would _still_ be a prison cell! Gascard DuPuis, I hereby place you under arrest in the name of-"

"Please," begged DuPuis. "She is _safe_ here. She is well-fed, she has books-"

"I'm not safe!" Alessa argued, finding her courage in the company of her rescuers. "He took blood from me – look!" She showed Fenris her arm, which bore a small bruise.

"I have already told you – I needed that blood to track you!" DuPuis exclaimed in exasperation before turning to Fletcher and Anders. "You _must_ make the elf see – I know my methods are suspect, but I had no other choice! She is safe here! He will kill her if she steps foot outside this place!"

"You are free to go," Fenris told her. "Wait outside – I will take you home when we are done here."

"No!" DuPuis bleated. "Now everything is ruined!"

"Let her go and dispel your wards," said Fletcher, a protective arm on Alessa's back, "and _then_ we'll talk." He looked at Fenris who, although displeased at the thought of negotiating with DuPuis, was willing to agree to such demands to ensure the woman's safety. He nodded.

With a despondent groan, DuPuis closed his eyes and placed a hand on his brow, concentrating furiously. After a minute, he opened his eyes and exhaled. "The wards are down," he declared.

"All of them?" demanded Fenris.

"Yes, all of them."

Bethany entered the room and took Alessa's hand, leading her across the terrace. "Come on, dear, wait outside the room for us. We just need to sort things out here and then we'll get you home, all right?"

Fletcher went with her as she took Alessa down the steps to verify that the wards had been deactivated. After confirming that they had, Bethany sat her on a small chair on the landing before they went back upstairs, promising to return shortly. When they reached the terrace, Varric had moved to the anteroom where the others were talking, and the siblings joined them.

"Look," DuPuis said to Fenris, "put me in jail if you like. Do what you want, just keep her safe! She _will_ be his next victim! If you don't listen to me, may her death be on your hands!"

"I thought you said you could track her?" asked Fletcher.

"I can! But not from jail! I must have her sample of blood!" He covered his face with his hands before sighing and uncovering his face. "Please, Messere Elf – help me find him. Clap me in irons, bind my hands if you wish. Arrest me for kidnapping and assault. _After_ he is caught. I _beg_ you. Do none of you have a sister?" he asked the men, and his eyes settled on Bethany before moving to Fletcher, and then darting back and forth between them.

"Wait… I see the resemblance," he murmured, turning toward Fletcher. "Would you not do the same in my position?" he appealed. "Would you not do everything in your power to avenge her if – Maker forfend – anything happened to her? _Please_ – if we work together we will capture him twice as quickly. And then you may do with me as you wish. I will even go to the Templars. I don't _care_ what happens to me. I have no life now she is gone."

"Keep an eye on him," Fletcher said to Varric as he led Fenris to the far end of the room, and Anders followed them. "What do you make of this, Fen?" he asked the elf. "I don't know… he seems genuine to me."

"You have already decided, then," answered Fenris quietly.

"No… not necessarily. I know he's done wrong, but he was right – I _would_ have done everything he's done if it was my sister. I can understand how desperate he must be. But I suppose we can still keep her safe while the Guard investigates his claims." He placed a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "It's your call, Guardsman. I'll support whatever you decide."

While Fenris considered that, Anders moved beside them. "Justice is very clear on this – DuPuis's sister's death, as well as those of Mharen and Ninette, _must_ be avenged."

"And if DuPuis is merely an accomplished liar and actor?" Fenris asked. "What then?"

"Then _he'll_ die," was Anders's ominous reply.

After another moment's thought, Fenris returned to DuPuis with the mages close behind. "I have made my decision. Gascard DuPuis, you will accompany us to Viscount's Keep, where you will be held for questioning – by me. Alessa will be moved to a safe location and placed under guard until your claims are verified or refuted. Your estate will be thoroughly searched. The Templars will not be involved _at this stage_. Your co-operation and good conduct will greatly aid your defence."

"She will be kept safe?" DuPuis asked. "Where?"

"That is no longer your concern," answered Fenris. " _Will_ you co-operate, or is there going to be unpleasantness?"

"If you can guarantee her safety, I will do whatever you want," replied DuPuis. "I will go with you willingly."

"I guarantee it," Fenris assured, waving his sword ahead and indicating that DuPuis exit first. The Orlesian mage walked across the terrace with the others behind, and Fenris's sword at his back.

"We put your sister's dress back where we found it," Bethany told DuPuis. "Just thought you'd want to know."

"My what?" he asked distractedly as they approached the door.

Fletcher stiffened, as did Fenris, and the elf moved in front of DuPuis, closely followed by Fletcher. "You know – your sister's dress?" Fletcher reminded him. "The thing that means everything to you?"

"Oh, yes, of course," breathed DuPuis. "Thank you."

Fletcher exchanged a quick glance with Bethany. "We put it back in the drawer," she piped up.

"Thank you," he said again, and Fletcher's stomach knotted.

"It was in a wardrobe," he growled.

"Yes, of course – the wardrobe," DuPuis said smoothly. "Again, you have my thanks."

" _Which_ wardrobe?" Anders asked.

"What?" DuPuis exclaimed angrily. "What difference does that make?"

"You claimed that dress was the only keepsake you had left of your sister," Fenris stated, "and yet you cannot remember where you keep it?"

"What colour is it?" Fletcher demanded.

" _What_? Why are you asking me this? There is a killer out there – we _must_ stop him!"

"He _asked_ you a question!" Fenris snarled, pointing his sword at DuPuis's chest, and the grinding of Bianca's gears was heard as it was once again trained on the blood mage.

"I-I cannot think! You are-"

"You can't _think_?" Fletcher exclaimed suspiciously. "Do you even _have_ a sister?"

"Yes! I mean, no! She is dead, I told you! Now, we _must_ go!" DuPuis entreated desperately.

"We are going _nowhere_ ," Fenris dictated. "Explain yourself!"

Six people stared at each other for long moments, their chests heaving, the frantic beating of their hearts almost audible.

"Answer the damned question!" Varric yelled, shattering the silence.

Fletcher noticed DuPuis's eyes flit to the door and then he was launched, hard, against the wall. Dazed, he slid down, clutching his head, his dulled senses slowly returning to him.

"He's escaped!" Anders exclaimed as the door clicked to. Fletcher opened his eyes and looked around, every one of his companions in the same predicament as he. A small hand was offered to him and he grabbed it as Fenris helped him to his feet, before they assisted the others. Varric ran straight to the door, which now resembled a blank wall.

"Damnit!" cursed the dwarf, slamming his hand against the wall in frustration. "It's like the one downstairs – it's locked from the _outside_!"

"How did DuPuis open it, then?" Fletcher asked.

"I don't know, okay?" Varric snapped before holding his hands up and sighing. "I don't know. Magic? Who knows what that tricksy bastard has up his sleeves. Sorry, Sunshine."

"No! Help me!" a female voice pleaded, sounding faint and faraway.

"The woman!" Fenris ran to the balustrade where he grabbed and pulled on a thick piece of vine, testing its strength.

"What are you doing?" Fletcher demanded as he ran to the elf's side.

"He will panic and kill her before anyone is the wiser," surmised the elf, stepping over the balustrade, the vine he clung onto the only thing keeping him from falling.

"Maker, Fen, be careful!" gasped Fletcher as the others joined him, and the elf lowered himself a little before looking up at the mage.

"It will hold me," he declared confidently. "If I break my bottom, you have my permission to heal me."

"Don't you dare hurt yourself!"

Fenris reached up, brushing a hand against Fletcher's cheek, his other hand tightly holding the vine. "I will _not_ break my bottom," he promised. "Be ready."

"Go on, Fenris!" Anders encouraged as the brave elf descended, the vines rustling as violently as Fletcher's heart was beating.

"Broody to the rescue – again!" cheered Varric and Bethany moved to her brother's side, slipping her arm through his as she watched him, his face contorted with worry.

After what seemed like forever, the vines went slack and Fenris appeared on the small porch roof above the front door. He looked up and placed a finger over his lips before sitting on the edge and, with a twist of his hips, he disappeared beneath the lip of the porch.

"Where is he?" Fletcher breathed.

"That's only about an eight foot drop," Anders guessed. "He'll be fine. He can't very well shout up to us, can he?"

They waited again for long, interminable minutes. No sounds came from below and everyone on the balcony was silent save their breathing.

Suddenly, the front door burst open and DuPuis emerged, dragging the wailing Alessa by the elbow. "Ferme ta gueule, maudite salope!" he snapped, reverting to his native tongue.

Seemingly from nowhere, a steel and fawn-coloured blur tackled DuPuis to the ground. "Run!" Fenris yelled and the group on the balcony watched in horror as Alessa sped away from the house, sobbing, while DuPuis brought his knees to his chest and kicked the elf away, before thrusting his palms outward.

"No!" Fletcher cried from above as Fenris fell to his knees, howling in pain from the spell. DuPuis quickly unsheathed a small dagger from his belt and drew it across his palm, affording him enough power to protect himself from the streams of fire, ice and lightning that hurtled towards him from the balcony, fizzling out before they made contact with his body.

"You are not enough for me, idiots!" DuPuis mocked before training his powers once again on Fenris, causing the elf to yell and sink onto all fours, powerless against the searing agony that ripped through his body.

Then, Fenris's cries were brought to an abrupt halt as a perfectly-aimed bolt from Bianca pierced DuPuis's heart.

"Fenris! Fenris!" Fletcher shouted. "Fen! Are you all right?"

The elf nodded his head, gasping for breath as he slowly rose up onto his knees. DuPuis's eyes bulged, staring at the sky as blood began to seep through his doublet. Fenris crawled to him, determined to check he had been rendered harmless.

"DuPuis!" he snarled, grabbing the blood mage's jaw and turning his head to face him. With the last trace of life in his body, DuPuis sneered at the elf and raised a trembling hand, pointing at the balcony.

"Va te faire enculer!" he cursed before his hand fell limply to his side.

"Fuck!" Fletcher shouted from above, and a commotion was heard. "Anders! _Anders_!" Fletcher screamed, his voice almost unrecognisable.

"No!" Varric cried. " _Sunshine_!"

"Anders! _Help me_!" Fletcher wailed, and Fenris grabbed DuPuis by the collar, bringing his face close to that of the dying maleficar.

"What have you done?" he exhorted furiously as blood began to trickle out of DuPuis's mouth.

"Sa soeur est mort," he rasped, flashing a terrible red grin of death.

An icy claw gripped Fenris's heart and his head whipped around to face the balcony, where he could hear Anders, Varric and Fletcher's voices, panic-stricken and all shouting above the others'.

Only Bethany was conspicuous by her silence.

Enraged, Fenris turned back to DuPuis, tearing him from the clutches of death by savagely twisting the bolt in his chest, DuPuis's resulting screams loud enough to send a brood of nesting birds scattering in flight from the rooftops. Fenris then snapped off the bolt and drove the jagged end into DuPuis's windpipe.

"Return to your demon!" he bellowed, standing up to see a few passers-by, who'd heard the clamour, gawking at the scene of horror before them. "Fetch the City Guard!" Fenris commanded them before turning on his heel and sprinting back into the house.

It was only when he was halfway up the stairs that he remembered the wards had been deactivated, but he had no time to think about that as he reached the secret door in the wall, mercifully left open by DuPuis in his haste.

He rushed up the steps, the garbled voices from above growing louder and louder until he reached the upper door, hammering on it. "It's Fenris! Let me in!"

"There's a catch on the right-hand side!" Varric instructed in a trembling voice. As Fenris scrabbled around in the dim light to find it, his heart quickened; never before had he heard _panic_ in the dwarf's voice.

His fingers found a catch and he pushed it, light flooding the stairway as the door opened. "DuPuis is-" he began, before his breath was torn from his lungs at the scene that met him.

Anders and Fletcher – both arguing and covered in blood – were bent over the prone form of Bethany. Fenris's markings protested as healing magic was sent into her in a vain attempt to close the angry, gaping slash to her throat. To his right, three shades lay defeated, Bethany's favourite necklace still dangling from one of their claws.

"Bethany?" he whispered in confusion, finding no answers, no comfort in Varric's blank stare.

"It's not healing!" Fletcher cried frantically.

"No! Not there – _there_!" Anders ordered.

"All right! I'm doing the best I can! Stop telling me what I'm doing wrong and help me!"

"I am! Just concentrate! You can't let your emotions get in the way, Hawke!"

"She's my _sister_ , you bastard! What do you want from me?"

Anders stopped what he was doing and grabbed Fletcher's shoulders. "Shut up and do what I fucking tell you!" he roared. "Understand?"

Fletcher nodded, his face crumpling, and he and Anders returned to their work in silence.

Fenris staggered back, any hopes he'd dared entertain fleeing. The mages – even the more experienced Anders – were _panicking_. She _couldn't_ die. She was Fletcher's sister.

She was _his_ sister.

"Okay," Anders uttered.

"What? _What_?" demanded Varric.

"It's healing – slowly," answered Anders as he and Fletcher combined their energies and Anders bent close to Bethany's chest, placing two fingers in the hollow in the centre of her collarbone, Fletcher's eyes screwed closed as he concentrated with everything he could muster.

"Wait…" Anders's breathing hastened and his brow creased as he sought a pulse, over and over again. Fletcher grabbed one of her wrists, and then Anders the other, both men staring at each other as they waited.

"What's happening?" asked Varric in wretched hope, noting that the hideous wound to his sweet Sunshine's neck had finally been closed.

"Quiet!" Fletcher hissed.

The mages waited a moment longer before they again checked her throat, Anders shaking his head as he glanced at Fletcher. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Fletcher whispered.

"Get back!" Anders ordered the non-mages but neither Varric nor Fenris moved, rooted to the spot in their terror, and Fletcher moved aside as Anders straddled his sister, tearing the front of her dress.

"I'm sorry, Beth," Anders said, arranging her dress so that her breasts were not exposed. He placed both hands over her breastbone and looked up as Fletcher grabbed his arm.

"This has _got_ to work, Anders!" he beseeched. "Please!"

"I know!"

Without conscious thought, Fenris wrapped an arm around Varric's shoulders as blue arcs of electricity danced around the mages, a bolt from a few feet above slamming into Bethany's chest. Fenris, numbed by grief and dread, hardly felt the pain in his markings at all.

"Again!" Fletcher yelled.

Fenris's other hand covered his mouth and he saw Varric's head sink to his chest as Anders, panting with exhaustion, made a second attempt to start Bethany's heart. Once again, a blinding arc of electricity was sent into her chest, but Anders shook his head. "Hawke… Fletcher… I'm sorry…"

"No!" Varric and Fletcher cried as one and Fletcher clutched Anders's arms, shaking him in despair.

"One more try! Please, Anders! Please, you've got to!"

"Hawke, I-"

" _Please_ , Anders," Fletcher sobbed as he shook him again before sinking onto all fours. Fenris tightened his grip on Varric's shoulders but looked away, unable to watch what he knew was inevitable.

Silently, Anders once again invoked his most powerful lightning spell. Once completed, he sat up straight, slowly turning to the others, tears streaming down his face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can't… I can't do any more. Please… I'm _so_ sorry. I-I tried my best." He covered his face with his hands and wept, and Fenris lowered Varric to the ground as the dwarf sank to his knees, the elf's own vision blurred by tears.

"No," Fletcher murmured, pushing to his feet and staring down at his lifeless sister. "I can't… I can't tell Mother… she can't die… I won't allow it."

"She's gone," Anders whimpered. "Please, Hawke… I-I'll come to see your mother with you. Please… you have to accept it. I can't do any more."

"No," Fletcher repeated, backing up towards Varric and Fenris. "No… no, no, _no_!"

"Fletcher," Fenris entreated, reaching out for the mage but Fletcher appeared not to see him, his eyes fixed on Varric's belt.

"No, I _won't_ allow it," Fletcher said again with conviction before snatching one of Varric's daggers and holding it above his palm. For a second, his and Fenris's eyes met.

"No…"

"I'm so sorry," Fletcher whispered as the blade bit into his flesh.

He grimaced, his hand curling into a fist as he gnashed his teeth in pain. "Synia!" he yelled. " _Synia!_ "

"Yes, my pet?" asked the demon excitedly as she materialised next to Bethany. At the same moment, Anders rose to his feet, pale blue light streaming from his eyes. "Oh, _dear_ ," Synia tutted as she surveyed the carnage. "This _is_ a to-do, isn't it?"

"Revive my sister!" commanded Fletcher. "Quick! Her heart stopped about three minutes ago!"

"Well, that doesn't give her much time, does it?" purred the demon.

"Revive her!" shouted Varric, scrambling to his feet. "Don't fuck with us, lady!"

"Oh, all right," she teased, twirling her tail in one hand. "I want something in return, though," she said to Fletcher.

"No!" interrupted Justice. "You have already made a bargain with this mage. It would be unjust for you to demand further payment for services rendered. Do as he commands!"

"It's not unjust if he _agrees_ ," Synia sneered, turning to her pet. "I want another ten years from you, sweet thing."

"I don't _care_!" Fletcher yelled, almost apoplectic. "Just _do_ it!"

"You agree, then?" she asked with a defiant look at Justice. "Ten years for your sister's life?"

"Yes!"

The sword slipped from Fenris's grasp, time seeming to stand still for one beat of his heart before he was rudely hurtled back to the present by its cacophonous clatter against the stone tile.

"Fine." Synia sniffed, glancing down at Bethany. "Have a nice life. It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Fletcher… until the next time."

"This is not the end!" boomed the incensed Justice. "We _will_ meet again, demon!"

"Sure! Stop by and have a cup of tea!" she laughed as her image melted away.

"Get _on_ with it!" Fletcher screamed.

As soon as the demon disappeared, Fletcher clutched his hand and fell to his knees, crying out as blood pumped out of his wound, a ghastly red mist rising from the floor and surrounding him and Bethany. He collapsed on to his back, his body convulsing as the blood gushed freely onto the floor before it appeared to take on a life of its own and began flowing towards Bethany.

Fletcher, unconscious from blood loss, fell limp, his head lolling to one side, his mouth falling open.

"Fletcher!" Fenris barked in terror, darting forward before halting as Bethany gasped.

"Aah!" she cried out, her eyes flying open as the crimson mist dissipated.

"Sunshine?" Varric ran forward past Fenris and crouched down beside her, desperate to touch her but afraid of hurting her. "Sunshine? That's my girl!" he cheered, his voice choked by tears.

Anders, who had had control of his body returned to him, joined Varric at Bethany's side, conducting a thorough examination of both mages. After ensuring that Bethany's heart was strong and that she was out of danger, he quickly strapped up Fletcher's hand, knowing it could not be healed with conventional magic.

"Varric?" Bethany whispered, the dwarf unable to do more than nod and clutch her hand in reply. She glanced down at her dress and then at her brother, who was starting to stir under Anders's care. "Oh, Fletcher!" she cried upon seeing the blood and his bandaged hand. "Please don't tell me! Oh, no, Brother!"

"This is the City Guard!" announced a deep voice from below. "Who's up there?"

"Come on up," Varric invited with a sigh. "We got injured people and one of your guardsmen is up here, so don't come in _stabbing_ , okay?"

Remembering Fenris, Anders stood and turned around, his heart sinking at the sight of the elf sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, head buried in his folded arms. He slowly walked to the other side of the terrace and watched the elf for a moment before the guards charged through the door, startled by the blood-soaked floor. "They need help," he instructed them soberly and the four guardsmen quickly ran to assist Varric and the prone mages.

If Anders didn't know Fenris better he could swear the elf was crying, or else reliving some horrific, long-dormant memory. Surprised by the rush of sympathy he felt for the elf, he longed to tell him that everything would be all right, that soon everything would be sorted out, but he knew he couldn't do that yet. And maybe… maybe it was too late for Fenris and Hawke now. At one time that thought would have brought Anders satisfaction, but no longer.

Satisfied that the other mages were now safe, he sat on the floor a few feet away from Fenris, neither speaking nor advertising his presence, just being there. In spite of his personal feelings, which had softened considerably since the Deep Roads expedition, Anders – and Justice – knew that Fenris was good for Hawke. He held a hand up to the guard who hailed him, indicating he needed a minute.

He looked at Fenris again, warmth spreading through his centre as an enigmatic smile came to his lips. Tentatively, he reached for Fenris's arm, giving it a gentle nudge.

Yes - soon, everything would be sorted out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferme ta bouche! = Shut your mouth!
> 
> Va te faire enculer! = Fuck you! Also translates as: Fuck yourself up the arse!
> 
> Sa soeur est mort = His sister is dead


	83. Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why can't I hate you as I should?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can I say 'thank-you' to Mary? She beta-read this chapter twice, dealt with my anxious emails with patience and grace and made the sentences flow and the emotions real and natural. She is the unsung hero of this story, and I'm grateful beyond words for her help. ^_^

Lieutenant Bradley stared across his desk at the hunched figure seated in the chair opposite. Their discussion, which should have been a straightforward matter, had been stilted and awkward. Bradley's colleague was a taciturn man at the best of times, and this was _not_ one of those times.

"It's the way it goes sometimes, Fen. You had no choice but to kill him. You really should give yourself credit--you caught and stopped The Butcher!" he said, using the grim nickname the guards had given the man who'd been mutilating women around the city. "You're a bit of a hero, you know."

Fenris--who'd spoken sparingly only when asked a direct question--nodded, his eyes on the desk, where they'd stayed for most of the debriefing.

Bemused by his reticence, Bradley held in a sigh and leaned forward slightly. "We can do this another time. I have all the information I need for now. Why don't you go home for a bit, get a few hours' sleep before your shift starts?"

Fenris frowned and slowly raised his head, his eyes briefly meeting Bradley's before they returned to the desk. "Home?"

"Yes. You'll want to check on Hawke and his sister, won't you?"

"I don't live there. It is _not_ my home."

"No… I suppose not." Bradley released the sigh he'd been holding in. "Fenris… did something else happen? Something you haven't told me about? If so, it doesn't have to go on record, you know."

"No."

Bradley did a double-take at the doorway as Guard-Captain Aveline entered. He immediately went to stand.

"As you were, Evan," she said, holding her hand up. Bradley nodded and took his seat again as Aveline moved beside Fenris. "I heard about what happened," she said warmly, standing next to the elf. "Well, I've heard bits of it from pretty much everyone I walked past on my way here. Good job, Fenris! I'm looking forward to reading your report."

"We… haven't quite finished that yet," Bradley informed her. As she looked at him, his eyes darted between her and Fenris. She frowned and glanced at the elf.

"Right. Well, I'm sure _Corporal_ Fenris must be very tired after his heroics." Aveline and Bradley grinned before their smiles melted away, and they exchanged a concerned look when her announcement was not met with the enthusiasm they'd expected. "Evan, why don't you go and grab yourself a bracer," she suggested. "It's well after lunch, and you're due a break."

"Thanks, Captain." Bradley rose and moved aside to let Aveline take a seat but, before she did, he nudged her and mouthed, "He's not right." With a single nod, she sat down while Bradley lingered for a moment. "See you, Fen."

The elf glanced up but didn't quite look at Bradley. "Farewell."

Shaking his head, Bradley exited, closing the door behind him.

"Well, Corporal," Aveline began, keeping a very close watch on the elf, "your actions today, while _off-duty_ , are a shining example to your colleagues. Everyone's quite excited about it. And speaking for myself, I'm very glad Donnic, er, _persuaded_ me to take you on. You're a credit to this regiment."

"You honour me," he mumbled, looking down at his hands.

"Indeed I do, and that's why you've been promoted. Well, started off at a higher rank than you would have been, anyway. You didn't have a rank to start with, so technically it's not a promotion."

"How's Donnic?" he asked listlessly, wanting to steer the conversation away from how bloody proud everyone was of him.

"Oh, he's great! I mean… he's _doing_ great. He's agreed to move to the infirmary. It'll be nice having him around again."

Detecting something in Aveline's tone he hadn't heard before, Fenris looked at her, seeing a light shining in her eyes which he recognised... it was the way Fletcher looked at him sometimes.

The way Fletcher _used_ to look at him.

His stomach lurched and he sat up stiffly, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, ready to push himself up and leave.

And go where?

The thought struck him with the force of a blow, leaving him momentarily unable to speak around the pain in his chest.

"…It's better like that, anyway," she went on, oblivious to his discomfiture, "seeing as Hawke's out of action and Anders is up at the Hawke place taking care of them both. Have you been to see them? No, I suppose you came straight here, didn't you? I heard Bethany was in a right old state. I'd better pay them a visit myself."

"A 'right old state'? Is that all you...?" Fenris's jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together. "Bethany was _dead_. A 'right old state' is hardly an adequate description of what she endured!"

Aveline gasped. "She was...? Bloody hell, Fenris, I didn't know that! What happened, exactly?"

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead hard. "It is in the report. Must I repeat myself?" he snapped, his irritation with her voice--with any kind of noise at all--at its height.

She sighed and shook her head in self-remonstration. "Listen to me, wittering on! You must be desperate to see them both. Come on, we'll go together." She stood and moved to the door before glancing back, seeing Fenris very slowly rising from his chair, his expression dull.

"Captain, I am not certain-"

"They'll be fine!" she reassured him, misunderstanding. "Those Hawkes are made of strong stuff, you know. And they have Anders looking after them. Maker, what I wouldn't give for the power to heal someone, to save someone's life. Wouldn't you, Fenris?"

"Shall we go?" he asked tersely, his body language akin to a coiled spring. Knowing how Fenris could be when upset or worried, she excused his discourteous manner, certain that, once he knew Hawke was safe, all would be well.

She strode ahead, Fenris trudging behind her and feeling as though he was walking to his doom.

~o~O~o~

Captain Aveline and Corporal Fenris were let in by Leandra and shown upstairs to Bethany's room before the Hawke matriarch returned to the kitchen where she was baking cakes, just as she'd done when her children were little and had skinned a knee. They were adults now, but they would always be her _children_. She'd seen the wound to Fletcher's hand that would not heal, and the fear in his eyes when she'd noticed it as he'd carried Bethany upstairs. After ensuring they were both comfortable and leaving them in Anders's capable hands, she'd gone to the kitchen and opened an old recipe book. It was useless, of course, but it served as a reminder of a time when her children's woes could be soothed with a kiss to the forehead and something sweet in their bellies. A time that would never come again.

Anders, after settling Bethany in and cleaning her and Fletcher's wounds, had asked Leandra if he could take a bath. She'd given him one of Fletcher's robes to change into as well as several fluffy towels and a large bottle of fragrant oil, before leaving him to it.

Fenris hovered just out of sight outside Bethany's room, whose door was ajar, and could feel a gentle thrum along his markings. Magic was being used nearby, but not so near as to cause him pain. Inside, Bethany was propped up in bed with Fletcher half-sitting, half-lying on its edge, his head resting on her shoulder. Bethany stroked his hair and hummed something low and quiet to him before she stopped, her face brightening at Aveline's arrival.

"Hello, there!" she croaked while Fletcher sat up, clearing his throat.

"Don't try to speak, Beth," Aveline advised as she took a seat in a chair on the opposite side of the bed to Fletcher. She looked at Bethany's neck and grimaced. "Is that healing all right?" she asked Fletcher. "Will there be a scar?"

"I'm afraid so," he said dejectedly.

Bethany tapped his arm and smiled. "It just gives me all the more reason to buy necklaces and scarves. Any excuse for a spending spree, especially when it comes to clothing."

"You've got the right attitude," Aveline said, removing her own scarf from around her neck and handing it to Bethany. "Here… one to start your collection. I don't suppose you'll wear it, as it's in the guard colours, but still. Maybe it'll bring you luck, who knows?"

Bethany's eyes lit up and she gratefully accepted the gift, exchanging a kiss to the cheek with Aveline. "Oh, I'll wear it all right! I'll pretend to be a guard and arrest certain people," she said with a sly glance at Fletcher, "for infractions. Farting, for one. Oh, and burping at the table. You'd better watch out, Brother."

He nodded and forced a halting smile. "You've got me bang to rights there, Sis."

"What happened to you?" Aveline asked Fletcher with a glance at his hand, a small amount of blood seeping through the bandages. "You haven't done much of a job of dressing that, have you?"

Fletcher clenched his hand and held it against his belly. "It's a cut. A deep one."

"I can see that! Can't you heal it? Can't Anders?"

"Just leave it, all right?" He paused and drew a deep breath, realising he felt like shouting and that he'd better restrain himself. "It's... it's in a difficult place, that's all." His eyes moved to the door when he saw a slight movement in that direction.

Seeing Fletcher's immediate tension, Bethany also looked, a smile forming anew when she spotted the hero of the hour. "Oh, Fenris! Do come in!" she said.

"That's _Corporal_ Fenris to you," Aveline said proudly as the elf slowly entered, hands tightly clasped over his belly, his face tight and pinched.

Fletcher stood up and stepped away from the bed. "Want to sit down?" he said to the elf, looking out of the window as he spoke.

"No. Um… no, I am fine where I am. Thank you, though." Fenris also looked anywhere but at the mage as he moved to the foot of the bed. He exhaled softly when Fletcher sat back down, not certain he should be standing at all.

"Have you been promoted, Fenris?" Bethany asked, her eyes moving between the two men. "I mean, Corporal. I should think so as well. You deserve it. Well done!"

"He _does_ deserve it," said his captain. "Some of the lads are talking about a celebration later on. Mind you, they don't need much of an excuse to get plastered, but they're hailing our Fenris as a hero, and rightly so. I told them you'd be at the Hanged Man at eight bells tonight, Fenris. It was either that, or they came looking for you."

"But… I will be on duty, then," he mumbled quietly.

"Precisely," she said with a wink. "Didn't think it would be your cup of tea."

"I…" An awkward smile formed on the elf's lips, which quickly disappeared. He nodded deferentially at Aveline. "Thank you." He then glanced at Bethany, mentally cringing at the bright pink line that ran across her throat. "How are you feeling, Bethany?"

"Can't complain." She winced, holding the side of her neck as she shifted slightly. "I'm being waited on hand and foot. Between you and me, Fenris," she whispered conspiratorially, although the others could hear, "I'm going to milk this for everything I can."

Fenris smiled--a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes--and turned to the door, hearing footsteps approach.

"Sunshine!" Varric panted as he entered and, upon seeing the others, his hands immediately went behind his back. "Hawke, you're going to have to do something about those damned stairs of yours. I-isn't it bad enough I've been up… _two_ flights of stairs already today?"

"What do you have there?" Fletcher queried, craning his neck to get a look behind the dwarf.

"What? Nothing. I'm just standing to attention in the presence of our illustrious defenders," the dwarf claimed with a look at Aveline and Fenris.

"Funny, that," said the captain with a snort, "you've never done it before."

"Are those… Black-eyed Susans?" Bethany asked. "Oh Varric, you remembered! You sweet thing!"

"Don't they grow in Darktown, next to the sewers?" Fletcher teased, smiling in spite of the way he felt.

"No, they bloody don't! I bought and paid for these, fair and square!" Varric protested, brandishing the posy as he stomped over to Fletcher. "They need lots of sunshine to grow, and that's why-" Stopping dead at the fond sniggers that greeted him from Aveline and Fletcher, he presented the flowers to Bethany and offered his hand to Fletcher. "Allow me to shake you very _firmly_ by the hand," he offered snidely with a glance at Fletcher's bandaged hand.

"No need, Varric. I already know how much you respect me." Fletcher protectively concealed his hand under his armpit.

"Fenris has been promoted," Bethany informed the dwarf, immediately noticing a change in her brother's demeanour as Varric approached the elf.

"Damn straight!" exclaimed Varric, grabbing and shaking Fenris's rather limp hand. "Broody and I go _way_ back. I always knew he'd do well for himself. You'll be taking Aveline's job before we know it!"

"He's welcome to it," she muttered with a wry smile.

Bethany cleared her throat loudly. "Er… would you mind if I ask you all to step out for a minute?"

Varric frowned. "Sorry, Sunshine. Are we making too much noise?"

"No, you idiots," hissed Aveline. "Does she have to spell it out to you?"

"It's under the bed," Fletcher whispered to his sister before standing up, while Fenris jumped as though he'd been stuck with a pin. In his rush for the door, he almost collided with Varric. Fletcher turned back, in no hurry to join Fenris outside, and grinned at the ladies. "Open a window, won't you, Sis?"

"Out!" commanded Aveline.

Fletcher pulled the door to, his smile quickly vanishing as he set eyes on Fenris and Varric. Suddenly feeling woozy, he blinked several times before taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it.

"Shouldn't you be sitting down?" Varric queried in concern.

"No… I-I'm fine."

Varric hastened to Fletcher's side as a few drops of blood fell from his injured hand. "Shit, Hawke, is that _still_ bleeding? Come on, get in here!" Varric steered him to the room next door, which was Fletcher's bedroom, and sat him down on a couch. "Where's Blondie? He needs to take a look at this. Or can you do anything?"

"Anders is taking a bath." Fletcher rested his arm on the back of the couch and raised his hand above his head. "It'll be all right. It's just taking a while to heal. Each time I move it, it... well, you can see."

"Is that because... you know?"

Fletcher nodded, his eyes briefly settling on Fenris who was standing in the doorway, a deep groove carved onto his brow as he stared at the floor.

Noticing that, Varric moved to the door and sniffed the air in an exaggerated way. "Is that Bakewell Tart I can smell?"

"Probably cherry bakewells," Fletcher guessed. "They're Beth's favourite."

Varric clasped his chin, frowning. "I wonder if Ma Hawke would let me lick the spoon? Uh, I mean… lend a hand. 'Scuse me, Sergeant Broody," he said to Fenris.

 _"Corporal,"_ Fenris stated with a groan.

"Corporal? Well, that's even higher than sergeant, isn't it?"

"Uh, no," Fenris answered, desperate to keep Varric talking. "In fact, the rank of-"

"That's great!" Varric laughed, heading out of the room. "Why don't you tell Hawke all about it?" He shoved the elf inside and firmly closed the door.

"Alone at last," mumbled Fletcher with a nervous, hollow laugh as he glanced at his hand. "I'm only surprised it took so long. My family is not exactly subtle."

Fenris moved to the window, putting some distance between them, and folded his arms. "But Varric is not family, is he?" he uttered so quietly Fletcher had to strain to hear him.

"Yes, he is. My sister loves him and so do I. Hah… you'd never catch me telling him that, though. I love you. That goes without saying. Shit, I even love Anders. And I'd do anything for you... _all_ of you. You mean that much to me. But _you_ are a Hawke, Fenris, whether you like it or not. In my mind, you're blood-" He halted, cursing under his breath. "Talk about an unfortunate choice of words."

"And what exactly do you mean by that?"

"I _mean_... I mean that, no matter what happens, even if you walk away from me, you'll always be my man. And no one else could ever take your place," Fletcher said with conviction, his last few words coming out in a rush.

For a fraught moment Fenris hardly moved, each small rise and fall of his shoulders perfectly measured, perfectly spaced apart. Finally, he raised his head a little. "You expect me to walk away, then?"

Fletcher gulped, knowing something--which he couldn't see or hear, but whose presence was tangible--was hurtling towards him with the speed and precision of one of Bianca's bolts. "I wouldn't blame you if you did."

A sharp snort came from the elf, who shook his head, his expression hardening. "This is so easy for you, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Fletcher asked cautiously, his stomach knotting.

"You're a hero, aren't you?" Fenris said, not looking away from the window, a tightness in his voice that unravelled and hastened his speech with every word he spoke. "I am also a hero, apparently, but all I did was end a man who deserved his fate. He was already dying, in fact. I merely hastened his journey to the Void. But _you,"_ he continued, finally turning around and looking Fletcher in the eyes, "you saved the life of someone you love. Someone I… also care for. You sacrificed yourself to bring her back from the dead. You did everything, used every tool at your disposal and, in the process, _you_ suffered. And who could blame you for that? Who could accuse _you_ of wrongdoing?"

Here it comes, Fletcher thought, reminding himself that he'd been ready for whatever Fenris had to throw at him, and that, whatever the elf said to him--no matter how spiteful, how hurtful his words were--those words came from a place of fear and profound injury.

"I could," he said quietly.

"Could you?" Fenris sneered, his upper lip curling. "And why _is_ that, pray?"

"Because I broke my word to you. _Again_. Because… because I gave you another reason not to trust me. Because you once told me that if ever I used blood magic, for whatever reason, it would be too much for you to bear. I don't know where you heard this is _easy_ for me, though," he went on, feeling hurt by the coldness of Fenris's voice and expression. "Do you think it's easy for me to know I've completely destroyed any trust you ever had in me? Do you think it's easy that you can barely stand to be in the same room as me? Do you think it's _easy_ for me to see you so hurt and disappointed you can't look me in the eye?"

Fenris turned a little towards Fletcher, but still didn't look at him.

Fletcher sighed and sat back again when a bright spot appeared on his bloody bandage. "Maybe you'd be better off without me," he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in resignation. "You need someone you can trust, and clearly I can't be trusted."

"Don't you dare," Fenris growled, his fists clenching at his sides before he rushed forward, standing astride Fletcher and pinning him to the couch by the shoulders. "Don't you dare! You are giving me an easy way out? After all that has happened? After… after I almost _killed_ you in the Fade? And now you are going to _allow_ me to walk away from you?" he yelled, so close to Fletcher the mage could feel the heat of Fenris's breath. "Well, how very magnanimous of you! Should I be honoured, grateful for your largesse?"

Appearing stricken, Fletcher glanced down into his lap, shaking his head.

"Well, _should_ I?"

"I… I don't know what largesse means," Fletcher whispered. "I'm sorry."

 _"Why?"_ Fenris cried in frustration, grabbing Fletcher's collar. As he remembered doing the same to Gascard DuPuis just before killing him, he released Fletcher, staring at his hands for a second, horrified with himself for manhandling Fletcher in the same way. Slowly, he turned away and moved to the fireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece with one hand. "Why is it so difficult?" he asked himself before facing Fletcher. "Why can't I hate you as I should?"

Fletcher looked up, his heart stilling for a second. He slowly sat forward, not sure what he was going to do but he knew he wanted to go to Fenris, to hold him, to feel his warm breath against his neck, to feel the elf's silken hair glide between his fingers. When would he be able to do that again?

Would he _ever_ be able to do that again?

"You are everything I _should_ hate," murmured Fenris, turning back to face the fireplace. "You are a blood mage and I have _seen_ you invoke your demon. You have broken your word to me more times than I can remember. You have kept things from me-"

"Fenris, we talked about that…"

Fenris turned around, seeing Fletcher was standing, but had not moved away from the couch. "And yet," Fenris said, shaking his head, "there have been numerous occasions since we met when it would have been easier for you to call upon your demon, to save yourself or to harm someone else, but you did not. Only when… only when you were desperate, when there was no other alternative, when her heart had given out, did you-" He looked at Fletcher, who'd opened his mouth to speak but Fenris silenced him by raising his hand. "Ten years," he said in quiet horror. "You gave _ten years_ of your life."

"And I'd do it again to save someone I love."

"I do not doubt that you would." Fenris closed his eyes, his hands falling to his sides, his head bowed. "I… wished for that," he whispered unsteadily. "I _wished_ for it."

"You wished for me to give up ten years of my life?"

"No." Fenris opened his eyes but his posture still reflected defeat and wretched despair. "When Anders told us there was no more to be done for Bethany, part of me… wished for you…" His eyes travelled up to meet Fletcher's. "For a moment... I _wanted_ you to use blood magic."

Fletcher's mouth dropped open, his next words dying on his lips.

Once again, Fenris's eyes closed. "I have seen magisters raise the dead, but more often than not their purposes were twisted. I remember Danarius raising a vanquished foe to make him suffer more. The man's body was broken and he screamed in agony when he was revived. Danarius stood over him, watching in satisfaction, and kept him alive for more than two hours until he tired of his little game. I knew you were capable of such power. I have only ever witnessed blood magic used for evil, never before for… love."

"I did it because we all love her," said Fletcher, taking a small step closer to the elf. "All I could think about was how her death would affect us all. And Mother… I couldn't tell her she'd lost another child. Losing Carver nearly broke her, but Beth as well?"

"And how will your mother react when, before you turn forty, you are forced to-" A single tear fell from one of Fenris's eyes. He wiped it away, quickly moving away from Fletcher, evading the mage's outstretched hand. He stopped by the window and leaned on the sill, his voice trembling as he spoke. "And if you are forced to do the same again, what price will your demon exact next time? _All_ of your life? Someone else's life?" he demanded, the ramifications of his question hurtling through his mind only after the words had passed his lips.

"Someone _else's_ life? What do you mean by that?"

Fenris hesitated, almost, _almost_ wishing he hadn't asked, knowing the potential consequences his continuance would bring, but it was too late... he _had_ asked, and Fletcher would not stand for a retraction. Furthermore, Fenris _needed_ to know. He straightened his posture and looked directly at Fletcher. "I have asked myself a question countless times since we left DuPuis's estate, and I have yet to arrive at a satisfactory answer. When your demon made you an offer for Bethany's life, you accepted it without question. I am not even certain you heard what she said at first, you were that upset. What if she had demanded the life of one of your companions? Would you have dealt so readily?"

Fletcher was still in the same spot next to the settee, his mouth half-open. "That is something a magister would do," he said in an odd, flat monotone. "How can you-"

"You would have agreed to anything," Fenris stated in almost an accusation, though his tone was steady, matter-of-fact. "She is your sister. I understand. But I need to know the answer to this. I _must_ know."

"As you're not a healer," Fletcher began, a tremor of anger in his voice, "I will say this _very simply_. Bethany's heart had stopped for around three minutes. I wasn't counting. It's currently unknown how long the human brain can survive without oxygen, but the general consensus is approximately four minutes. Every second counted," he said through gritted teeth, "and yes, I _would_ have given my entire life if she'd demanded it. I would have done _almost_ anything to save my sister's life. But give up the life of one of my friends? Their lives are not mine to give. Let me be _very_ clear about that. And I heard every word that bitch said."

From the window, Fenris could hear Fletcher's laboured, tremulous breathing and knew the mage's nerves were on a knife-edge.

"But it doesn't matter what I say, does it?" Fletcher went on, his voice deep and harsh. "You don't trust me. I understand _that_ because I'm the cause of it. But if you believe that I'd…" He stopped as his hand started to bleed again and he clutched his wrist, moving to the settee, his heart beating an erratic staccato as he took a seat. "You should already know the answer to your question. You should know me well enough. Yes, I broke my word to you but that doesn't make me... what _is_ it you're actually accusing me of? There's not really a name for it, is there?"

"I didn't accuse you of anything," Fenris said, knowing whatever he said at this point would cause harm... perhaps irreparable harm. "I asked a question. I require an answer. You should know _me_ well enough to understand why."

"And if I give you the answer you seem to think you want, will you believe me?"

"I will believe you," said Fenris.

"See, I don't believe _you_ when you say that," Fletcher replied, anger and hurt informing his words. "If you're truly willing to accept my word, you never would have asked your question in the first place. So here's what you should do. Go away and ask yourself a _different_ question. In your head, have Synia demand _your_ life as payment this time. See what answer I give."

"I… don't want to do that."

"You must, because I can't answer your question for you. The only person who can is you. Until you do, there's the door."

"You are... asking me to leave?"

"No, I'm not asking," Fletcher replied without looking up.

Fenris slowly nodded, a heavy frown forming as he moved to the door. He ventured a glance at Fletcher, who was still looking at his hand, and quietly cleared his throat. "You… forgave me for what I did in the Fade. You have forgiven me for so many things, given me so many chances. I have never completely trusted anyone. I am damaged, flawed… but you, alone, have made me see what it is to have a life of my own, to hope, to believe. To… love. And, yes, to forgive. But there will always be a part of me that expects deceit, lies and betrayal. I hope you can forgive me for being who I am."

Fletcher waited for more but, when none came, he turned to the door. He wasn't surprised to see Fenris was gone, but wished, just for a second, that he'd stayed.

Outside, Varric, who'd returned in time to hear raised voices, had hidden in the shadows, listening to the exchange. He shook his head as Fenris silently walked past, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He then saw the pale, drawn face of Hawke appear at the bedroom door before it was closed and locked.

Knowing Anders was due to return after his bath, Varric emerged from stealth and waited. Sure enough, after a few minutes Anders came out of another room, freshly bathed and wearing a clean robe.

"Hey, Blondie," Varric greeted him as he approached. "We need to talk. About Hawke and Fenris."

"Fenris?" Anders exclaimed. Varric shushed him, leading him closer to Bethany's room. "I've never heard you call him Fenris before. Like you've never called me Anders."

"Well, there's a time and a place for that," Varric muttered. "We need to figure something out. That… death magic trick of Hawke's has screwed everything up. Broody's gone and Hawke's… well, he's not happy. Hawke saved Sunshine's life, Blondie! She'd be devastated if she thought she was responsible for them breaking up. Not that she is responsible, but that's how she'd see it."

"Let's talk about this elsewhere," whispered Anders. "I'm going to check on Beth again and then how about we grab a pint?"

"How about five?" Varric uttered miserably. "All right, then. Oh, Captain Carrot-Top wanted to see you about something as well."

"And there was me thinking there's a time and a place for nicknames."

"There is, and it's _always_ the right time for a carrot pun," quipped the dwarf humorlessly.

~o~O~o~

"This is what I wanted to show you, Anders," Aveline said, producing a small pendant on a thin leather strap after Anders had conducted another check of Bethany. He held out his hand, his eyes narrowing as he examined it.

"Where did you get this?" he asked suspiciously.

"While most of the guards have been concentrating on the serial killer, I've had a small group working on other investigations," she explained. "That was found at the site of the collapsed tunnels in the Deep Roads. I thought it might be some kind of magical amulet, especially as we've determined that a mage was responsible, or at least partly responsible. Any idea what it is?"

He stared at the pendant, his expression sour as he turned it over in his hands.

"Anders?" she prompted.

He took a deep breath. "Yes, I know what this is, and I'm not surprised you found it in the Deep Roads. There are probably quite a few of them in there, either lost or discarded." Noticing Aveline's frown, he elaborated. "It's a Joining pendant. Every Grey Warden is given one at their Joining. I've got one myself, although I kept it in a trunk at the old clinic. One of the bloody templars is probably wearing it now. Bastards."

"So these are two-a-penny in the Deep Roads, then?" asked Aveline.

"No, I'm not saying that, but if you're going to find one it would probably be in the Deep Roads. You say this was found near the collapsed tunnel?"

"Not near it, Anders. _In_ it. It was found under the rubble from the collapse Bartrand claims he wasn't responsible for, the one my scouts determined was collapsed using magic."

Anders frowned heavily, thumbing the small pendant.

"Is there any way of assigning this to a particular warden?" she asked. "Any identifying marks? Or all they all the same? I'd quite like to speak to that warden, at least to eliminate them from the enquiry."

"Yes, there's a number on the back." He turned it over, trying in vain to read the tiny characters. "Every warden-commander in Thedas is issued a quantity of empty ones, and each has a number stamped on it. When someone becomes a warden, their details and number are sent to Weisshaupt. You could write to them, I suppose, but I wouldn't hold your breath for a reply."

Aveline, who was seated next to the window, held her hand out as Anders passed the pendant back to her. She held it up to the light that streamed through the window, squinting as she tried to make out the worn digits. "Three numbers… eight something. Eight… eight… got it. Eight-eight-eight."

"What? Are you sure?" Anders demanded, jumping out of his chair and rushing to Aveline's side. "Let me see that."

She passed it back to him and watched curiously as Anders read the numbers, repeating them over and over again.

"Anders? What's the matter?"

"But… it can't be," he mumbled, his eyes darting back and forth, his face drained of blood. "I don't understand."

"Anders," she said impatiently, "what's the _matter?"_

"This is number eight-eight-eight."

"We've already _established_ that."

"Well, my number's eight-eight-six," he stated soberly. "This… this belongs to the person who took their Joining… two after me."

"And? Do you know who it belongs to or not? And are they a mage?"

"I know who it belongs to," he said, blinking rapidly as he stared at the pendant. "Not a mage, no, but he used to hang around with one a lot." He sighed. "What in the Void was he doing there?"


	84. Companions and Confidants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is not really about me being a blood mage. It's more… me being a crap boyfriend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary, thank you for delaying your own chapter to beta this - and for doing such a thorough job as always! :-)

"All right, you two – out with it. What's going on between Hawke and Fenris?"

Anders and Varric barely suppressed their groans and exchanged a quick glance as Aveline took a seat at their table at the Hanged Man. They hadn't invited her but she'd followed them nonetheless.

"Well?" she demanded. "Something's going on and I want to know what it is. Fenris hasn't been right all day and if one of my guards is disturbed about something, then I need to be aware of it."

"It was a hard fight, Aveline," Anders explained. "They're both tired. Fenris has probably gone off to get some sleep or something."

"I'm well aware that he's tired," she snapped. "Do you take me for an idiot? They could barely stand to be in the same room as the other, and when they went next door I heard Fenris shouting. Beth heard it as well, but she didn't seem surprised. I want to know what happened. I can wait for as long as it takes."

She sat back and folded her arms, and Varric sighed. "So they had a spat! Don't all couples? Maybe we should do them a favour and _stay out of it_."

"No, I _won't_ stay out of it," she insisted. "I'm already concerned that Fenris is too tired to go back on duty. If he's mentally unfit as well, I can't have him doing a night shift in Darktown. _Something_ is going on. If you're not going to tell me, then I need to know if he's competent for duty or not. Anders?"

Anders's mouth fell open in surprise and it took him a minute to regain his composure. "Why are you asking me? Do you really think Fenris will take any notice of what I say?"

"Maybe not, but I will," she answered. "Now, _is_ Fenris fit for duty or not?"

He sighed, stared into his pint and started to shake his head before Varric touched his arm. Anders looked first at him and then Aveline. "Maybe it'll do him some good. If he's left to his own devices, then he'll, well… _brood_. He didn't get his nickname for nothing."

"You mean _Varric's_ nickname for him?" she asked sternly and Anders shrugged, while Varric took the opportunity to escape to the bar for a refill. She shot the dwarf a sour look before turning back to Anders. "What really happened?" she asked in a softer tone. "Look… Hawke and Fenris, well, they helped me with something recently. Especially Hawke. If there's something wrong between them, I want to help."

Realising she was referring to Donnic, Anders looked at the table for a minute and then leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "They've… had a falling-out. A serious one. That's what Varric and I have come here for – to try and work something out for them. You're welcome to put your copper's worth in, but you need to accept that there are certain things we can't tell you."

"Like what?" she demanded, and Anders shook his head.

"They didn't break any laws if that's what you're so worried about," he assured her. "Either you trust us with the rest, or we all sit here in silence until we're old and grey. Your choice."

"I just want to know one thing," she ventured, and Anders watched her warily. "What happened to Hawke's hand and why can't either of you heal it?"

He mirrored her stance by folding his arms, and said nothing.

"I _was_ married to a templar, you know," she whispered. "I'm not a complete naïf. He's a blood mage, isn't he? Is that why-"

"Shh!" Anders hissed angrily.

"He _is_ , isn't he?" she guessed, Anders's expression telling her all she needed to know. "Maker, Anders! I may have been married to a templar but I'm not one of them! Did you think I was going to dob him in?"

"Why not? You wouldn't hesitate to arrest someone for breaking the law."

"That's different – I have my job to do and the Templars have theirs. Is that what this is all about? Fenris found out and he's dumped Hawke?"

"Fenris already knew," Anders uttered quietly. "And we don't know who dumped who, if, in fact, any dumping _has_ been done." He sighed. "Hawke promised Fenris he'd never use blood magic but he had no choice – it was either that or let Bethany die, because _I_ couldn't save her, could I?" he elaborated, his voice catching. "They're both pretty fucked up over it. Understandably."

After a moment's pause, she murmured, "Danarius was a blood mage, wasn't he?"

" _Is_."

Exhaling slowly, she nodded, the whole picture coming together. "What did you have planned, then?"

"Let's wait until Varric comes back," he answered, trying to attract the dwarf's attention, but Varric was deep in conversation with someone at the bar.

"All right, we'll deal with this warden situation in the meantime," she said.

"What do you mean, _we'll_?" he asked, gulping.

"Where's the nearest warden compound?" she queried. "I know there's not one in Kirkwall – well, as far as I know."

"Um… I believe there's one in Edgbaston, a village about half a day's ride east – it's quite near to the coast."

"Edgbaston? I've heard of that. It doesn't sound like the sort of place the Wardens would use as their base of operations."

"That's the point," said Anders. "It's a sleepy village with a very low population, most of whom are wardens. There's always been a warden presence around Kirkwall, but I'm not sure why. There's darkspawn to be found everywhere if you go deep enough. There's something that keeps them around this area, but I couldn't tell you what that is."

"But _you're_ a warden, Anders!" she exclaimed. "Don't they tell you these things?"

He shook his head with a flat, derisive laugh. "I was a warden for less than a year before… before _that_ arrangement ended. I was so cocky in those days… all I cared about was that the Wardens could keep me out of the Templars' clutches. I never…" He shifted in his chair and sat up straight. "I never really appreciated what Lewi did for me," he sighed. "Not until it was too late."

"Lewi?"

"Lewi Surana. I knew him from the Tower - well, vaguely. Then he went and killed the Archdemon and got promoted. He… saved me from the Templars. And I never got a chance to tell him how grateful I was. Well, no. That's not entirely true – I had plenty of chances, but I was… a different man, then."

"You _served_ with the Hero of Ferelden?" she asked in awe.

"Of course," he replied with a shrug, watching as she produced the Joining pendant from a pouch in her armour.

"I don't suppose the pendant belongs to him, then?" asked Aveline off-handedly, and Anders shook his head.

"No… he would have taken his Joining well before me. It belongs to-" He paused, his stomach knotting and a deep frown forming. "Nathaniel Howe. He was someone else I never quite gelled with. He and the commander were so serious and all I wanted to do was piss around. Nathaniel hated me. I don't blame him – I would have, as well."

Surprised at how angered she felt by that, she leaned forward, jabbing Anders's arm with a finger. "If he hated you, he couldn't have been a very nice person."

"Well, thanks," he mumbled with a self-conscious smile. "But I really was different in those days. I didn't take anything seriously. Ha! What a difference a couple of years make, eh?"

Aveline watched, her ire rising, as Anders took several deep gulps of ale. When he'd finished, she gave him a minute before speaking. "Well, you're going to come with me and show them exactly what you've made of yourself. You're a well-respected-"

"You what? Come _with_ you? You must be joking!" he snorted. "You _do_ know I'm on the run from the Wardens, don't you?"

"But you just told me the arrangement was ended!"

"Yes, by me! I ran off! I didn't just hole up in Darktown because of the Templars, you know!"

"Oh, Anders," she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Well, what's the worst that could happen?"

"You were in the army, Aveline," he answered. "What did they do to deserters there? Give them a slap on the wrist and tell them not to do it again?"

Her hand moved to cover her eyes and she groaned as Varric, having finished his business at the bar, returned to them.

"She knows about Hawke," Anders told the dwarf flatly.

"About…? Oh, great!" he groused, taking a seat. "I can't leave you for five minutes, can I?"

"Give me a _little_ credit, Varric," she complained before turning to Anders. "I want as many details as you can give me about this compound, Nathaniel Howe and your former commander. I'll take Donnic with me – the trip will do him good. Unless you disagree?"

Anders shook his head. "No, it'll help his confidence to get out on patrol. And I can't see the wardens attacking you or anything. You might get a frosty reception, though, if you ask a lot of questions."

"I can handle frosty receptions," she said resolutely, "but it won't hurt to take one of my tallest and stockiest guards with me, will it?"

"Or _kissiest_ ," Varric muttered behind an unconvincing cough.

"What did you just say?" she demanded, not sure if she'd heard him.

"I _said_ we got a situation here that needs taking care of. Blondie? What did you have in mind?"

Anders's eyes moved between his companions before he glanced at the table, his body language closed, guarded. "I have something planned for Hawke which I'm hoping will help. I can't really say any more about it, though, or when it will happen."

"Okay, Blondie," Varric accepted as Aveline's mouth fell open. "I'll take care of Broody." Varric raised his mug and Anders followed, both oblivious to Aveline's incredulous expression.

" _That's_ your plan?" she spluttered. "That's the best you can come up with? You're going to do something which you can't tell us about and you don't know when?" she demanded of Anders. "Still it's better than Varric's plan, which is no kind of plan at all!"

"Why don't you take care of this warden business of yours and leave it to us?" Varric suggested smoothly before flinching at Aveline's fierce expression.

"Don't you patronise me, Varric Tethras! All right, then – how about I ride out to Edgbaston and, if by the time I return, Hawke and Fenris – by some cruel twist of fate – _haven't_ been reunited, you let _me_ handle things?"

"Sure, why not?" laughed the dwarf, having no intention of allowing her to do anything of the sort.

Aveline rose and gestured for Anders to follow her. "If you've nothing better to do, you can come to the barracks with me and give Donnic the once-over before we set out. And I want all the information about Nathaniel Howe you can provide." Without waiting for an answer, she headed for the door.

Anders sighed, finished his pint and stood up, slapping Varric's shoulder. "We'd better come up with something fast, friend," he muttered.

"Too bloody right," mumbled the dwarf. "Well, if I'm taking care of Broody, I guess I'll pay a visit to the chantry. You go on ahead – I'll follow when I'm certain Captain Pissy is _well_ in front."

"What, no 'orange' similes?" Anders grinned.

"Piss can be orange, depending what you drank the night before," replied Varric.

"Remind me to book you in for a check-up the next time I see you," joked Anders and Varric shook his head as the mage departed.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher sat on a small chair by his window, running his thumb up and down his recently-purchased copy of _Advanced Fade Theory_. He couldn't see the front of the property through the window but had heard the shuffling of armour outside his door, as well as several sets of footsteps, so guessed Bethany's visitors had gone.

He knew he should go in to see her again – or should he let her rest? No, he knew the real reason for his reluctance. Shortly before the visitors had arrived, Beth had asked him if everything was all right between him and Fenris, but Fletcher had heard voices downstairs and had promised they'd speak later. He hadn't specified exactly when _later_ would be, though. He couldn't avoid his sister forever but, for now, he was quite content to stew. Feeling sorry for himself made it easier to push aside the thought of how _Fenris_ must be feeling.

He squeezed his eyes closed, forcing down the anger and hurt that Fenris's question had elicited. Fletcher _was_ angry but he also knew why Fenris had asked it. Who could blame him? He'd escaped from a tyrannical maniac and had allowed himself to fall in love with another blood mage.

And _that_ blood mage had destroyed the trust they'd worked so hard to build.

Yet, Fletcher still bristled every time he replayed Fenris's question in his mind.

He wasn't surprised by the knock at his door – because Bethany just would not do what she was told – but, as he laid his book down and walked to the door, he did wonder for a second if it was his mother. The look she'd given him when she'd seen his hand… disappointed? Hurt? No, that didn't come close to describing it.

He did know, however, that there hadn't even been a hint of surprise in her eyes.

He opened the door, his stomach dropping when it was not Leandra.

"I know what you're going to say," said Bethany, brushing past him, "but I'm bored and restless and-" She leaned against one of the posts of Fletcher's bed and swayed, clutching her head.

"Beth!" He rushed to her side, gently steering her to the bed, where he helped her to lie down. "I _told_ you not to get up! Why don't you ever listen?" he asked, his exasperation giving way to sadness before his sentence was finished.

"Because I'm a Hawke, which means I'm as stubborn as you are, and don't you dare argue with me," she admonished, rubbing her forehead as Fletcher sat beside her on the bed with a sigh.

"You'll hear no arguments from me, Sis," he said heavily. "I'm not _that_ stupid."

She glanced at her brother and reached for his hand. "Good," she whispered softly. "Now, you'll have to pardon me, but I heard shouting when Fenris was here. Is everything all right? And please tell me the truth."

He knew he couldn't lie to Beth – there was no point even trying, because she always saw through him. "No, everything's not all right. Fenris is… he has some thinking to do. We both do."

"Oh, Fletcher, this isn't… this isn't the end, is it?" she asked fearfully, a hitch in her voice.

"No! No…" He stroked her hand, forcing a smile that wouldn't have convinced a blind man. "It's complicated, that's all. We're having a bit of time apart, giving each other some space, you know?"

Bethany's eyes lowered and Fletcher waited, knowing she had something else to say. It was several minutes before she spoke.

"Brother… I should have been more careful, paid more attention," she began. "I wasn't looking when those shades appeared. If only I'd-"

"Don't you get blaming yourself!" Fletcher exclaimed, grief and guilt washing over him. " _None_ of us were ready!"

"Yes, but if only I'd been standing somewhere else, if I'd reacted more quickly, then maybe you wouldn't have had to… oh, I don't know," she sighed miserably.

Fletcher brought his legs up and wrapped an arm around Beth, kissing her forehead. "It would have happened eventually, Beth. This is what I am. Fenris knows that. He understands why I did it and he's very, very glad you're safe. This is not really about me being a blood mage. It's more… me being a crap boyfriend."

"No, that's not true," she protested, drawing him into a hug. "You're a wonderful man and Fenris will remember that when he's thinking straight."

"You're biased," Fletcher chuckled before sighing. "Besides, I've only ever been a brother to you – not a boyfriend. No, I haven't treated Fenris well at all. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping certain things from him, but it turned out to be the worst thing I could have done."

He sat up, holding a hand out to Bethany, indicating that she should remain lying down, and moved to the edge of the bed. He thought of Fenris's question again and the anger returned, but this time it was tempered, less turbulent in his mind. "You know… I've been so selfish," he murmured. "All I've been able to think about is how hurt I am, but Fenris… he must be having nightmares over this."

He stood and walked to the window, looking down upon the garden and the patch he promised Fenris could grow vegetables on. "I _have_ to have Fenris in my life. I love him. I'm going to make this right, Beth, I swear… somehow. I _love_ him," he whispered, his stomach quivering as he turned to face his sister. "I told him that sometimes love isn't enough, but… it's a start, isn't it?"

"It's a very good start," she agreed with a smile. "And if you love someone, you can forgive them, like he'll forgive you."

"Do you really think so, Sis?"

She pushed herself up a little and patted the bed. He moved to the bedside and sat next to her again. "Yes, I do," she said. "And you'll forgive him. In fact, I think you're already halfway there."

Fletcher felt heat spread through his belly, like a fire had been lit inside of him, and his eyes moved to the book that sat on the window ledge. He knew Fenris was due on duty soon and hoped that would take Fenris's mind off things for the time being. In the meantime, Fletcher could do something to occupy _his_ mind – something that would also benefit Fenris.

"Sis? How do you fancy debating Fade theory with me?" he asked, to Bethany's bemusement.

~o~O~o~

"Looks like there's a rough crowd down here this evening," Guardsman Filbert said to his current partner as they began their patrol of Darktown, hearing whoops and cheers coming from the vicinity of the old clinic. "What do you reckon it is, Fenny? Cockfight or fistfight?"

Filbert had heard about the incident at the DuPuis estate and, like the rest of his colleagues, had worked out pretty quickly that Fenris was not himself. He knew Fenris a little and decided against directly asking what was wrong. Instead, he'd done his best to wrest even the barest scraps of conversation out of the elf since they'd paired up at the barracks at six bells, not realising how relieved the newly-appointed corporal was for the distraction; Fenris had certainly given no indication that he was enjoying their exchanges.

"There is little point speculating," answered Fenris shortly, Filbert's use of his nickname grating on his nerves more than usual. "Let us see what is afoot."

"How about a wager?" ventured Filbert. "Bet _you'd_ go for the cock every time!"

"What?" murmured Fenris, coming to a halt, his eyes glinting like diamonds as they fixed upon his colleague. " _What_ did you say?"

Realising that he'd gone too far, Filbert held his hands up, an apologetic grimace on his face. "Hey, Fenny-"

"My _name_ is Fenris," snarled the elf, his voice rigid. " _Corporal_ Fenris. _You_ are a corporal yourself – it should not be too difficult a concept for you to grasp, should it?"

"I'm sorry," Filbert said with genuine contrition. "You don't need me being an idiot. I know you've had a rough day."

"You know _nothing_ ," snapped the elf. "Let us do our _duty_ and not indulge in idle _prattle_." Already feeling the first pangs of guilt, Fenris stalked ahead in the direction of the noise, Filbert pausing a moment to shake his head before catching up to the elf, staying a step behind him.

Fenris sped up the steps to the former clinic, stopping at the doors as a baying crowd cheered on two fighting cocks, one of which was decidedly worse for wear. Fenris, however, barely noticed the spectacle as Filbert arrived at his side, the elf's eyes taking in the place that Fletcher had once pinned all of his dreams on. And the people within were not only breaking the law, but were treating the place disrespectfully: litter, what looked like a puddle of urine and blood from the birds befouled the floor.

"Stop this at once!" Fenris commanded, stepping into the fighting circle. "By order of the Kirkwall Guard, you are instructed to desist and leave this place immediately! Comply, and no arrests will be made! Now!"

"Aw, but Guardsman," one of the punters whinged with a pleading look at Filbert, "none of your lot has ever stopped us before! This is just for fun!"

"Cockfighting is against the law, as you all know!" stormed the elf.

"I didn't know that," one of the crowd mumbled, followed by several others.

"Now you _do_ ," growled Fenris, unsheathing his sword. "Will there be any further complaints?"

"Fenris," Filbert whispered, "that cock's had it. Let them collect their winnings and we'll say no more about it. There's no need for this."

The elf turned to his colleague, his eyes alight with fury, before he addressed the crowd. "You have until the count of three to vacate. I would _strongly_ advise co-operation. _One_."

"All right! You heard him!" called Filbert. "Everyone out of here, now!"

A loud, collective groan sounded and several of the patrons made their way out, one of them rushing to grab the healthy bird. The vanquished creature, barely alive, was swiftly put out of its misery by Fenris, who crouched down and broke its neck in one clean movement. He slowly stood up and examined the blood on his hands, which collected in the creases of his palm, mimicking the wound Fletcher had inflicted upon himself.

"Hard-hearted bastard," one of the last men to leave mumbled and, in the blink of an eye, was slammed against a wall, finding himself nose-to-nose with Fenris.

"Say that again," ordered the elf. "Say that again!"

"Fenris," Filbert hissed, grabbing his arm. "That's enough!" The elf shrugged off Filbert's hand, and the other guard quickly pushed the punter away. "Clear off!" Filbert ordered.

"I won't!" protested the man. "This ain't right! We've been holding cockfights down here for ages, and the guards have always turned a blind eye! If we was murdering, that'd be different! I'm seeing your captain about this – he shouldn't have put his hands on me!"

"You'll be seeing no one, Chris," threatened Filbert, stepping closer to the complainant. "I know it was you who knocked up Savin's daughter – most people down here know it, but none dare tell him. You want me to keep my mouth shut, you'll shut yours. Savin's a lot bigger than you – Void, he's bigger than Donnic Hendyr."

"What you being like this for, Corporal Filbert?" Chris asked in dismay. "I thought we all got on well down here!"

"Let's call it even," Filbert proposed. "We all have our moments, don't we? Get lost, and we'll start afresh tomorrow night. Deal?"

Chris sighed and glanced at Fenris, who stood with his back to the two men. "Didn't mean to call you a bastard, Guardsman Fenris. You're all right. Bit too much grog, eh?" He walked out of the clinic, sent on his way by a slap on the back from Filbert, who closed the clinic doors and faced Fenris.

"What's going on?" he demanded in concern, going to Fenris's side. The elf was still staring at his palms, his shoulders heaving. "Fenris, what's the matter? That wasn't you at all! What the hell happened to you today?"

The elf curled his hands into fists, his eyes closing, and shook his head. "I can't…" he mumbled before shaking his head again, his head slumping against his chest. "I… I just can't."

"Shit," Filbert cursed, tentatively placing his hands on Fenris's shoulders and leading him to a crate that had been left behind when the clinic was ransacked. "Sit down," he uttered softly and the elf complied without argument.

At that moment, a quiet knock sounded on the clinic doors, and Filbert huffed. "I'll get rid of them," he said, moving to the doors. Fenris waited, his eyes still closed, wondering if it was possible to feel more ashamed than he did at that moment. After a minute, he opened his eyes but did not look up when he heard the sound of another crate being dragged towards him.

"Hello, Fenris," said a kindly voice.

The elf's heart clenched and he slowly looked up, unable to comprehend his visitor's presence, but something inside him rejoiced, and tears pricked the back of his eyes.

"Sebastian?" he wavered. "What… what are _you_ doing here?"

The chantry brother tilted his head slightly, deeply saddened to see his friend in such trouble. "We often venture down here to provide succour to those less fortunate than ourselves," he explained. "I heard you were on duty tonight, and thought I'd call on you."

Fenris shook his head. "Too convenient," he murmured without accusation.

"The Maker works without rest, whether it is convenient or not," quipped the archer.

"I see," said Fenris, finally looking Sebastian in the eye. "It has been too long since we last spoke… many things have happened."

"So I hear."

The elf nodded, realising that someone he knew had sent Sebastian to see him. But whom?

And did it really matter?

"One thing remains unchanged, however," Fenris said quietly.

"And what is that?"

"You still speak in riddles, my friend."

Sebastian chuckled. "If that's the worst that can be said about me, I'd say I'm doing all right."

They sat together in silence for a time, each waiting for the other to speak. At length, Sebastian moved his crate closer to the elf.

"Will you speak with me, Fenris?" he asked gently. "Will you tell me what troubles you so?"

"How long do you have?" sighed the elf miserably.

"All night," answered Sebastian. "My friends from the chantry have the succour covered. _I'd_ quite like to catch up with an old friend."

"I… do not have all night. I am on duty-"

"Then for as long as your duties permit."

Fenris nodded, and they once more fell into a contemplative silence while Sebastian waited patiently for Fenris to begin.

~o~O~o~

Aveline and Donnic rode out of Kirkwall just after four bells with the wind at their backs. Donnic had readily agreed to the trip, glad for the opportunity to be outside, and to be useful. No mention was made of their embrace at the clinic, but Aveline suspected that Donnic would not bring it up while they were on a mission. She was heartened by the occasional smile he sent her way, though, and was delighted to see that Anders's speech therapy was paying off – Donnic seemed much more confident when speaking, though he was still not quite his usual garrulous self.

Their ride was comfortable and pleasant, and that was good enough for Aveline.

They followed the road into Edgbaston and, at first, it seemed to live up to its quiet reputation – there was little activity on the road or at the few homesteads they passed. As they rode further in, however, a large manor caught their eye and they headed for it, unsurprised to spy several men and women sparring at its rear.

"Sleepy village, my arse," she muttered and Donnic smirked, spurring his horse onward. As they neared, they were hailed by a petite but solidly-built woman who stood at the front of the manor and raised her hand, indicating that they should stop.

"Welcome, friends," she said cordially in a Fereldan accent, Aveline noted, as they dismounted. "May I be of assistance? Are you passing through, or do you have business here?"

"We have business here," said Aveline. "I am Guard-Captain Vallen of the Kirkwall Guard, and this is my second, Lieutenant Hendyr."

Donnic nodded at the woman, who returned the gesture. "I am Amber," she said in introduction.

"I'm looking for a warden," Aveline went on.

"Take your pick," said Amber with a smile, waving a hand towards the combatants. "There are dozens of us here. Any warden in particular?"

"I'll handle this, Amber," said a voice from behind them, and they turned to face an unarmed elven man, dressed in plain grey tunic and breeches, who had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

"Yes, ser," said Amber, and she again nodded to the visitors before departing.

"You're from Kirkwall?" asked the dark blonde elf without preliminary niceties.

"Yes, and we're looking for a warden named Nathaniel Howe. We have something that belongs to him, and he may be able to assist us with an enquiry. You are…?"

"What… enquiry might that be?" the man asked, folding his arms, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'd prefer to discuss that with Warden Howe or his commander… Lewi Surana, isn't it?"

"Didn't get your name," Donnic interposed.

"No, you didn't," answered the elf coolly, completely unruffled by the man who stood a good fifteen inches taller than him. "Wardens Howe and Surana are busy men. Unless I know the nature of your business, I'm afraid I'm unable to help you."

"Then we'll find someone who _is_ able," replied Aveline, turning on her heel.

"How about an exchange of information?" suggested the elf with a wry smile and Aveline faced him, raising an eyebrow.

"You first," Donnic invited.

"Very well. _I_ am Warden-Commander Surana, though I suspect you already knew that," said the elf, and Aveline nodded, sharing a smile with the enigmatic commander.

"I am Guard-Captain Vallen, and this is-"

"Your second, Lieutenant Hendyr. I heard. I require something _new_ in exchange."

"You seem rather wary of us, Commander," Donnic observed.

"What do you want with Warden Howe?" asked Surana.

Aveline shook her head. "I'd prefer to discuss that in private, with Howe in attendance."

Surana met her gaze, remaining silent, and Aveline sighed, sensing that Surana was as determined and dogged - and as protective of his people - as she. "Fine. We found this," she said, producing the pendant, "during a recent investigation. I have determined that it belongs to Nathaniel Howe. I _really_ need to speak with him, Commander."

The elf frowned as he reached for the pendant and Aveline allowed him to take it and examine it. A flicker of doubt passed over his features before his expression hardened. "How could you possibly determine that this belongs to Warden Howe?" he asked tightly.

"Well, does it?"

"Where _exactly_ did you find this?"

"Your turn, Commander," said Donnic, his tone even. "Your rules."

Surana turned slightly, holding the pendant up so the rays of the setting sun caught it. The guards heard a sigh and saw the drop of his shoulders before he turned back to them. "Yes, this belongs to Warden Howe. I suppose I'd better take you to him."

"That would be appreciated, Commander."

They followed the elf past several sparring couples and outbuildings before they came upon a tall man with black, braided hair, training alone behind a stable. They watched for a moment as he loosed an arrow at a training dummy from a considerable distance, his shot finding the dummy's heart.

"Nate," called Surana and the man turned to them, an immediate frown forming when he recognised the guards' livery. Placing his bow and quiver on the ground, he approached them slowly and deliberately, stopping at Surana's side.

"Yes, Commander?" he asked in a husky voice.

"These… people from Kirkwall found _this_ ," Surana said with a note of irritation in his voice, handing Nathaniel his Joining pendant.

Nathaniel took it and examined it closely, his nostrils briefly flaring before he tied it securely around his neck. "Thanks," he offered crisply with a sideways glance at Surana.

"We need to ask you some questions, Warden Howe," Aveline began, her tone determined. "As these pendants are so important to you wardens, I'm sure you'll know exactly where you lost it."

Howe's grey eyes met Aveline's, his gaze penetrating and unblinking, and she shivered slightly. "The Deep Roads. _Obviously_ ," he answered, his disdain clear.

"You seem _very_ certain of that, Warden," she challenged.

"Before we go on, you need to tell me exactly how you ascertained that the pendant belongs to Warden Howe," demanded Surana.

"No, I don't believe I do," Aveline countered. " _Your_ pendant, Warden Howe, was found at the site of a collapse during a murder investigation-"

"Excuse me?" Howe interrupted derisively. "A _murder_ investigation?"

"That's right. We found several tainted bodies – dwarves, to be precise – at the site, and one of the survivors is currently being held under suspicion of deliberately collapsing one of the tunnels. However, a further tunnel was also collapsed, which he couldn't possibly have been responsible for – because _he_ was the one trapped inside it."

The wardens looked at each other, their expressions inscrutable. "How many survivors were there?" asked Surana, his eyes still on Nathaniel.

"Twenty-six," Donnic answered immediately.

Surana shook his head and turned away from them, pushing his fingers through his hair.

"I'm sorry, Commander," Nathaniel uttered, though he remained poised. "I was careless."

"Looks like we both were," muttered the elf.

"Neither of you seem very pleased that survivors were found!" spat Aveline, squaring up against the black-haired warden, "and we have just confirmed _your_ presence at the site of the collapses. I want some answers," she seethed, prodding Howe on the chest with a finger. "I'll either get them here, or in the cells at Viscount's Keep. It's up to you, Warden Howe. Grey Wardens are not above the law, _or_ being arrested."

Her eyes moved back and forth between the two wardens. "In fact, from what I hear, most of your ranks start _off_ as criminals."

" _Some_ ," Nathaniel sibilated in a glacial whisper, "but not all - the commander included. You will not cast aspersions on him. _Captain_." His top lip curled into a sneer, but Aveline met his glare with one of her own, and for a long moment they stared each other down.

Donnic cautiously drew his sword and Surana turned, moving beside Nathaniel and placing a supportive hand on his warden's shoulder. "You'll have your answers, Captain Vallen – well, some of them, at least - from both of us. I was also there, and Nathaniel was acting on my orders."

"So _you_ are our mage," Aveline deduced, her tone hostile.

Surana looked confused for a moment before he realised nothing got past this particular guard-captain, and he arched a brow. "This way," he sighed, gesturing towards the large manor house.

"After you," Donnic invited gruffly and the guards waited for Nathaniel to collect his bow and quiver before they followed the wardens.


	85. Epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is the choice to follow the Maker's righteous path. Hawke decided to go down another road entirely."
> 
> "He decided nothing! He _had_ no choice!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mary, for your beta assistance during a very busy time for you. It's appreciated!

"I heard about what happened with that Orlesian," Sebastian said to Fenris. "You need not recount what was clearly a harrowing incident. Please, how are Hawke and his sister faring?"

Fenris stared ahead, his eyes blank and his hands in his lap, curled into loose fists. "They are… physically well."

Sebastian nodded in understanding. "I see. Varric told me-" He halted and shook his head, having inadvertently given the game away. "I was _told_ that Bethany came close to death, but Hawke saved her life. With what has been described as… 'weird' magic. Is that true?"

Fenris abruptly stood up and Sebastian caught his arm, gently but firmly holding the elf in place. "Do not judge him," Fenris uttered, his eyes on the clinic doors. "He saved her. At great cost."

"What cost?" said Sebastian. Fenris shook his head, pulling away from Sebastian's grip but the Chantry brother refused to let him go. _"What_ cost, Fenris?"

The elf took several long, shuddering breaths, his slender shoulders rising and falling further each time under the crushing weight that sat on them. "He-he gave up… half of his _life_ … I can't-" His voice trailed off, a choking sob catching in his throat as he yanked his arm away and walked several feet ahead before covering his face with his hands.

Horrified, Sebastian sat down on his crate, allowing his distraught friend some space. "Then he did _not_ pay the demon with someone else's life or health as I had feared," he mused quietly, bracing himself for a fierce reaction.

Fenris's hands fell from his face and he whirled around, outrage and fire in his eyes, just as Sebastian had expected. "No, he did not!" His breath caught, then, as he realised he'd thought Fletcher capable of the very thing he was defending him from. "He… he would… not do that. Not him."

Fenris had always known, of course. But when he'd asked Fletcher the question that had hurt so much, he'd sought surety, grounding, freedom from doubt. When nothing else had made sense, he'd pinned all of his hopes on Fletcher's words making everything normal again. But Fletcher didn't have the power to do that, and he'd been absolutely right not to answer. And now, hearing another person express surprise at Fletcher's actions, Fenris realised just how wrong he'd been. He closed his eyes, a maelstrom of disorienting and contradictory thoughts and emotions warring within him.

He vaguely heard movement and then hands were guiding him back to his crate at the moment his legs threatened to buckle. He sat down in a daze.

"Are you certain?" asked Sebastian, his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched the elf intently. Fenris stared down at his trembling hands, his stomach doing somersaults. "Because if you have the slightest doubt, then perhaps this is the time to reconsider your relationship with Hawke," Sebastian went on.

"What?" whispered Fenris, an unpleasant sensation of nausea further unsettling his stomach.

"He's a blood mage," Sebastian firmly reminded him, "and you and I, of all people, have seen the devastation, the horror and bedlam their kind can bring. You are your own man. You live independently, have gainful employment and many friends..."

"All of which I owe to him," Fenris insisted.

Sebastian shook his head. "You owe him nothing. _You_ are the one who has made this life for yourself. You're a good, moral man, Fenris. Perhaps this is a sign for you to strike out on your own, make a fresh start. Maybe this is for the best."

"You… you are telling me to leave him?"

"I'm not _telling_ you to do anything. You're a free man, able to make your own decisions. I'm _asking_ you to consider a life without him. You have had a life of untold hardship and should strive for a future of ease and comfort. It certainly would be easier for you to walk away from him, wouldn't it?"

Fenris scowled, his vacillation slowly falling away from him. The nausea he'd felt began to ease, supplanted by cold determination. "I have never taken the easiest path, Sebastian," he said, his voice tight and brisk.

"I am aware of that. But perhaps it's about time you did. I will remind you--he is a blood mage, like Lady Harriman, like Danarius-"

"He is _not_ like Danarius!" Fenris thundered, leaping to his feet.

"He _is_ like Danarius." Sebastian stood and met Fenris's steely gaze with his own. "As a person I have nothing against him, but you cannot deny that since meeting him, your life has been turbulent and fraught. There have been good times, yes, but there have also been shattering lows--lows that have threatened to break you at times. You cannot live your life like this. You cannot walk into your future with a man who throws away his own future so carelessly."

Fenris gawked at the archer in disbelief. "He gave half of his life for his sister's! Did the Chantry not teach you understanding, compassion? Should he have left her to die without using everything at his disposal? She was an innocent, a victim, and so is he!"

"There is always a choice," Sebastian said calmly. "There's the choice to follow the Maker's righteous path. Hawke decided to go down another road entirely."

"He decided nothing! He _had_ no choice!"

Sebastian looked down at the floor, slowly nodding. "That may be so, but you must think of yourself. Think of a life without this drama, this constant fear. Think of a life without Hawke. It's the easiest way."

"Perhaps my life _would_ be easier without him," Fenris retorted, trying to rein his anger in, "but it would also be empty, devoid of meaning. I have never taken the 'easy' path and I am not about to start now."

"But you have so little time with him," Sebastian softly reminded him. "How will you feel when that day comes? It will arrive sooner than you think."

"My life began the day I met him," Fenris said with conviction, "and whatever time I have with him is a blessing. I will _not_ abandon him."

Sebastian looked at Fenris, his blue eyes probing and intense, but there was no anger in his gaze. "Then there is nothing more to be said. I will leave you to attend to your duties." With a small bow, he moved to the doors.

Fenris watched him, wondering at the sense of calm he suddenly felt. Was he not concerned he'd lost Sebastian's friendship? That he'd disappointed him, betrayed him, even?

No--and gradually, Fenris realised why that was.

"Sebastian," he called as the archer began to open the doors. Sebastian stopped and waited as Fenris drew alongside him. "I know what you are doing," the elf said with equanimity.

"Doing?"

"You and Varric." Fenris nodded to himself. "I know." He released a deep sigh and looked up at Sebastian. "What is it Fletcher once called it? Reverse psychology?"

"I'm… not sure I know what you mean," uttered Sebastian.

"Of course you do, dear friend," said Fenris with a hitch in his voice.

Sebastian frowned and shook his head. "I will take my leave. Stop by the chantry soon?"

"I will," Fenris promised, dipping his head a little. "You have given me a great deal to think about. Perhaps one day I will be able to repay you for your kindness."

"Just stay in touch." Sebastian laid a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "Maker's blessing upon you, my friend."

Fenris stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sebastian's back, pulling him close. A slap to Fenris's back was returned by the elf and they drew away from each other, Sebastian departing without looking back.

Fenris sighed and looked through the doorway, seeing Filbert waiting outside, picking at his nails. Sebastian spoke to the young guardsman briefly before heading down the steps. Fenris took a deep breath and stepped outside, tentatively approaching his colleague. The young guardsman turned to him as he neared.

"Filbert… I would consider it an honour if you would accompany me for the remainder of our shift," Fenris said quietly and with contrition. "If, however, you would prefer to go by yourself, I understand. If so, I will take the far end."

"No, we'll go together," Filbert replied immediately. "Do you feel a bit better now, Fenny- um, Fenris?"

"I… think so," said Fenris, his eyes wide as they met his colleague's. "Are _you_ all right?"

"Fine," replied Filbert with a faint smile.

"I am… sorry. For what happened," Fenris mumbled. "You did not deserve my anger, nor did the spectators."

"The spectators were all half-cut. They'll forget about it by morning." Filbert started to walk, followed by Fenris. "As for me, I've had worse. I went to the barracks once with mud on my boots. Bumped into Seneschal Bran. You can imagine."

Fenris winced and laughed lightly, expending a smidgen of nervous energy. "And what did the captain say about your boots?" he asked as they started down the steps.

"She also started to tell me off until I told her what Bran had said to me... that I'd brought... a podium? Or something like that upon the Kirkwall Guard."

"Do you mean opprobrium?"

"Yes, that. No, actually--he said I'd _heaped_ it upon the Kirkwall Guard. The captain turned bright red and stormed off to his office. We could hear her telling him to keep his snooty nose out of guard business from the other side of the Keep. Couldn't hear _him_ much, though."

"I can believe that," Fenris murmured, a small frown forming. "Filbert… you and I have never had much opportunity to talk, except in passing at the barracks or during card games. Tell me a little about yourself. If… you wish to."

"Are you sure?" asked Filbert with a grin. "Because I can talk for Thedas when I've a mind."

"Of course," the elf said with sincerity before casting his eyes down. "I accept I'm not the most congenial of people, but..."

"I may be young, Fenris, but I'm also a guardsman. I've a thick skin. You're not always congenial and I'm not always tactful or sensitive. We've both got our faults. The world's not about to end."

A gentle smile came to Fenris's face. "Truer words have never been spoken."

Filbert returned Fenris's smile and they continued walking together. "Now hold your head up. You came on a bit strong in there, but you didn't do anything that would heap opp... _whatsit_... upon the Kirkwall Guard. What was that word again?"

"I prefer 'whatsit'," Fenris said, holding his head up as advised.

By the time they'd completed a circuit of Darktown, Fenris knew Filbert's entire life story.

~o~O~o~

"Take a seat, Guard-Captain Vallen," invited Commander Surana once they'd reached the small office within the Warden compound.

"I'll stand if it's all the same to you." She sniffed, folding her arms.

Surana, who was about to sit down, sighed and rose to his full height, which was no higher than his human companions' shoulders. For a moment, all three men stood with Aveline, none feeling they could sit until she did.

"Oh, for-!" she exclaimed with a huff, reluctantly taking a seat and fidgeting several times until she'd made herself moderately comfortable. Surana and Donnic also sat down but Nathaniel remained standing, leaning against a wall with one leg bent and arms folded.

"Do you require refreshments?" Surana offered. "You've had a long trip from Kirkwall, and must be-"

"No thank you," Aveline replied tersely. "Let's get to it."

"Agreed," muttered Nathaniel from the corner.

Surana drew a breath, tension showing in his shoulders. "Very well, Captain. Ask your questions. I cannot guarantee I will answer them all, though."

"You're unwilling to co-operate with us, then?" Donnic asked.

"Not unwilling, no. More like… unable."

"This is how it's going to go," Aveline broke in. "I ask questions. You answer. If I'm dissatisfied with your responses, then you'll accompany us, under arrest, to Kirkwall. And don't think I won't arrest you anyway."

Surana sighed. "Let's get on with it, then."

"What were you doing in the Deep Roads?" Aveline began.

A mockery of a laugh, like someone gargling broken glass, came from the corner. "We're Grey Wardens. That's what we do," answered Nathaniel churlishly. "Do keep up, Captain."

Refusing to be baited, she nodded. "And?"

"We have business down there, Captain," Surana provided. "Warden business. That's all you need to know."

"You're going to have to do better than that," Donnic and Aveline replied almost in unison, before Donnic sat back and gestured with his hand for Aveline to continue.

"Well, here's a question that has nothing to do with Warden business," she said to Surana, cutting to the chase. "You seemed displeased when you learned there were survivors after the collapses. Care to explain?"

A moment's silence followed. Nathaniel rested his head against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. "Why don't _you_ answer that, Commander?"

Aveline and Donnic exchanged a glance, sensing hostility or resentment between the Wardens.

"Because we thought we'd killed them all," Surana replied simply with a nonchalant shrug.

 _"What?"_ exclaimed Aveline as Donnic gawked at both men, unable to believe what he'd just heard. "Just like that?" she demanded, a shiver tickling down her spine. "So casually? You sit there, all civilised, offering us tea and you tell us, without breaking a sweat, that you tried to kill twenty-six people? I've witnessed coldness before, but you take the biscuit!"

"They had no business being down there," Surana said. "That site is of vital importance to the Wardens. We've been conducting research in the Deep Roads between Kirkwall and Cumberland for decades, before even our parents were born. We cannot allow _anyone_ to interfere. Their deaths, or planned deaths, were deemed an acceptable loss."

"Acceptable?" Aveline demanded in disbelief. "Acceptable to whom, exactly?"

"So you indiscriminately murder anyone who sets foot down there?" Donnic interjected, furious but also pleased that he'd be able to bring the man who almost killed his friends to justice. "What's wrong with a 'Do Not Enter' sign, eh?"

"We did everything possible-" Surana started before Nathaniel pushed away from the wall and leaned on the desk with both hands, looming over Aveline.

 _"I_ did everything possible to dissuade the expedition leader from entering the Deep Roads," he hissed. Surana leaned back with a quiet, resigned sigh as Nathaniel continued. "Bartrand Tethras was offered a substantial sum of money to abandon the venture. And we're not talking guard-captain wages. The Grey Wardens have deep pockets. We're talking a lot of money, more than the likes of us will see in a lifetime."

"Let me guess. He refused?" asked Aveline, deliberately calming her voice, hoping to extract as much information as possible.

"He refused," Nathaniel confirmed, taking his palms off the desk and turning slightly away. "We weren't aware of the identities of the other members of the expedition party. We heard rumours, of course. Bartrand's brother, apostate mages, even a nameless Grey Warden, but all avenues of enquiry ran to naught or led us in the wrong direction. Someone in the party clearly had an ear to the ground, and was always one step ahead of us."

"Which led us to believe that Bartrand knew something about our research," added Surana. "We couldn't allow anyone to tamper with… well, it couldn't be allowed."

"Why not just kill Bartrand, then?" asked Aveline snidely. "You'd have saved a whole heap of trouble if you'd done that to start with."

Surana shook his head. "We believed right up until the last moment that Bartrand would cancel the expedition. Nathaniel and a few other experts deliberately collapsed some of the tunnels inside and set off explosives that made the whole area unstable. No one in their right mind would have gone down there after we'd finished with it."

"And yet he proceeded," said Nathaniel, "leading us to the conclusion that either he was a complete moron..."

"Which he is," Aveline muttered. "As well as a greedy bastard."

"… _or_ that he knew of our research and decided to cash in on it or sabotage it," Nathaniel elaborated, his voice smoother and calmer. "The Grey Wardens are not in the business of killing innocents. But our research has implications you can't possibly understand." He drew a slow, steadying breath and finally took his seat.

 _"Make_ us understand," Aveline insisted.

"We're not at liberty to say," Surana replied. "This is a highly sensitive Warden matter. If it were to become common knowledge, panic and hysteria would ensue. Threaten us all you like, Captain, but I cannot elaborate further. I have orders to follow. We all do."

"I'm afraid that won't cut it, Commander," Aveline said briskly, standing up and unsheathing her sword, quickly followed by Donnic. "You're going to have to accompany us back to Kirkwall. Both of you."

"We're not going anywhere," Surana said, almost apologetically.

"I'll have to ask you to relinquish your weapons, gentlemen," Donnic ordered, holding his sword aloft, his eyes darting between each Warden. "Let's not make this more difficult than it already is."

Nathaniel sighed and placed his bow and quiver on the floor before removing several daggers and phials of poison from a belt around his waist. Surana, who did not carry a staff, remained where he was.

"And that one, Warden," said Aveline, waving her sword at Nathaniel's boot.

Nathaniel gave her a cold smile and bent down, pulling a concealed dirk from a small pouch in his boot before sliding it across the floor. "Well spotted, Captain," he said with a small bow. "My compliments."

"I'm a mage," Surana said unnecessarily, not moving from his chair. "I can't turn my powers on and off. How do you intend to disarm me?"

"I hear rope's very effective at binding a mage's hands," Aveline began, but Donnic interrupted.

"Let's hope that won't be necessary." He addressed Surana. "We're going to have to trust you."

Surana sighed. "So what now? We can't leave here and we can't answer your questions."

"You _will_ be leaving here," Aveline asserted. "You're deliberately obstructing a murder investigation and you've just confessed to the attempted murder of twenty-six people, some of whom are friends of the Kirkwall Guard. One of them _is_ a guard. Do you _really_ expect me to accept that your Warden secrets prevent you from speaking?"

"We all have duties, Captain," said Surana.

"Yes, like we all have orders. So you said. I am not _asking_ you to come with us, Commander Surana. On your feet."

"I'm sorry, Captain. I have the utmost respect for your office, but we can't leave. I don't envy you your position."

"We may as well go with them, Llewellyn," Nathaniel said. "They can't touch us, anyway."

Aveline stepped in front of Nathaniel, her cheeks flushed. "You are a very arrogant man, _Warden."_

"No," he murmured, his gaze and voice steady. "Just a man in possession of the facts."

"Which are?" Donnic demanded.

"As I said before, we all have our orders," Surana reiterated. "I am not authorised to answer your questions. Only one man is, and he's not in this room."

"And where exactly is he?" Aveline asked, exasperated.

"Probably sitting on his throne in Denerim," drawled Nathaniel. "He's the one you need to ask. He's also the one who authorised us to collapse the tunnel."

~o~O~o~

Having awoken a few minutes earlier, Fenris stared up at the bunk above him where Filbert was sleeping. He listened to the young guard's snoring, glad that at least one of them could find peace on this night. Filbert was very young, nineteen or twenty, and Fenris wondered--if he'd had any kind of normal life--whether he'd have had Filbert's exuberance in his youth.

But he hadn't had a normal life, and so found it hard to identify with, or appreciate, his young colleague's sense of humour. Filbert had done his best to cheer him up... and Fenris had repaid his efforts with harsh, vicious words. It was what he always did: when hurt or angered Fenris reacted like a wounded animal, almost instinctively. And, although he and Filbert had conversed pleasantly after Sebastian's visit, that did nothing to assuage Fenris's feelings of guilt and inadequacy.

Well, something had to change, else Fenris would end up a bitter and lonely man--the man he'd been before meeting Fletcher. The man he _never_ wanted to be again. But it seemed he was doomed to perpetually revisit the same point over and over again. When was it going to end?

He turned onto his side and looked at the empty space in his bed. He always slept alone at the barracks, of course, but tonight the gap in his bed seemed immense. He shivered, pulling his blankets around his neck. Would he always wake to an empty bed?

The prophecy.

His dreams foretold that once he'd declared his love for Fletcher, he'd wake in an empty bed. But the bed in the dream was Fletcher's, and the mage's warmth and smell had lingered, tormenting Fenris's nostrils and skin when he'd awoken.

Fenris's bed at the barracks smelled of nothing. The sheets and blankets had been freshly laundered a few days earlier, and the initial smell of soap had faded. Now there was nothing. No smell, no warmth. No _Fletcher._ The prophecy had come true. This was what Fenris had to look forward to, every morning, for the rest of his life.

Sebastian's words ran through his head. _Maybe this is for the best. It would be easier for you to walk away. Make a fresh start._ Maybe Sebastian's advice had been loaded, meant to shock Fenris into defending Hawke. Maybe it hadn't. But it was the advice of a cherished friend and, on the surface, it was sound.

Fenris had never been in love before, and had learned some hard lessons about the nature of love during his time with Fletcher. Love _hurt_. Love was confusing and maddening, and caused sleepless nights. Love could bring a grown man to his knees, to tears of sorrow or to the brink of madness.

But love was also beautiful, redeeming and glorious. It brought light to the darkest of places. It could cause a man to fall to his knees in rapture, move him to tears of joy or bring him to the kind of madness that made him want to run, naked, through a forest or go forth into the street and sing. Not that Fenris had done that, nor would he ever do that. But a few times, lying against Fletcher's warm, dewy body after making love, he'd felt like it, though he'd be flayed alive before admitting to such a thing.

Sebastian's words had made perfect sense, had been so reasonable, but Fenris had learned another lesson about love: It _didn't_ make sense and it rarely listened to reason.

And, at that moment, the only thing that did make sense to Fenris was that only _he_ could prevent the prophecy from coming true... if it wasn't already too late.

He ran his hand down the sheet that covered the empty space in his bed. It was cold and didn't smell of Fletcher. This was not what he wanted. He closed his eyes and, with his hands, traced the shape of Fletcher's shoulders and arms, imagining the mage's soft, curly hair tickling his nose.

He wanted that. It made no sense whatsoever because it would only expose him to the hurt and pain of love again, when he could walk away from all of that. But it would also afford him the simple yet sublime beauty of the feel of Fletcher's skin, of his warmth, his smell and his rich, soft voice whispering _Fenris_ , over and over, as his touch elevated the elf onto a higher plane of existence.

Fenris had asked himself the question--the one that had hurt Fletcher so badly--countless times in his mind since his conversation with Sebastian.

And, each time, had arrived at the same answer.

~o~O~o~

The fire had almost gone out in Fletcher's room when he rose in the middle of the night to answer the call of nature. Hating the thought of his own piss sitting beneath his bed, he pulled on his housecoat and took the pot downstairs to the scullery, so-called even though they didn't have a scullery maid. Since moving to the Big House, several people had advised Fletcher to hire a retinue of servants, and he'd even been approached by those looking for work. So far he'd resisted; the Hawkes had made do without servants in Lothering, although admittedly their home there had been much smaller. Besides, Fletcher would feel uncomfortable ordering _anyone_ to do anything, especially to empty his chamber pot, even if he'd paid them to do so.

It was a very large house, though, which would need cleaning and maintenance. He certainly wasn't about to let his mother and sister get on their hands and knees scrubbing floors, and there was no way in the world he was going to do that, either. The fact he was an idle sod was almost irrelevant: he simply didn't have the time, his days filled with running around fixing things for people who hadn't the wits to fix things themselves. Maybe he could advertise for a housekeeper and a small staff, which his mother could deal with? She'd lived the life of a noble and would be more comfortable with telling people what to do--Fletcher need have nothing to do with the staff at all.

What would Fenris make of that, however?

Fletcher gave the matter some thought as he went to the latrine and emptied the contents of the pot down the hole. If _he_ was uncomfortable with the idea of servants, how would Fenris feel about it? After all, he'd been a kind of servant himself, just an unpaid, unwilling one. Of course, Fenris had been a slave, which was completely different from a servant, but still Fletcher saw similarities: a servant had a low social status and spent their days doing for their 'betters'. And he didn't doubt that many servants were treated no better than slaves, anyway.

He'd consult Fenris first. Once they were talking, of course.

Ignoring the burning in his gut elicited by that thought, he left the pot to dry, washed his hands and wandered into the kitchen, his stomach rumbling. Upon opening the larder, however, he found he had little appetite. His stomach told him differently, but Fletcher just couldn't be bothered. Instead, he made a pot of tea and took it through to the library--which had all of nine books, including the two he'd recently purchased--and got a fire going in the hearth.

Looking around, he imagined the shelves full of books and two glasses of Aggregio Pavalli on the table. Also two trenchers of food, one half-eaten and the other empty, next to two crumpled napkins. He looked at the armchair near the fire and pictured Fenris sitting there, drowsy and full after dinner, nodding off with an open book on his lap. Fletcher closed his eyes and slowly pushed out the deep yearning and sadness that gripped his heart in a long sigh. He shook his head and opened his eyes.

"Demonology, then," he mumbled to himself, lifting the thick tome from the bookshelf. He'd had a reply from Quentin, the older mage having agreed to call on Fletcher at the new house the following day, so Fletcher wanted to sound as though he knew at least _something_ before they discussed Fenris's markings.

He poured some tea, refreshed the fire and lit a couple of the wall lamps before sitting in the armchair. He then opened the book, turning to the first page. He frowned, squinting in a futile attempt to read the gibberish within.

"What the-?"

It was written in ancient Tevene.

"Of _course_ it is." He snapped the book closed in annoyance. "A four-mile round trip and five sodding sovereigns for nothing. It would have been too simple to check _before_ you bought it, wouldn't it, you cretinous-"

He paused as he heard another sound just after he'd closed the book. An echo? The library was certainly large and empty enough for that, but this noise had been dull and had seemed to emanate from the front of the house. The night-time guard patrol, maybe? Had they seen that a light was on and were hoping to ask to use the latrine? It had happened once before when the Hawkes had lived in the slums.

Placing the book down, he moved to the window. Sure enough, someone was standing outside--the long shadow cast in the moonlight made that apparent. There was only one person, however. Was Aveline still deploying single patrols in Hightown? It certainly wasn't a templar--they _never_ worked alone. Bloody cowards.

Where had Fenris been deployed tonight? Wasn't his shift over, though? Dawn was approaching and he should be in bed. Then again, so should Fletcher have been.

Fletcher's stomach knotted tightly as the shadow moved and elongated across the square. It belonged to a slender man with a thick mop of straight hair that hung over one eye. The shadow shortened and the shape of a large sword at the man's back came into relief, as did the man's legs as the shadow mimicked its owner and paced back and forth.

"What's he doing here at this time of night?" Fletcher wondered aloud.

He quickly returned the book to the shelf, back-to-front so its spine was not visible. Fenris had been with him when he'd bought the book but he didn't want _any_ reminders of demons lying around. Realising he was still wearing his nightcap, he removed it and raked his fingers through his hair. He briefly considered going upstairs and changing into clothing, but it was a cold night, a late Bloomingtide frost, and Fenris didn't have an ounce of fat on him to keep him warm. Besides, he might be gone by the time Fletcher returned.

He went to the front door, again wondering what Fenris wanted at such an hour. Surely he wasn't going to start an argument in the middle of the night? Or had he had a nightmare? About demons? Had he decided to finally end things between them and needed to tell Fletcher about it right now?

He unlocked the door and firmly pulled the handle, finding that Fenris was no longer outside the door. Then, to the left, a head slowly peered around the porch. Both men's shoulders dropped and they let out a mutual sigh.

"What are you doing?" Fletcher whispered, not wanting to disturb anyone.

Fenris looked at Fletcher's housecoat and slippers, a low groan rumbling through him. Well, what _else_ would he be wearing at 4am? "I woke you. I'm… terribly sorry."

"No, you didn't, I was already up," said Fletcher quietly, ushering him inside. "Come on, there's a fire in here. You must be half-frozen."

His posture rigid, Fenris entered the house, anxiously glancing around. "Are you certain I did not wake you? Or anyone else?"

Fletcher placed a finger to his lips and shook his head, showing Fenris through to the library. Once the elf had entered, Fletcher closed the door and steered him to the armchair next to the fire. The dithering elf practically ran to the fireplace, wrapping his arms around himself as he warmed up.

"Here," Fletcher said, pouring Fenris a cup of tea and passing it to him.

"Thank you." Fenris took the cup and placed it on the mantelpiece before removing his sword and resting it against the wall.

"That's a relief," Fletcher said with a soft laugh. "I thought you'd come to finish me off."

Fenris wrapped his icy fingers around the cup and brought it to his lips, shaking his head in reply, his expression serious.

"Is everything all right?" Fletcher ventured gently. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Fenris took a small sip of tea and again set his cup down. "Not tonight, no."

"Do you want to talk, then?"

There was a pause as Fenris stared into the fire. "No."

"Well, not that I'm displeased to see you, but what _are_ you doing here? And at this hour?"

Fenris again took a moment to answer, and shook his head. "I… have no idea. I do not know what to say. There is so much _to_ say, yet I find myself at a loss."

Fletcher moved closer to the fireplace and both men leaned against the mantelpiece, facing each other, a few feet separating them. Fletcher took a deep breath, his stomach quivering. "Fen, what I said to you before… I-I didn't really want you to go. I was-"

Fenris stepped closer to him, placing the tips of his fingers over Fletcher's mouth. "Don't… don't say anything."

"But, Fen-" Fletcher mumbled, his voice muffled. Fenris moved closer, placing his entire hand over the mage's mouth before it slowly slid down Fletcher's face, the elf's hands moving to Fletcher's arms. Fenris then hung his head and drew Fletcher close. "Fen?" Fletcher whispered, his breathing erratic as he tentatively snaked his arms around Fenris's back.

"Shh." Fenris undid the ties of Fletcher's robe and it slid off his shoulders to the floor. "Just let me..." His hands moved down, skimming Fletcher's hips, and went beneath his nightshirt, his cold fingers jolting Fletcher as they lightly stroked upward, coming to rest on his chest. "Just let me feel your warmth," he mumbled as he rested his head in the crook of the mage's neck, slowly inhaling Fletcher's musky bed-scent.

"We-we really should talk," stammered the mage, confusion, exhilaration and hope coursing through him.

Fenris stepped back, leaving Fletcher bereft as he went to the door, pausing momentarily before sliding the bolt across. Fletcher watched slack-mouthed as Fenris, eyes hooded, returned to him and began to undress. "Not now. Sometimes... words cannot suffice."

 _The Question_ hovered at the back of Fletcher's mind but would Fenris really want to be with someone, to share his body with someone he believed would sacrifice him to a demon? He went to speak but his words fell dead as Fenris stepped out of his trousers, kicking them to the side.

"I love you," Fenris uttered softly, his hands moving up to brush Fletcher's face. "I am no longer afraid of telling you. The prophecy will _not_ come true. I will not allow it."

"The prophecy?" Fletcher asked in confusion.

Fenris hung his head, a gentle smile curving his mouth. "It… doesn't matter. What you and I have… I have made it so complicated, so difficult in my head, but it isn't difficult at all, is it?" He looked up, his heart fluttering at Fletcher's reddened cheeks, shining eyes and shaky breaths. "Loving you is simple. For once in my life, I have decided to take the _easiest_ path. And I would walk that path with you at my side. Will you walk with me?"

"Wha-?" mumbled Fletcher, tears in his eyes. "I-I don't-"

"Do not try to make sense of it." Fenris wound his arms around Fletcher's neck. "Just say yes. Walk at my side, for as long as we have together. I accept you. I accept everything about you. We will _not_ be parted again," he said with determination. "I love you, Fletcher Hawke. Be with me," he entreated, his voice trembling, his hands tangling through the mage's hair. "It has been too long since I felt your touch. I... I can't bear another moment without you."

Fletcher gulped, heat suffusing his blood. "B-but… the trust… we-"

"Being apart is hurting both of us. Whatever issues there are, we will face them together and we _will_ overcome them. For now, there is nothing--no one--but you and I."

Fenris reached down for the hem of Fletcher's nightshirt and Fletcher raised his arms, allowing the elf to pull it over his head before it was discarded on the floor. They stood naked, barely a foot separating them, the firelight dancing in their eyes and across the contours of their bodies.

"You and I," whispered Fletcher, his fingers lightly brushing Fenris's arms. "That's all I want. _You're_ all I want, Fen." He stepped closer to the elf, their bodies barely touching. "I've been aching for you. I love you so much."

Fenris also stepped closer and curled against Fletcher's body, the mage's arms winding around him. They held each other, for how long neither of them knew, before Fenris stepped back and took Fletcher's hand, pausing to look at the ring he'd gifted the mage. A tender, knowing smile passed between them before they carefully settled on the rug in front of the fire.

And there, Fenris and Fletcher--and no one else--made sense of everything.


	86. The World Keeps Turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Frowning gives you wrinkles. I refuse to be seen about town with a man who looks like an old scrotum."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating. This is a very long filler chapter that is necessary for advancement of the story - hopefully you'll stay awake long enough to finish it. ;-) Also, Mary is poorly so this chapter has not been beta-read - please excuse any errors. Get well soon, Mary!

Night had fallen over the small village of Edgbaston and it was now too late for Aveline and Donnic to return to Kirkwall – not that Aveline had any intention of doing so until she had some answers. It was clear, though, that Warden-Commander Surana was not going to provide any. The elf had left the office to arrange overnight lodgings at the compound for the pair, requesting 'a word' with Nathaniel on the way out. It was clear to both guards that some animosity existed between the Wardens, apparently exacerbated by Nathaniel's revelation.

The guards had sat in stunned silence for a minute or two while their minds turned over the implications, before they'd both blurted out a plan at the same time. Grateful that Aveline had brought him along, and wanting to maintain their new-found ease with each other, Donnic invited her to speak first.

"Warden Howe is obviously not happy about all of this, and he seems willing to provide us with at least titbits of information," she surmised. "I think we should work on him."

Donnic grimaced and shook his head. "I don't know… I wonder if he's just doing it to piss off Surana. Both of them could be playing games, trying to throw us off. That Howe seems a sly one to me. He's more than willing to throw his king under a wagon."

"Anders told me he wasn't a pleasant character," she agreed with a nod. "Do you know who he is? Only the son of Rendon bloody Howe."

Donnic gaped, slow realisation dawning on him. "Rendon Howe? Shit… we'd best not turn our backs on that one, then. How did _he_ become a Warden?"

"According to Anders, he tried to murder Surana, or at least planned to, because Surana was the one who killed his father. And then Surana went and made him a Warden."

"What?" he asked with an incredulous laugh. "Really?"

"I know, right? I told Anders to stop bullshitting but I don't think he was. I'm not surprised he ran away from the Wardens," she muttered with a shake of her head.

"And now they reckon the king's involved?" Donnic whispered with one eye on the door. "Why would they need his permission? I know he's a Grey Warden, but isn't Surana supposed to be the commander? And what does the King of Ferelden have to do with the Free Marches, anyway? He's not _my_ king."

"He's mine, though," answered Aveline thoughtfully. "And he's the king of every Fereldan who came over here – and Howe and Surana are also Fereldan. Maybe they did it out of respect, I don't know. Whatever the reasons, _someone_ has to be held accountable for all of this."

"You can't arrest the king, Aveline," he commented with a grin.

"Oh _, can't_ I?" she argued, her face reddening in indignation when Donnic laughed.

"You're the only person in Thedas who'd dare attempt it," he said with a hint of pride. "And you'd probably succeed, too."

Her ego suitably stroked, she straightened up, pursing her lips in an attempt to force down a smile. " _You've_ found your voice all of a sudden," she muttered. "I think I preferred it when you couldn't speak."

"Really?" he asked sceptically. "You know you love it when I stand up to you. _Someone_ needs to."

She knew he was trying to bait her and her stomach fluttered. "Is that a fact, Guardsman?"

He leaned closer to her, a feral grin on his lips. "It is. I _say_ it is."

She leaned away from him, suddenly feeling very warm indeed. "Just because you say something, doesn't mean it's written in stone," she huffed.

"So, you're back to arguing with me, are you?" he teased. "I don't recall you doing that at the _clinic_. Not unless you're a bloody good actress."

She turned away from him, her hand going to her mouth to subjugate a ridiculous giggle, which Aveline Vallen _did not do._ At that moment, the door opened and Nathaniel stepped in. He paused in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the guards, before he closed the door and took a seat at the desk.

"Commander Surana has been detained," he informed them dispassionately. "Temporary dwellings have been arranged for you both. They're not exactly five-star, but it's either that or sleep in the fields."

"We've brought tents," Aveline said defiantly, raising her eyebrows when Donnic gave a grunt of disapproval.

"Suit yourselves," Nathaniel mumbled. "There's going to be another frost tonight, so I'll show you where your quarters are, and you can sleep in them or not. Up to you. Are you all right, Captain? You look a little… flushed," he commented, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine," she answered shortly.

Nathaniel sat back in the chair, appraising the guards with an unnerving smile. Aveline folded her arms in self-protection, feeling as though the black-haired Warden could read her thoughts.

"So what's to stop you and your commander making a run for it during the night while we're asleep?" Donnic demanded.

Nathaniel's smile slipped and he looked genuinely confused for a moment before his composure returned. "Why would we do that? We've already told you we can't leave here – we have work to do."

"Work you're not going to tell _us_ about," Donnic stated.

Nathaniel also folded his arms and released a slow breath through his nose. "I can tell you a few things, but not much."

Aveline glanced at Donnic, and they both frowned. "Wouldn't your commander object to that?" she asked.

"Do you care?"

"We care about getting the right information," she replied. "What we're _not_ interested in is you two feeding us misleading scraps while scoring points off each other."

Without pause, Nathaniel pushed out of his chair. "You suspect I'll lie to you? Fine. No skin off my nose." He headed for the door and Donnic shot Aveline a slightly panicked look.

"Why don't you tell us what you know, Nathaniel," he said smoothly, "and let us decide whether you're lying or not?"

"After your captain just insulted me, _Donnic_?" sneered the Warden, his hand resting on the door knob. "Why should I help you after that?"

"No insult intended, Warden," Aveline assured him through gritted teeth, growing tired of his games. "We'd be very grateful for any help you can provide. Besides, I get the feeling you _want_ to tell us."

A sigh was heard, and Nathaniel shook his head. "Let's get one thing straight," he dictated as he headed back to his chair. "Don't make assumptions about me, and we'll get along fine. Not _all_ Howes are liars. Yes, I'm _sure_ you've heard the name before." He took his seat, issuing the guards a challenging look.

"We have," Aveline confessed, sensing a chink in the haughty Warden's armour, "and, yes, we did make assumptions. My pardon. We can't choose our parents."

Nathaniel continued to stare at them, and Donnic leaned forward. "Why don't you tell us what you know, Nathaniel… what you _can_ tell us. Then we can all get to bed."

Nathaniel's eyes lowered, and his expression softened, but only momentarily. His brow grew heavy and he released a quiet sigh. "You were right when you said Bartrand Tethras is a greedy bastard. Nasty piece of work, driven by avarice. I expected as much from a dwarf, but he took it to another level. He laughed at my offer of compensation, claiming he'd return with ten times that amount. Then I tried appealing to his conscience, which was a waste of time – he doesn't have one. He didn't care a whit about the safety of his workers – they were the ones I felt sorry for, because I knew what would happen if the expedition went ahead."

"So you planned to kill them even before they went down there?" Aveline asked.

"It was _discussed_ ," he answered defensively, his brows meeting, "and if by 'you', you mean me, then no, I didn't personally plan to kill them. Let's get _that_ straight, as well."

"Fair enough," said Aveline. "You said before that you took other steps to stop the expedition from going ahead?"

"I _tried_ to take steps. Bartrand wouldn't tell me who else was going, so a few people were hired to hang around the local taverns, listen in to the gossip. They heard a few whispers, but nothing concrete. When I investigated, I was sent on several wild goose chases or given false names. _Someone_ was controlling the information that was given out." He paused as Aveline shifted in her chair, and Donnic made a sterling effort not to look at her – they obviously knew who he was talking about. "Well, that answers _that_. It doesn't matter now, anyway. When I got nowhere asking questions, I tried another tactic."

"You collapsed some of the tunnels?" Donnic asked, and Nathaniel nodded.

"The idea was to make the area unstable. I assumed surveys would be carried out, and the expedition would be postponed at the very least. I didn't count on how irresponsible Bartrand was, though," he muttered with a sour quirk of his lips.

"Wait a minute," Donnic questioned. "Wouldn't the area be unstable to the Wardens, as well? Weren't you making it dangerous for yourselves?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "The site of the greatest interest to us is nearer to Cumberland than Kirkwall. We always enter via the Planasene Forest."

"They were close to that exit when I found them," Donnic began before Nathaniel shook his head again.

"They never would have got out. The exit was sealed. We were thorough, Lieutenant," he finished on a sigh.

"You don't seem very happy about that," observed Aveline.

Nathaniel moved his jaw from side to side, folding his arms tighter. "That's irrelevant. I assisted in sealing the exit _and_ collapsing the tunnel. If you're seeking culprits, you're looking at one of them."

"And did Commander Surana order you to do that?" asked Aveline.

"He didn't force me, if that's what you're asking."

"All right," Aveline said slowly and deliberately. "What was so bloody important that made you _assist_ with almost killing twenty-six people?"

"I'm afraid that's where I can't help you," Nathaniel mumbled.

"Oh, no, you don't," she warned, waving a finger. "Our _friends_ were in the expedition party. They might be just numbers to you, but they're people to us. They're fathers, sons, husbands and brothers. There were even a couple of grandfathers. They're an eclectic bunch – some serious and taciturn, much like yourself, while others are as daft as a brush. They _laugh_ , Warden Howe. They bleed and they feel pain. They're _people_. Just remember _that_ while you maintain your honourable silence." She sat back and glowered at him. Donnic, nodding his agreement, also pitched in.

"When we reached them, they were almost starved. My friend, who is also a guard, told me later on he'd accepted that he and his lover were going to die, and wondered who would go first. If he died first, his lover would have to witness that, and vice versa. I wonder if you have any idea how that feels? I've tried and I have to _stop_ thinking because it's too unpleasant, too upsetting. Those people had no _choice_ but to think about it," he went on, his tone harsh. "My _friends_. You told me you'd tried to appeal to Bartrand's conscience. Let's see if _you_ have one."

Nathaniel pursed his lips, one of his hands clenching into a fist before uncurling. "You don't need to remind me there were _people_ on that expedition," he said tersely. "Why do you think I tried to stop it from going ahead?"

"You should have tried harder," Aveline accused in a hard tone. "You could have come to me. I would have told you who was going along, and we might have been able to stop at least some of them-"

"I had no idea that anyone _official_ knew of the expedition, and after speaking to Bartrand, I guessed not," Nathaniel defended heatedly. "Besides, we wanted as few people to know about this as possible. It's bad enough that _he_ knew the Wardens were interested in the site."

"Not good enough," she snapped, her hand slicing through the air. "You can't possibly justify your decision based on those flimsy attempts to stop the expedition."

"It wasn't _my_ decision," he seethed, his eyes cold and hard. "I told you, I did everything I could, with very little support from my so-called _brothers and sisters_." He halted, realising he'd let his emotions overrule his professionalism, and closed his eyes for a moment, his fingers drumming on the desk.

"So, he _does_ have a conscience," said Aveline, and Nathaniel opened his eyes, glaring angrily at her. She stood up and leaned on the desk as Nathaniel had done earlier. "Let me tell you what it was like on that expedition, as related to me by one of _my_ friends – the 'lover'. _He_ didn't go along because he was greedy like Bartrand - he just wanted to make life better for his mother and sister. He and a few others were forced to lead the expedition when it became clear that Bartrand would happily have stuck a knife in their backs for want of a sovereign. He knew, about halfway through, that they didn't have enough food left to make it out alive – because you _Wardens_ had prevented them from reaching the first chamber, where the food was stored-"

"We didn't collapse both tunnels, Captain."

"No, but you did block the only other way of reaching that first main chamber."

Nathaniel stared silently ahead, unable to argue with that.

"It was only by a freak stroke of luck that we found out they'd been trapped," she continued. "My friend thought he'd never see his mother and sister again, not to mention he was almost driven insane by exposure to lyrium-"

Nathaniel's mouth half-opened, his hand once again clenching into a fist and he lurched forward a couple of inches before relaxing his posture, too late to evade Donnic's notice.

"Touched a nerve, Warden?"

"What do you mean?"

"You tensed when I mentioned lyrium," Aveline noted, her face barely six inches from his.

"I don't think so," Nathaniel sniffed, fidgeting in his chair, feeling uncomfortable and hemmed in by Aveline's proximity. "If your friend is a mage, I'm not surprised he reacted badly to the lyrium. That's why we enter via the Cumberland entrance – Commander Surana and the other Warden mages would also be affected by it. Sounds like your friend found out the hard way." He clasped his hands together on the desk and stared at them for a few moments. When he blinked, Aveline and Donnic were watching him.

"What?"

"Do you want to ask us something?" Aveline queried, tilting her head as she straightened up. "It's just that you seem worried."

"Worried? No," Nathaniel claimed, careful to keep his tone even and measured. "I would like to know something, though. How far from the Planasene Forest were your friends when you found them?"

"Hard to say," Donnic replied with a shrug. "Their best estimate had them five weeks away. But they never would have reached it – they barely had enough food to last a week, and what they did have was poor."

Nathaniel nodded, his gaze shifting to Aveline. "Was your mage friend still affected by the lyrium when he was rescued?"

"Donnic?" she asked.

"No," he replied with a frown, "but he was on the way back. Why do you ask?"

Nathaniel paused for a moment, slowly inhaling through his nose. "I'm going to need to speak to your friend," he said to Aveline, his tone grave.

"You'll _not_ have his name until you tell me exactly why you want to speak to him," she answered belligerently, again leaning on the desk. "He's a citizen of Kirkwall and is therefore under my protection. You'd better start talking, Warden," she threatened, "and if you think you'll find him using your spies, I guarantee you won't. If I put the word out, you won't just be misled, but every punter in every tavern will be struck dumb. I _promise_ you that," she vowed, her eyes glinting.

Nathaniel snorted and shook his head, partly in admiration. "Tenacious, aren't you?"

"You don't know the half it," Donnic amended as Aveline stared the Warden down.

"Sit down, Captain," Nathaniel invited, sounding weary. "Please."

She glared at him for a moment longer before returning to her seat.

"I really do need to speak with your friend," he urged, his tone less hostile. "I _cannot_ tell you why – but I give you my word that he will not be harmed, by me or any other Warden. It's vital I speak to him as soon as possible."

She shook her head, her jaw jutting out. "Not until we get something in return. And even then I make no guarantees."

"Fine," he sighed, lightly rubbing his forehead, knowing she had him cornered. "You'll have your answers, but you'll need to wait a couple of days. King Alistair is in the Free Marches and will be making a stop here. I believe he also has an appointment with your viscount next week."

"So that's what Bran was on about when he wanted extra security in Hightown," she muttered to Donnic. "Of course, it's beneath him to actually tell me _why_. Wanker."

Nathaniel cleared his throat, the beginnings of a smile quickly vanishing when Aveline looked up. "You can go back to Kirkwall if you like until the king arrives," he offered. "We'll still be here when you return. Or, I could accompany you back to Kirkwall tonight-"

"Nice try," she interrupted. "Your commander insisted you couldn't leave here, and here's where you'll stay, under house arrest. We'll stay here overnight and, in the morning, we'll send for reinforcements to relieve us."

"Do what you like," said Nathaniel with a shrug, stifling a yawn. "Well, this conversation's going no further tonight, is it? Allow me to show you to your quarters."

"We'll be camping," Aveline answered as she and Donnic stood. "But we'll say goodnight to your commander first."

"He _hasn't_ run off," Nathaniel stated, exasperated.

"Good. Then you won't mind taking us to him, will you?"

Nathaniel rose and gestured to his weapons, which lay on the floor. "Mind if I take these with me?" he asked. "There are plenty more weapons around the compound, if I had a mind to use any. It'll save me the bother of coming back for them. _I_ want to go to bed as well."

"Go on, then," said Donnic gruffly, "but I'm watching you."

"I'd expect nothing less," he answered as he retrieved his weapons and led the guards to Commander Surana's quarters, where they awaited him. When he returned a short time later, Aveline informed him of their plans.

"I can send a messenger with written orders to Kirkwall for you," the elf offered. "And I must insist you take quarters here – it'll be a cold night. The doors can all be bolted from the inside, if it makes you feel any better."

"That's generous of you, Commander, but we prefer to camp out," she answered and, to Donnic's credit, he didn't argue.

"I suppose I'd feel the same in your position," conceded the elf. "In that case, I recommend you camp in the southern field. It's less exposed and the drainage is better. But it's your choice, of course. Please let us send a messenger for you, though – we have riders standing idle. It was your original plan to ride out in the morning, yes? This way, your reinforcements will be here before you wake."

"You're being very helpful all of a sudden," remarked Donnic.

Surana glanced at Nathaniel, who shrugged. "I believe we've co-operated in every way we're able," said Surana calmly. "We have freely admitted our complicity in this incident and have not lied to you."

"You haven't told us everything, though," Aveline countered.

"I am not keeping you in the dark by choice. If you are willing to stay as our guests until his Majesty arrives – or even post your guards here and return in a day or two – I'm sure you'll have the answers you seek. I'm not authorised to tell you any more than I have, but I'm sure Ali-um, the king, will."

"He's a garrulous fellow," Nathaniel provided, rolling his eyes, and Surana smiled – apparently the tension between the Wardens had lifted for the time being.

"Excuse us," Aveline said, taking Donnic to one side. "What do you reckon?" she whispered once she was sure the Wardens couldn't hear them.

"I didn't want to say so in front of them, but I don't fancy sleeping out in the fields."

She tutted. "I mean, do you trust them?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far, but they have admitted their part in it. And let's face it, if they wanted to harm us they could have done so long before now. There were at least twenty Wardens training when we arrived, and there could be many more – this is a big place. I recommend we accept their offer of quarters as a show of good faith. They haven't asked for our weapons, have they?"

Aveline thought about that for a moment before nodding. "Commander?" she called over her shoulder. "If we stay in quarters, may I request two neighbouring rooms if you have them?"

Surana and Nathaniel moved next to the guards. "I've already arranged for that," said the elf. "The rooms will not be locked, and you can bolt them from the inside. There's an adjoining door between the rooms, if you want to take watches."

"Thanks, Commander," said Donnic. "We appreciate your hospitality."

Surana nodded once. "There's writing material in the rooms," he informed them. "Write your orders and leave them with Warden Emery at the eastern entrance of the building," he said, pointing them in the right direction. "Our rider will leave within the hour. And if you want to take a look around during the night, as I expect any good guard of Kirkwall would, just inform Emery first – he's standing sentry. You're free to roam around the complex, but you might be on the receiving end of a dint to the head if you don't warn him first," he advised with a grin.

"I appreciate the warning," Aveline replied with a wry smile of her own.

"Come on, then," Nathaniel instructed around a yawn. "I'll show you to your rooms, and where to go for ablutions and breakfast."

The guards said goodnight to Surana, and Nathaniel took them to their quarters before also bidding them a good night and arranging to meet them in the morning.

"They seem a bit more relaxed, don't they?" Donnic mused as he sat at the desk in Aveline's room while she wrote her instructions to Lieutenant Bradley.

"Probably because they think they'll be able to blame the king and get off scot-free," she mumbled, squinting in the candlelight as she wrote. "Well, they can think again."

Donnic lounged back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. "Don't _you_ ever relax?" he teased.

"Not in matters like this."

"You're officially off-duty now, you know," he reminded her.

"The captain of the guard-"

"Is never off duty. I _know_ ," he joked. "And, when she is, she polishes her boots and nourishes her leather."

"Shut it, Hendyr," she muttered with a sidelong glance at him, her lips twitching slightly. "Here. Take this to Warden Emery," she ordered, passing him the sealed note.

"What did your last servant die of?" he asked cheekily.

"Insubordination."

Laughing, he snatched the note from her and stood up. "You want to take first watch, or shall I?" he asked.

"I will," she answered. "You were up earlier than me this morning. I'm not that tired, anyway."

He nodded, his eyes wandering to the door separating their rooms. "That door-"

"Will be locked from _my_ side," she finished. "Haven't you taken that note yet?"

"Are you sure, Captain? It could be a fire risk if it's locked."

"Forget it," she scolded, unable to keep her laughter from trickling into her words.

"It'll be a cold night, you know," he grinned.

"There are plenty of blankets on the bed," she reminded him, pointing to the door. "Out!"

"Yes, Capt-" Donnic halted, his mouth falling open in horror as he stared at her.

"What's the matter?" she exclaimed.

"What's _that_ on your face?"

"What? What do you mean?" she demanded, patting her face with her hands as she scrambled to her feet.

"Hold _very_ still, Captain," he warned, one hand held out as he advanced on her.

"Just get it off me, whatever it is!" she commanded with a shrill note in her voice.

"Oh…" Donnic breathed a sigh of relief as he drew near. "It's only your mouth."

"You-you what?"

"I think. Just let me check," he said seriously, clutching her face with his hands. "Yep. Definitely a mouth."

"You sneaky bas… mmmf!" He clamped his lips over hers and she broke away from him, laughing.

"Hold still!" he admonished. "It could be dangerous!"

"You silly sod! I-mmmf! Mmmf…mmm… eheeheehee… eeeeeee… mmhmm."

Aveline continued to emit strange noises for several minutes until Donnic had rendered her mouth harmless. He slowly pulled away, leaving her gasping and so red and hot _she_ could be deemed a fire risk.

"You sure about that door?"

"Quite sure!" she spluttered between shaky breaths. "Go on, off you go! That message won't deliver itself!"

"Whatever you say, Captain." He took a step back and bowed before moving to the door, smiling when he turned around to see her clutching her chest. "Hey, Aveline," he cooed from the door. "Wake me in a few hours?"

"Yes… yes, I will," she breathed.

"I'd better warn you, I sleep in the nude. Wouldn't want to frighten you or anything," he warned with a wholly wicked grin.

She moved to her bed and pulled back the blankets before tugging away the cotton sheet. Bunching it up, she returned to Donnic and shoved it into his arms. "Wear _that_."

"Not sure it's big enough," he quipped and she shook her head, her face burning as he used the sheet to pull her closer.

"Keep it," he whispered, "or you'll get all itchy." He released the sheet and reached up and behind her, loosening her ponytail and arranging her titian tresses around her shoulders. "I've always wanted to see you with your hair down," he murmured. "You're quite lovely, you know." He leaned forward and kissed her hot cheek before opening the door. "See you in a few hours," he winked over his shoulder. "I'll keep my leggings on tonight, just for you."

"Yes… 'nite," she mumbled as the door closed. She looked at the sheet in her hands and walked to her bed, slumping down onto it, her head swimming. She shivered as a very strange sensation coursed through her body, settling in and warming her lower regions. Thinking of Donnic without his trousers on only made it more pronounced, so she looked around the room for a distraction. Then she started to imagine his heavy, powerful thighs, his broad, hairy chest-

"Blast it," she cursed. The heat that had settled in her cheeks and lower body spread along her skin, causing it to tingle, the fine hairs on her arms standing on end. She sprang up, quickly locking both doors, and began the laborious process of removing her armour. That was boring enough to take her mind off anything, surely?

She was wrong.

She checked the doors were locked again and then double-checked before moving to the bed and sitting down, bringing her legs up. She brushed her hair over one shoulder and ran her fingers through it with a sigh full of delicious longing. No one had ever called her _lovely_ before.

She lay back, closing her eyes, and slowly stroked down her cheek with the back of her hand, moving down to the curve of her neck. She opened her eyes for a second, checking that the doors were definitely bolted, and released a husky breath.

And then, closing her eyes again, decided that she needed no distractions at all.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher sank back on the pillow, reaching down to brush a strand of hair out of Fenris's eyes. After they'd made love in the library, they'd dressed and Fletcher had taken the elf to his bedroom, after first checking that no one was about – unlikely, as dawn had only just broken, but Fenris had insisted.

They'd undressed again and had slipped into bed, where they'd talked and canoodled until the sun started to rise. They discussed Bethany's health and Fletcher's hand, which was slowly healing. Fletcher also mentioned his plan to employ a small staff at the house, asking Fenris his opinion on the matter. The elf expressed surprise that Fletcher had not yet employed at least a housekeeper, and thanked Fletcher for discussing it with him, knowing why the mage had done so. After Fenris had yawned several times, Fletcher insisted that the elf get some sleep. Fenris had settled against Fletcher's chest, wearing a faint smile as the mage's chest hair tickled his nose. He looked up at Fletcher, who grinned back.

"You're a remarkable man, you know that? And don't frown," the mage scolded playfully, noticing a small groove appear between Fenris's eyes.

"I will frown if I wish," drawled the elf.

"No, you won't. Frowning gives you wrinkles. I refuse to be seen about town with a man who looks like an old scrotum."

Fletcher felt the elf's hot breath against his chest as he released a snort. "You have little choice in the matter, my dear."

Fletcher's heart swelled and he stroked Fenris's hair, hearing a contented sigh. "You haven't called me that for a while."

"No," Fenris murmured against Fletcher's skin before closing his eyes.

They shared a comfortable silence as the first tentative rays of sunlight dappled the far wall of Fletcher's room. Just as Fenris's breathing began to slow, Fletcher cleared his throat.

"Just so you know," he began, "Quentin's coming to visit me today. Later on. I just wanted to tell you. We're going to start looking into… well, you know."

Fenris looked up blearily, stifling a yawn. "Will you require my presence?" he asked.

"No, not yet. I don't know Quentin very well and I'm wary of giving too much away. I know, I know – keeping things to myself again. But… I know this is far-fetched, but Quentin could be a magister for all I know. I won't introduce you until I'm completely comfortable with him."

Fenris nodded. "I appreciate your concern – and your caution. And I appreciate you telling me," he said with a faint smile, the sun catching his eyes, and Fletcher rested his hand over Fenris's face, shielding his eyes from the glare. "I appreciate that, as well," Fenris added, and Fletcher chuckled, reaching for one of Fenris's hands before bringing it to his mouth and kissing it.

"Well?"

" _And_ that," groaned the elf, this time making an exaggerated show of his yawn.

"Oh, and I promised Ser Emeric that I'd inform him what happened at the DuPuis estate, if he hasn't already heard," Fletcher said, watching Fenris carefully for any reaction.

"Mm?"

"Yes, he told me he'd be in the Hanged Man at lunchtime as usual. I'll meet him before Quentin arrives."

"Oh."

"Sorry. I'm keeping you awake, aren't I?" Fletcher asked.

"I don't mind," answered the elf, "but you _were_ the one who insisted I sleep."

"I was, wasn't I?"

Fenris again settled against Fletcher's chest and silence fell for the next few minutes.

"Oh, there was one more thing-"

"Fletcher," Fenris chided sleepily, "there is no need to tell me your entire itinerary for the coming day."

"I just… wanted to keep you informed. Of everything," answered Fletcher with a rueful shrug.

Fenris again glanced upward, a beautiful, warm smile illuminating his features. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Fletcher craned his neck and kissed the top of Fenris's head.

"Now, is there anything else you wish to tell me _before_ I go to sleep?" teased the elf.

"There… _is_ something," whispered Fletcher, his expression sombre.

Fenris raised his head, his mouth opening slightly, a frown waiting in the wings. "What?"

"I've got a bit of an itchy foot. But hang on a minute…" Fletcher grimaced slightly and awkwardly shifted his legs so he could scratch his foot with the big toe of his other foot. "Got it. I'll inform you if there are any more occurrences."

Fenris pursed his lips and shook his head, a smile threatening to break through his stern countenance. " _Really_ , there is no need."

"You sure?"

" _Fletcher_ …"

The mage snuggled down and wrapped his arms around the elf, first pretending to zip his mouth closed.

"Oh, wait."

Fenris looked up, not at all surprised when Fletcher 'unzipped' his mouth.

"... Yes?"

"Last thing. _Definitely_. You'll thank me for it," he promised with a slightly nervous laugh. "I'll probably rise before you do. I'll bring you some breakfast up at around eleven, tea and a bacon sandwich or something. Then I'll sneak you out while Mother's distracted," he said with a wink.

"Oh… your mother," Fenris mumbled thoughtfully. "Will she not question you taking an extra portion of breakfast to your room?"

"Why would she? I'm always doing it. There's always plenty of bacon or porridge left."

"How did I not know that?" commented the elf in amusement.

"Watch it, you, or you'll get the scrag end of the bacon," threatened the mage.

Fenris nodded solemnly before zipping his own mouth closed, delighted at the rumble that vibrated through Fletcher's chest. He moved up slightly and cupped Fletcher's cheek, turning the mage's head toward his own before he closed his eyes, releasing a long, languid sigh.

"Sleep well, love," Fletcher whispered with a kiss to Fenris's forehead.

Fenris awoke some hours later to an empty bed and the smell of bacon.

~o~O~o~

Ser Emeric was not at the Hanged Man at lunchtime, nor was Varric. After Fletcher had successfully sneaked Fenris out of the house, the elf found himself at a loose end so decided to tag along with Fletcher for a while. Fletcher had brought a book with him and they found a quiet table in the pub, nodding at a few of the regulars before they sat down.

"Are you sure you've had enough sleep?" Fletcher asked the elf once they were seated.

"Mm," Fenris mumbled. "I slept rather well last night… for some reason."

Fletcher grinned, resting his head on one of his hands. "Will you be working permanent nights?" he asked.

"No. I believe the current shift rotation is four weeks of nights, followed by four weeks of 'earlies' – 4am to noon, and then four weeks of 'lates' – noon to 8pm."

"How many weeks of nights do you have left?"

"Why?" Fenris asked with a smile.

Fletcher shrugged. "Well, we shared our first sunrise this morning, and I'd like us to share a sunset as well. And we have your bit of garden to sort out. And lots of late-evening reading lessons."

Fenris's smile broadened. "My service has been somewhat patchy so far, but I work the same shift pattern as Donnic, Davy and Filbert, and they change to 'earlies' at week's end. I assume I will do the same."

"Week's end? So you'll be on earlies by the tenth?"

Fenris tilted his head slightly, feigning confusion. "What is so special about the tenth?"

"You know very well what that date is," teased the mage. "There's no way you'd forget that. Five months since we first met. Five months. And we're still alive. I think that's cause for celebration."

A slender eyebrow rose, and Fenris moved his seat a little closer to Fletcher's. "A celebration? What did you have in mind? Some light gardening? A poetry reading, perhaps?"

"No, silly! We'll have a party, of course!" Fletcher gushed excitedly, a sly eye on Fenris's expression, which sobered ever so slightly.

"Of course… a party." Fenris cleared his throat, forcing a stiff grin.

"We'll have dancing and music and lots of food and drink," Fletcher went on, apparently oblivious to Fenris's reserved reaction. "And, as you'll be on earlies, you won't miss a second of it! Isn't it exciting?"

Fenris slowly nodded, deciding he'd better show some enthusiasm, not wanting to crush Fletcher's. "It will be quite a night," he managed.

"And then you can stay over and get some sleep before your shift starts – hey, we can see if Aveline will give you the night off! That way, we can sleep in and wake up together!"

"But… your mother-"

"You don't need to worry about Mother. She's not invited."

"Oh." Fenris nodded and then frowned, doing a double-take at Fletcher. "What… what?"

"She's not coming. I'll get rid of her and Beth for the night, put them up in a swanky hotel or something. Maybe not _Le Petit Oreille_ , though."

"But if you are inviting others, should your mother and sister not be there?"

"Who said anything about inviting others?" Fletcher asked, his face a study in gravity and sobriety.

"I… don't understand," the elf mumbled. "Surely, at a party, there are guests?"

"There will be," Fletcher answered. "You and me. Who else would we need? It's _our_ five-month anniversary, no one else's."

"But the music, the dancing…"

"You can play the lute, and I can dance," Fletcher grinned. "It's our party and no one else is invited but us."

Fenris smiled and sighed in relief, and then a pang of guilt nibbled at his stomach. "You do not need to do this for my sake. If you would like to invite a _few_ guests, I will not object."

"We'll invite a few for our _six_ -month anniversary," Fletcher said. "For this one, though, I want you all to myself. You didn't really think I'd subject you to a crowded room full of people where we're the centre of attention, did you? I can't think of anything worse, and I know you feel the same."

"You were having your little joke, weren't you?"

"Sorry." Fletcher hung his head and pushed out his lower lip, his eyes wide as he looked up through his lashes.

Fenris rolled his eyes and then nudged Fletcher with his elbow as the doors to the pub were opened, and Anders and Mallory stepped in, heading for the bar.

"I _was_ going to give you a reading lesson," Fletcher whinged.

"We… could make a run for the dwarf's room," Fenris suggested, thumbing towards the stairs.

"No, I'd better… I wasn't very nice to Mallory the other day. You know, after we'd been into the Fade. I suppose I should make an effort."

"You do not trust her still?"

They watched as Anders and Mallory chatted at the bar, Anders throwing his head back and laughing loudly.

"I haven't seen him laugh like that for a while," mused Fletcher. "Maybe she's good for him. What do you think? Should I give her a chance?"

"Perhaps that would be prudent," replied Fenris quietly. "He appears to be enamoured with her – if you object to her presence, he may take exception."

"Shall I…?" Fletcher nodded towards the couple, and Fenris shrugged before nodding.

"Nora!" Fletcher called to the barmaid who was serving Anders. "Those drinks are on me. Anders, Mallory, would you care to join us?"

At first, Anders looked shocked to see the two of them sitting together, but quickly regained his composure and leaned closer to Mallory, whispering something in her ear. She nodded, smiling back at Fletcher, pleased that he was not being hostile towards her.

"We'll have a quick drink with them and then I'll go and meet Quentin," Fletcher murmured. "What will you do with yourself?"

Fenris thought for a moment. "I believe I will ask Captain Vallen – or Lieutenant Bradley, if she has not yet returned – for the night off on the tenth. It should not be difficult to swap my shift with someone. I could take my rest day on the tenth."

"Good man," Fletcher beamed, giving Fenris's hand a quick squeeze under the table. "And I'll make sure I have nothing planned for that day, either."

Fletcher and Fenris then rose as Anders and Mallory made their way to the table, waiting until Mallory was seated before they also sat down.

~o~O~o~

When Fenris arrived at the barracks he was greeted by several of his fellows and was hailed by Sergeant Grant, who stood next to the duty roster.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he demanded, folding his arms as the elf approached. "Shouldn't you be out gallivanting or sleeping? Not _here_ , anyway. Are you after sergeant already? You've only been corporal for a couple of days, you know." Grant pointed to his own eyes and then Fenris's.

Used to Grant's dry sense of humour, Fenris shook his head, smiling. "I merely wished to speak with the captain about taking some leave. Has she returned?"

"I'm not sure if you're entitled to any leave, yet. When did you want it?" asked Grant.

"The tenth?"

"Oh, only one day? Hm. You _should_ be back by then."

"Back?"

Grant ran a finger down the duty roster, which was pinned to the wall. "You've been reassigned, as of now. We're to ride out tonight."

Fenris moved closer to Grant and read the relevant part of the roster, silently mouthing the words. "We? You will be going as well?"

"Try to contain your excitement," joked Grant. "We're to join Wainwright and MacAuley, who rode out during the night – Captain asked for us. Filbert and Paxton will take Darktown tonight. I'll meet you at the stables at six bells – it's about a three-hour ride."

"Um…" Fenris glanced around, lowering his voice. "I have never ridden a horse before. Is it difficult?"

Grant rolled his eyes and groaned. "Haven't they sorted out your training, yet? I'll put you down for lessons as soon as we return – Rose would be a good size for you, and she has a nice temperament. You can ride pillion with me tonight. Shouldn't be much trouble – you must weigh about four stone dripping wet."

"Eight, actually," chuckled Fenris, "but I appreciate the compliment… I think."

The two guards made way as Lieutenant Bradley stomped into the barracks, almost knocking them over. "Sorry," their superior grunted before entering the office and firmly closing the door.

"Lieutenant Bradley is perturbed," Fenris observed with a concerned frown.

"He's had his arse in his hand all morning," replied Grant with a shrug. "Best leave him to it. Right, I'm off for some sleep. Get a couple of pies down your neck before tonight – you look like you'd fall over in a stiff breeze." He gave the elf a friendly shove before departing through the rear entrance to the barracks. "Six bells," he called over his shoulder.

Fenris nodded after his colleague before his eyes were drawn to the office door. It was unlike Bradley to be so gruff, and Fenris wondered what was troubling him. He debated for a moment whether it was his place to offer assistance, but Lieutenant Bradley had always treated him with respect and Fenris felt he should at least try, even if he was rebuffed.

His musings were interrupted, however, when the office door opened. "Corporal," Bradley called to him. Fenris slowly walked to the door and entered the office, Bradley closing the door.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he asked, fearing he'd done something wrong.

Bradley sighed, regretting his unusually formal tone, and leaned against the door, folding his arms. "Listen – I'm telling you this because you stopped Gascard Dupuis. I want you to keep this to yourself for now."

"Very well," Fenris solemnly agreed.

"Another body's been found," Bradley said tightly. "Another woman. Mutilated."

A cold ball formed in the pit of Fenris's stomach and he shook his head in disbelief. "What? But how? Where was she found?"

"Just outside Hightown, dumped behind a bush," he replied in disgust. "Hands _and_ feet severed. Thankfully one of our lot found her, else there might have been a panic. Fen… what was the name of the woman who escaped from DuPuis?"

"Alessa," he sighed heavily, "though I do not know her family name."

"We had a report of a missing person last week – Alessa Douglas, middle-aged woman. Her family's going spare. I'm going to need you to verify she's the same woman who was held by DuPuis before I call her husband in. She's downstairs. Feel up to it?"

Fenris nodded mutely, his heart sinking.

They went to the sub-level of the Keep, where the cells and interrogation rooms were – it occurred to Fenris that Bartrand and Angrim were still being held down there. It also occurred to him that the deadline set by the magistrate for Bartrand's release had passed more than a week ago, but he wasn't about to remind anyone of that, and was sure that Aveline had it all in hand.

Presently, Bradley led them to a small cell with a templar posted outside. Fenris wondered why until they were ushered into the room; two others were within, a female medical guard and the viscount's healer, Samuel. On a table in the centre of the room was a body loosely covered by a shroud, marbled with red and brown stains.

"Did you manage to heal the wounds, Sam?" asked Bradley.

"I did, but she's leaking," the mage answered.

"She's starting to decompose," added the female officer. "I don't get it – if this is the woman who escaped from DuPuis, she can't have been dead for more than a day. It was a cold night so she should be well-preserved, but she's not. Her colour indicates she hasn't been dead for long and yet she's starting to swell – and smell."

Fenris cleared his throat, slightly disconcerted by his colleagues' casual attitude to the woman's condition. Still, they had been guards for much longer than he, and were probably hardened to such occurrences.

"I've heard of putrefaction spells," Sam provided, his nose wrinkling slightly. "If this is the work of another blood mage, he or she could have sped up the rate of decay to cover their tracks."

Fenris nodded, his eyes moving to the side as an unsavoury memory replayed in his head. "I, too, have heard of such magic," he muttered darkly. " _Witnessed_ it, in fact."

"I'll bet," Sam muttered in distaste.

"Let's find out, then. Corporal." Bradley beckoned the elf closer, and Sam moved aside to give him room. Fenris took a deep breath and lifted the top of the shroud for a second before lowering it and carefully tucking it around the sides of the woman's head.

"Is it the same woman, Fen?"

Fenris, his back to the other three, did not move and said nothing.

"Jan, fetch a clean shroud," Bradley quietly instructed the female guard. "I'll have someone bring her husband in." She nodded and moved to the door, the viscount's healer following.

"I'll return shortly before her husband arrives and apply a frost enchantment. It'll retard the leaking for a while… and the smell."

"Thanks, both," said Bradley as the door was closed. He then moved to the opposite side of the table, watching Fenris.

"I told her to run," the elf quietly uttered, his eyes on the shroud.

"Which is exactly what I would have done."

Fenris shook his head. "I should have told her to stay. I gave her the illusion of freedom, of safety. She trusted me. But instead of protecting her, I sent her to her death."

Bradley moved to Fenris's side of the table and stood next to the elf. "The first one's always the hardest," he consoled his colleague. "You blame yourself, you go over what you could have done differently. You pick yourself apart. The truth is, we can only do our best. There's always going to be some maniac running around doing things like this – what we have to do is dust ourselves off and do what we can to prevent it from happening again. It does get easier over time, but not much."

Fenris turned to Bradley, recognising the wisdom of his words, though they did little to ease the heaviness in his stomach. "How long have you been a guard?"

"Getting on for eight years, now. I was in the army and then I tried out for the Guard when my commission ended. Best thing I ever did. You get days like today when you wonder if it's all a waste of time, but there are good days, as well. You've been a guard for barely a month, on and off. You'll get good days as well, just give it time."

"Lieutenant Bradley-"

"Evan."

"Evan. It would appear that Gascard DuPuis was not the killer."

"That's one possibility, but remember, DuPuis attacked you and very nearly killed Mistress Hawke, so he deserved everything he got. Another possibility is that he was in cahoots with someone else. Of course, this _might_ also be a copycat killing – and that's why I want to keep it quiet. We need to get out in front of this."

"I would like to assist," offered Fenris. "Whoever he is, he _must_ be stopped."

Bradley grasped his chin and frowned. "The captain's sent new orders for you… but then again, things have changed since she left. I'm sure she'd want you working on this. All right, I'll send someone else to Edgbaston with Grant. You up for some overtime?"

"Of course."

Bradley nodded. "Good. I'm getting a dedicated team together for this investigation – I don't want any more mutilated bodies turning up. What's your recommendation, Corporal?"

"You… are asking _me_?" Fenris exclaimed in surprise. Bradley nodded and waited.

"In that case, I would humbly submit that we call upon Ser Emeric, the templar who first raised suspicions about Gascard DuPuis."

"Yes… suspicions we didn't listen to."

"That is correct. I believe he should be taken seriously – he could have vital information. A friend of mine was due to meet him earlier today, but he did not show."

"Perhaps his duties prevented him from coming," mused Bradley. "How reliable is he usually?"

"Very."

Bradley nodded to the door and they exited, closing it behind them. The templar outside had left, presumably having accompanied Sam. "All right, Fen, get yourself to the Gallows and see if you can find him. Tell him we _will_ listen this time. Bring him back here, if he'll come. If another blood mage was responsible for Alessa's death, we'll need to inform the Templars anyway."

"I will go immediately," promised Fenris with a bow.

"Wait," Bradley instructed as the elf walked away. "Did you come here for something in particular? You're on nights, aren't you? Sorry… I was distracted when I first saw you."

"Oh." Fenris shrugged. "I merely wished to enquire about the possibility of taking some leave, but I will not trouble you with that now."

"When?"

"Uh… the tenth. I know it is short notice, but-"

"I think I can arrange that," said Bradley. "You haven't been a guard long enough to qualify for paid leave, but if you're putting in extra hours you won't lose any time. Just make sure you get some rest before tonight."

"Thank you very much," said Fenris gratefully.

"Thank _you_ for helping me out." Bradley caught up to him and shook his hand. "You're going to do well, you know. No wonder the captain speaks highly of you."

Fenris smiled awkwardly and released Bradley's hand before doffing a small bow.

"One more thing," Bradley added. "I don't want to hear you 'humbly submitting' your opinion again. If someone asks your opinion, it means it's valued. You're a guard – a good one – so start acting like it and speak your mind with confidence. Just don't get too big for your boots, like some I won't mention," he grinned. "I don't think that'll be a problem for you, though."

"No, indeed," Fenris quipped wryly with a glance at his feet. "I do not wear boots."

Bradley laughed and slapped Fenris's shoulder. "Off you go, then. Bring Emeric back here when you find him and we'll liaise with the others heading the investigation. And remember – keep this to yourself for now."

"Yes, Lieutenant." Fenris allowed himself a proud smile as he headed out of the barracks, before he remembered Alessa's lifeless face, and his expression grew dour. With determination in his steps, he headed for the Gallows.

He was _not_ going to allow this to happen again.


	87. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maker preserve us--this is the work of a blood mage!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mary who, despite still being ill, spotted a glaring canon error as well as several non-canon ones. You've been missed!
> 
> My apologies for my tardiness in replying to reviews this week - the AO3, crappy broadband and a brain like a sieve are to blame. I really do appreciate your comments and will do my best to stay on the ball from now on.

Fenris stepped off the boat and acknowledged the ferryman with a brief nod before turning to look at the huge fortress on the island. His eyes travelled upward, and further still, until he was almost looking up vertically. Turning his gaze to the heavy iron gates, he could see people and activity beyond them but the fortress itself was still, quiet, insentient. Many people lived their lives here, he mused, and that thought was strangely sobering. Certainly, some of them deserved to be here and _should_ be kept apart from the rest of Kirkwall society – those like Gascard DuPuis, for example.

But what of the rest?

How many mages here were like Fletcher, like Bethany? And how many of them, like Anders, had been taken from their families at a young age?

He frowned and turned back to look at the boat, which was already on its way back to the mainland. Fenris had travelled here only a few months ago with Varric and their conversation ran through his head. At the time, he'd deigned that _all_ mages should be contained here, with no exceptions, but so much had changed since then. _He'd_ changed and, although he would never forget the excesses of malevolence he'd witnessed in Minrathous, that world – that part of his life – seemed so distant now. During his time in Kirkwall he'd discovered that mages could be ordinary, even _extraordinary_ , people.

He shook his head, pondering the irony of it all. If the Fenris of half a year ago could meet the Fenris of today, he'd grab his counterpart by the shoulders and try to shake some sense into him, tell him that the mages had seduced him, corrupted him, and that he must leave this place immediately before he was dragged down to the Void with them.

To which present-day Fenris would ask, "Are you happy, Fenris? Do you _like_ yourself?"

He asked himself those very questions as he stood next to the quay. Was he happy? He ventured a quick glance at his uniform and felt a swell of pride. He was a guard, charged with keeping order in a large city. He was trusted, respected… _equal_ to his peers. He was no longer the lowest of the low, who was not even permitted to look his betters in the eye. Now, there _were_ no betters. Of course, there was a chain of command within the Guard and Fenris respected that, but he no longer felt that _everyone_ else was better than him. When he walked abroad, the residents of Kirkwall nodded at him, came to him for assistance and did not question the presence of an elf among them.

Except in Hightown, of course. His lips quirked upward. The nobles were a rare bunch, to be sure, but Fenris knew how to deal with them and even found amusement when doing so.

And, although he hesitated when ruminating over whether he _liked_ himself, he had to admit that he was a great deal more comfortable in his own skin than he had been six months earlier. Did that mean he liked himself? It meant that he _preferred_ present-day Fenris to the Fenris who'd landed in Kirkwall six months earlier with only his sword, his armour – not to mention a good deal of anger, bitterness and crushing loneliness - and not a copper to his name.

He thought back to the night he and Fletcher had met, almost five months ago, how he'd shrunk from the mage's touch and how angered – and, now that Fenris had come to know him, hurt - Fletcher had been by that. Then a tiny shiver tickled his spine as he recalled the previous night with Fletcher and how, considering that not so long ago he couldn't bear to even stand _next_ to a mage, that there was now barely an inch of him that hadn't felt the touch of Fletcher's hands, mouth, teeth…

Realising that he was smiling, he straightened up, clearing his throat when he noticed the templars at the gate watching him curiously. Remembering his reason for visiting the Gallows, he fixed his expression and approached the gate.

"Good morning to you," he greeted formally.

"Yes, Guardsman? What can we do for you?" one of the templars asked.

"Ser Emeric, please."

The templars exchanged a glance. "Is he even on duty?" asked one, and the other shrugged. "May I ask what you want him for?"

"It is a private matter."

The first templar raised his eyebrows before gesturing for Fenris to pass through the gate. "You'll find Knight-Captain Cullen and Knight-Lieutenant Ruben inside, in front of the steps – they'll know where he is. There they are," he said, pointing ahead through the gate. "Cullen's the one-"

"I am acquainted with Knight-Captain Cullen. Thank you." With a thin smile, Fenris stepped through the gates and walked across the Gallows square, heading straight for Ser Cullen. One eye, however, was on the man who stood a few feet away from him - the same templar Fenris had seen leaving the old clinic on the night it was destroyed and closed down.

Ruben. Fenris had heard that name before – in the Deep Roads when Anders had cried out in his sleep.

"Good day to you, Ser Guard," Cullen hailed as Fenris drew near. "Might I be of assistance?"

"Good day," replied Fenris, his eyes moving between the two men. "I seek Ser Emeric on personal business. I will not keep him for long."

Cullen sighed, a troubled look coming over him. "Were that I could assist, but Ser Emeric did not appear for duty this morning. It is most unlike him."

Fenris's stomach tightened but he kept his expression impassive. "Might I ask when you last spoke with him?"

"I spoke to him yesterday," provided Ser Ruben, stepping closer to the two men, and Fenris's stomach knotted further upon hearing his voice for the first time. "He's been quiet lately, keeping to himself," Ruben went on. "Is… everything all right? Do you mind if we ask what you want him for?"

Fenris's eyes lingered on Ruben for a second before Cullen quietly interjected. "Has he been… troubling the Guard again with his _theories_? If so, I am deeply-"

Fenris shook his head and held a hand up. "On the contrary. Ser Emeric's information led to the apprehension – and death – of a suspect in a major investigation. I believe that he could be of great help in furtherance of our enquiry. Where might I find him?"

"I see," Cullen mumbled. "Well, he resides here, in Templar Hall with the rest of us, but makes frequent trips to the mainland. I do not know where he goes on his off-days. Wait here – I will make enquiries and will return directly."

"Thank you, I appreciate your co-operation," said Fenris, and he and Ruben watched Cullen walk away. For the next few minutes they stood together quietly, occasionally exchanging a polite smile. After a while, Ruben noticed from the corner of his eye that Fenris was staring at him.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" asked the templar as he looked up at the sky, hoping to break the awkwardness.

"Yes, indeed."

Ruben shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, noticing that the elf had not taken his eyes off him. "Is… everything all right, Guardsman?" he asked, meeting Fenris's gaze, and the elf immediately looked away.

"Yes, thank you."

"You were looking at me," stated Ruben, and Fenris was again struck by the familiar timbre of Ruben's voice. He dipped his head in apology.

"Forgive me. I was distracted, and did not mean to stare."

"Ah," mumbled Ruben. "You're concerned about Emeric, then?"

Remembering that he'd been instructed not to discuss the investigation, Fenris chose his words carefully. "Not especially, no," he said charmingly. "Just the usual minutiae of everyday life."

Ruben nodded, smiling sympathetically. "Yes, I know what you mean."

"You hail from the north-west?" Fenris asked, wishing to steer the topic away from the investigation and toward his own, personal, line of enquiry.

"Does the accent give me away?" Ruben laughed. "It is quite pronounced, isn't it?"

"A little, yes," smiled the elf.

"And you are from the Tevinter Imperium, by the sound of it," Ruben deduced correctly – confirmed by Fenris's nod - before his face fell. "Were you… forgive me, but many elves from there… well, you know."

"I _was_ ," Fenris quietly confirmed.

Ruben nodded, his cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry. Were you set free? Or-"

"I escaped."

"Then I am very happy for you," whispered Ruben. "I cannot imagine what serving a magister must have been like."

"It was… not pleasant," Fenris agreed, his eyes briefly glazing over. "Where are _you_ from originally? And how did you come to be in the Free Marches? If… the questions are not too impertinent."

"Oh, no, not at all." Ruben cleared his throat before sighing wistfully. "I'm from a coastal village in the Anderfels."

"Do you mean… Sundarin? Tallo?"

"Oh, Tallo! You know it?" asked Ruben animatedly, his eyes brightening.

"I know _of_ it, yes," Fenris replied, nodding. "It has thriving fishing and basket-weaving industries. I have never visited, but hear it is quite picturesque."

"It's… beautiful, actually." Ruben frowned and then shook his head before forcing a rigid smile. "I miss it. It's… quite different from the Free Marches."

"Could you not return? Take some leave?" asked Fenris.

"Maybe one day," he answered distractedly, looking away.

"Do you have family there? Or here?"

"Oh… here comes the knight-captain."

Fenris looked ahead. Cullen was indeed walking in their direction but there was plenty of time for Ruben to answer the question; he didn't, however. When Cullen returned to them – accompanied by two more templars – he appeared troubled.

"Ser Emeric was called away yesterday to a residence in Lowtown," he informed Fenris, producing a piece of paper. "This note was found in his quarters. It promises information about a lead in a murder investigation. It is signed by a Messere Fletcher Hawke – a name I have heard before," he added, careful not to reveal in front of his colleagues that he _knew_ Fletcher – and that Fenris also knew him.

"May I see that?" Fenris asked, his heart quickening, also ensuring that his expression gave nothing away. Cullen passed him the note and Fenris committed the address to memory, noting that the letter was _not_ written in Fletcher's distinctive hand. "What time was Emeric called away?" he asked the templars.

"Just after four bells," answered one, and Fenris immediately shook his head.

"At four bells yesterday there _were_ no leads in the investigation – it was considered closed. This note is a fabrication, meant as a ruse, no doubt. Who delivered it?"

"I'll find out," Ruben volunteered, and began walking in the direction of the gates.

"This is Ser Matthew and Ser Laurie," Cullen said to Fenris and the three men exchanged nods. "They will relieve Ruben and me while we accompany you to the dwelling. I know that this is a city guard investigation but Emeric is one of our own. Plus, this will save you the trouble of going to the barracks for back-up. Is this agreeable to you, Ser Guard?"

"Most certainly," Fenris agreed with a bow. "Thank you kindly."

"Perhaps this will herald a new spirit of co-operation between our two orders," said Cullen, "something which I fear has been lacking of late."

Fenris nodded. "Let us hope so. Well, if you are ready, we should not tarry."

"Carry on," Cullen directed his colleagues, and they took their places before Cullen led Fenris to the gates. "Did Hawke and Anders receive my note?" he murmured quietly as they crossed the square.

"If a note was sent, I am certain it was received," Fenris answered evasively, looking dead ahead.

Cullen nodded. "I have heard rumours that Anders has set up another clinic. You must understand that if its location becomes known, it is our duty to act in capturing him."

Fenris's stomach knotted again. It was one thing that Anders was a wanted – infamous – apostate, but Fletcher was known to only a handful of templars in Kirkwall. If they were to discover the location of the new clinic, that would change – Fletcher was spending more and more time there.

Fenris considered that while they waited for Ser Ruben to finish questioning the ferryman. He knew that Fletcher had arranged to meet Quentin and hoped he would be home by now, but did not know the whereabouts of Anders or Bethany. Anders and Mallory had departed for the clinic after having a drink at the Hanged Man, but Anders knew the Templars' patrols by heart and occasionally ventured out when the coast was clear. Fenris could not risk visiting Lirene's while Cullen and Ruben were with him – he also didn't want Ruben and Anders running into each other. Not until he'd spoken to Fletcher. He would have to think of something, and fast.

"The message was given to Declan, the boatman, on the mainland by a street urchin," Ruben had ascertained. "When questioned as to the nature of the note, the child ran off. Declan's given me a description of the child, but it's vague – he sounds like many of the others who run messages for wealthy people who can't be bothered to do it themselves."

Fenris slowly nodded, remembering that Gascard DuPuis had claimed the 'murderer' sent young children to purchase white lilies for him. "I know some of those children," he told the templars as they stepped onto the boat. "I recommend that the two of you hasten to the address on the note, while I question some of them – I know where they can be found. I frequently patrol Darktown and they will speak with me, but the sight of Templars will send them fleeing. They do not trust you."

"I suppose that is understandable, considering what happened at the clinic," Cullen sighed, and Fenris noticed Ruben tense. "Very well, that makes sense. Should we await you at the property?"

"Yes, it will not take long."

When they reached the mainland, Fenris and the templars parted ways and, once he was certain they were out of sight, he quickly headed for Lirene's. To his relief, he found Cricket outside, playing with a cat.

"'Ere! It's Cap'n Fenris!" the youngster greeted, running to him. Fenris smiled and shook his head, squatting down to bring himself to the boy's level.

"Corporal," he corrected before clearing his throat and adopting a solemn tone of voice. "Young man, I am in need of assistance in a very important quest. Know you of anyone with courage and wits enough to aid me?"

"Oh, me, Corp'ral! _Me_!" he exclaimed in excitement. "I'll do it! I'm really, really good at quests, honest!"

Fenris frowned, appearing to weigh up the boy's offer. "Very well, then – I accept your pledge. Tell me, where is Anders?"

"In the clinic wi' Mallory. I left 'em to it – they's makin' soppy faces at each other," Cricket noted glumly.

"Ah," Fenris murmured, mirroring Cricket's expression of mild disgust. "Your first task is to interrupt them, just briefly. Inform Anders that Templars are abroad and that he should not leave the clinic until I return-"

"They've gone abroad? What, _all_ of 'em? Anders'll be chuffed about that!"

"No… they have not _gone_ abroad, they _are.._. just… just tell him… just say 'Templars'. Then tell him that I will advise him – or you, if I see you first - when they are gone."

"Right you are," Cricket said, rapidly nodding his head.

"Then, I need you to visit the Hawke residence with all due speed-"

"An' tell 'awke the same. Got it."

"I also need you… actually, _I_ will check the Hanged Man."

"You mean for Miss Beffany?" Cricket asked anxiously.

"Yes. She also needs to be warned. There is no market today, so it is my hope that she will be there or at home."

Cricket glanced down at his feet, toying with his hands. "Well, um, I'll tell 'er – the 'Anged Man's on my way. I-I better go now, just in case."

Fenris tilted his head and, suspecting that Cricket had a bit of a crush on Bethany, forced down a smile. "Thank you, Cricket. There is one more thing I must ask of you. Have you delivered any messages recently for anyone other than Hawke or Anders? Or purchased any flowers?"

Cricket shook his head emphatically. "'Awke told me not to do nothin' for no one else. Not 'cause 'e's mean, but 'cause 'e don't want me mixed up with no bad sorts. I gots to tell 'im if anyone asks me. _You're_ all right, though - 'Awke said you're 'is friend. But no one else."

"Good," Fenris said. "Now, you should make haste. I fear I cannot compensate you for your trouble, though – I am not carrying any currency."

"S'all right," shrugged the boy. "I gets paid by 'Awke an' Anders, anyway. I best go an' warn Miss Beffany."

"Do not forget Anders and Hawke," Fenris smiled. "Quickly, now."

"Yes, Cap-Corp'ral!" Cricket promised as he ran to Lirene's.

Fenris straightened up and sighed, hoping all three mages would get the message. Remembering the address on the note, he made his way there, taking a few short cuts – he was becoming well-acquainted with Lowtown, as he was with Darktown. The house itself was among a number of empty, dilapidated properties in a rough part of town. When he arrived, there were a few drunks about who quickly scattered upon spotting a guard uniform, but there was no sign of the templars.

The front door to the house was ajar and he cautiously entered, ready to reach for his sword.

"Who's there?" Cullen demanded from the upper level.

"Guardsman Fenris."

A sigh was heard and a red-faced Cullen appeared at the top of the stairs. "You had better take a look at this, Guardsman," he said briskly.

Fenris quickly took the stairs, his stomach sinking as the stench of rotten flesh assaulted his nostrils. When he reached the top, Ser Ruben was trying to open a window. On the floor, lying on his side, was a man wearing full Templar armour, minus a helm.

"No," Fenris groaned upon spotting the man's grey hair and bloated face.

"Got it," announced Ruben and Fenris moved to the window as it was pushed open, but Cullen remained where he was.

"I only spoke to him yesterday," Ruben whispered, venturing a fearful glance at his ill-fated colleague, whose body was already in an advanced state of decay. "But look at him! How can… who _did_ this to him?"

"Unholy magic has been used here," Cullen declared, his voice trembling. "Maker preserve us - this is the work of a blood mage!"

"I quite agree," Fenris muttered.

Cullen drew his sword and quickly crossed the room, pointing his weapon at Fenris. "Explain!" he demanded. "I know of your association with mages – how would _you_ know what blood magic looks like? Who are you hiding?"

"Captain!" Ruben exclaimed in alarm, placing himself between Fenris and Cullen. "This man hails from the Tevinter Imperium and is an _elf_! What do you think that means?"

Cullen's eyes narrowed and he lowered his sword a little, but not completely. "You were a slave?"

"Yes!" Fenris snapped. "I was the head bodyguard of a depraved magister. I have witnessed acts of baseness and cruelty that you cannot possibly imagine."

" _That_ is where you are wrong, Ser Guard," Cullen ground out, taking a few deep breaths before finally sheathing his sword.

"Get a hold of yourself!" Fenris ordered Cullen, his harshness stemming from his fear of Fletcher's true nature being discovered – and the Templars' subsequent actions. "Ser Ruben – do you know where the local Templar patrols will be at the moment?"

"Um, yes, I believe so," he mumbled.

"Then find them and have _them_ take care of Ser Emeric. I require the two of you to accompany me to Viscount's Keep – there are certain facts you should be apprised of. I am not authorised to tell you, but my commanding officer will explain."

"Ser?" Ruben asked Cullen, who nodded blankly. Ruben glanced at Emeric and shook his head before descending the stairs.

"He should be laid out," Fenris advised Cullen. "Have you the stomach to aid me?"

Cullen blinked. "Yes… yes, of course."

They crouched down beside Emeric and turned him onto his back before arranging his arms across his chest, one hand curled around the hilt of his sword.

"I _am_ sorry for your loss," Fenris consoled Cullen as he stood up, wondering how Fletcher would take the news. "You should honour him by remaining strong and focused. Losing your head will not bring his killer to justice."

"You're right," said Cullen softly. "I… apologise for my outburst."

Fenris nodded his acceptance. "We _will_ find his killer. Have faith."

"I do," Cullen – who was still crouched next to Emeric – murmured. "Sometimes it is the only thing that sustains me. Will you join me, Ser Guard, in a prayer for the fallen?"

"I would be pleased to." Although Fenris did not pray to any god, he knew of the strength and comfort such an act brought others, and he clasped his hands together, closing his eyes as Cullen recited a fitting elegy from the Chant of Light.

~o~O~o~

When Fletcher arrived home, Quentin was already there, taking tea with Leandra. Bethany had made her excuses and gone to her room, giving the twosome some time alone. Fletcher would normally have had something to say about that, and would have quietly advised his mother to have a chaperone present, but he refrained; ever since the incident with DuPuis, Leandra had been achingly polite towards her son and he was reluctant to ask her why. He knew, though. He also knew that he'd taken after his mother when it came to dealing – or not dealing – with confrontation, and both preferred to sweep problems under the rug rather than tackling them head-on. For that reason, he hadn't expressed his concerns to Beth – she would shove both of them in a room and stand there with her hands on her hips, telling them she wasn't going to shut up until they'd sorted it out.

He was greeted warmly by Quentin upon entering the parlour and Leandra stood while the men chatted, her smile fixed in place.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Quentin," said Fletcher as they shook hands. "I appreciate you making the trip out."

"I hardly need an excuse to call upon your family," Quentin replied with a fond smile at Leandra. "Your mother's hospitality and company was worth the journey alone, but I am fascinated by what you spoke of in your letter. I am gratified and humbled that you saw fit to seek my advice. I will do all I can to assist you, of course."

"Well, that's very generous of you," Fletcher said with a smile of his own, which was slightly forced, knowing his mother's was the same. "Please, don't let me interrupt your tea. I noticed some letters on the sideboard when I walked in – are they for me, Mother?"

"Yes, dear," she answered blandly.

Fletcher nodded, suppressing a sigh. "I'll take them into the library and have a read – join me when you're ready, Quentin. No rush at all."

"Let us hope they are not invoices," Quentin joked with a small bow and Fletcher left them alone, his false smile slipping once he'd left the room.

He took the small bundle of letters and entered the library, closing the door before taking a seat at the desk near the window. One of the letters bore the seal of the viscount's office, while another was nothing more than a slip of scrap paper that had been tied up with string to keep its contents private. The third was written in a very familiar hand and he opened it first, wondering why it didn't carry the seal of the city guard.

_Hawke,_

_You can ride a horse, right? I need you to ride out to the Grey Warden compound in Edgbaston (map enclosed). Go to the barracks and speak to Lieutenant Bradley – he has instructions to lend you a horse. Bring Varric if you can. Do NOT bring you-know-who. Obviously. This is IMPORTANT and connected with what happened in the Deep Roads. We know who collapsed the other tunnel and we're about to get some answers – from the KING, no less. I need you here, Hawke. Drop everything you're doing and come as quickly as you can._

_-Aveline_

Fletcher stared at the letter for a minute before reading it again. "Finally," he growled under his breath and he went to stand before remembering he had a guest – one who'd travelled from out of town to assist him. "Shit," he sighed before once again taking his seat, his leg jiggling impatiently as he read the other letter.

_From the office of his Excellency, Viscount Dumar_

_Serah Hawke,_

_I would speak with you as a matter of urgency. Please visit the keep at your earliest convenience and present yourself to Seneschal Bran._

_~Marlowe Dumar_

"Oh, great," Fletcher whinged. " _More_ urgent stuff. No… he'll have to wait. I need to know what happened in the Deep Roads."

He picked up the piece of scrap paper and paused, briefly considering throwing it in the bin. He was intrigued by it, however, and so untied the strings binding it together before straightening it out.

_Hawke!_

_Sorry about running off like that. Had a bit of trouble, but I think it's sorted out, now. Are you well? I hope you're well. And how's the family? And Fenris?_

Fletcher shook his head morosely, not needing to read the name at the foot of the letter. "All right, what's coming?" he asked aloud.

 _Listen, I'm in a bit of a spot and could do with a hand (or both of them if you like!). Seriously, though, I need some help. I'm hiding out in the Undercity at the moment. DON'T tell anyone. Well, you_ can _tell Fenris. I wouldn't mind that, ha ha! Just get yourself down here, because I can't leave and it seriously stinks down here, and so do I. I know I've been a bit of a pest, but once this is sorted out, I'll be out of your hair for good._

_Help a girl out, won't you? Just speak to Andie on the lower level, south side. You'll know her – she's a tiny little thing with a cheeky face. Thanks, Hawke! I knew you wouldn't let me down!_

_< 3 Your irrepressible friend, Izzy. _<3

"Irrepressible? Understatement of the year," he sighed, noticing the hearts drawn around her name.

Silently, he set the note down, resting his chin on one hand as he stared at the wall, willing his mind to go blank. Unfortunately, it failed to comply and started going nineteen to the dozen. With a groan, he folded his arms on top of the desk and planted his head between them.

"I take it they _were_ invoices, then?" asked a kindly voice from the far end of the library.

Fletcher looked up to see Quentin in the doorway and he stood up, gesturing to the chair opposite. "If only," he said with a weary smile. "Please, be seated. I'll fetch you some tea."

Quentin laughed, holding a hand up as he closed the door and approached the desk. "Please – if I take any more tea I shall explode. Do make some for yourself, though. I am in no rush."

Fletcher, who _was_ in a rush, shook his head and sat back down, trying not to let Quentin see how flustered he was. "No, I'm fine, really. I'd like to thank you again for coming – I really appreciate your willingness to help me with this."

Before Quentin could reply, a loud knock was heard at the front door, and Fletcher laughed humourlessly. "I'm so sorry, Quentin – that's likely to be for me. I'll see them off."

"Do not trouble yourself, dear boy," Quentin reassured as Fletcher rose and went to the window, frowning when he spotted Cricket.

"I'll be right back," Fletcher promised and Quentin nodded as Fletcher departed in haste.

Fletcher opened the front door and let Cricket in. "Everything all right?" he asked the boy.

"I got a message for ya," said Cricket, "from Cap'n Fenris. 'S very important. 'E says that the Templars 'ave gone overseas."

"Um… okay, then," Fletcher mumbled in confusion. "What else did he say?"

Cricket glanced nervously around the reception hall. "Is, uh, is Miss Beffany at 'ome?"

"Yes, she's upstairs."

Cricket let out a loud, relieved sigh and then scratched his head, frowning heavily. "I told Anders an' all, and 'e didn't seem very pleased that the Templars 'ad gone away, neither. Cap'n Fenris said 'e'll explain everyfink, though, and that you an' Miss Beffany are not to go out 'til 'e comes 'ere and lets you know it's safe."

Fletcher thought about that for a minute before a smile slowly spread across his face. "Cricket… did Fenris say the Templars were 'abroad'?"

"Tha's what I _said_ ," the boy protested indignantly. "I don't get it."

"Adults say some very strange things sometimes, don't they?" asked Fletcher with a wary glance out of one of the small windows next to the front door.

"You don't need to worry, 'Awke, the Templars are in Lowtown, I fink. But you still gots to be careful. I best get goin'- Anders wants me to keep a look out for 'im."

"All right, thanks, mate," said Fletcher. "Here." He gestured to a bowl of sugared almonds atop a low display cabinet next to the door. "Take some of those, but don't tell my mother."

His eyes lighting up, Cricket filled his pockets before grinning at Fletcher and opening the front door.

"Don't eat them all at once – you'll be sick!" Fletcher called, but Cricket had already gone. Fletcher quickly closed the door, realising that a meeting between Quentin and Fenris might now be inevitable. He blew out a sigh before returning to the library, hoping that he'd see Fenris very soon.

~o~O~o~

"I could get used to this," Donnic mumbled approvingly, his mouth half-full of food, as he helped himself to another slice of roast beef. He and Aveline were seated at one of the banqueting tables in the Warden mess hall, where the rest of the Wardens were eating like their lives depended on it. Nathaniel – assigned to them for the duration of their stay - had joined them for a time before being called away by a messenger.

"You've not seen _Anders_ eat," she commented, taking a small bite of potato. "You'd think he's got worms or something. And yet, he's all skin and bone. Must be a Warden thing."

"And how do _you_ know so much about Anders's body, eh?" teased Donnic, raising a stern brow.

"Oh, give over. I'd break the poor mite in half."

"You wouldn't break _me_ ," he whispered.

She cleared her throat and turned away slightly, adding a dollop of mustard to her plate, but not before he'd spotted the flush that sprung to her cheeks. "Actually, we'd, um, better not talk about Anders. I know Nathaniel isn't here, but you never know."

"You started it," he said casually, "talking about his body and everything. You know, if you'd come into my room last night, instead of just banging the door loudly to wake me up, you wouldn't be thinking about skinny Wardens, oh, no. You'd be thinking about _real_ men."

"Not _here_ ," she hissed, turning further away from him, and Donnic craned his neck, trying to get a look at her face, knowing she was smiling.

"Where, then?"

"Captain Vallen!" called a loud voice from the entrance of the hall. Aveline and Donnic turned to see Sergeant Grant and Corporal Menzies standing at the entrance next to one of the Wardens.

"Here!" she called above the hubbub, raising an arm.

The new arrivals were sent to join Donnic and Aveline, and some of the Wardens and compound staff at the table shuffled along the bench to give them space.

"You're early," said Aveline as the guards sat down. "And where's Fenris?"

"Change of plans," Grant replied, handing Aveline a sealed missive. "Something for you, as well, Donnic," he said, passing a bulky letter to the lieutenant. "There are a few for you – which Bradley's dealing with – but this one was marked private and urgent."

"Cheers," Donnic mumbled, opening it with a frown, while Aveline opened Bradley's letter and began to read.

"Oh, shit," she muttered after a few minutes, and her men watched her expectantly. "Another one!" She slapped the letter on the table and glared at it, her hands fisted. "The woman who escaped from DuPuis has been found dead, and Sam _and_ Fenris reckon a blood mage was responsible."

"Maybe someone DuPuis killed a few days ago, then?" asked Donnic.

"No. It was definitely Alessa – Fenris identified her – and she was killed yesterday. That means there's _another_ blood mage about. And that means we'll have to get the sodding Templars involved," she groused.

"I'll bet poor Fenris is in a twist about that," Donnic guessed with a sigh. "Is that why Evan kept him behind?"

Aveline shook her head and pointed to the letter. "No – Bradley wants to put him in charge of the investigation."

To her side, Menzies quickly glanced at Grant before Grant leaned forward. "Shouldn't that have gone to someone a bit more experienced, Captain?" he questioned, and Donnic set his letter down but Aveline replied before he had the chance.

"He was the one who killed Gascard DuPuis, in case you'd forgotten," she began.

"Who obviously _wasn't_ the killer," Menzies opined.

"You two may have more field experience than Fenris," Donnic interposed, "but how much experience of blood mages do you have? Fenris has enough to last a lifetime, and that's why Evan chose him."

"That's right," Aveline concurred. "Is there going to be a problem here?"

"No, Captain," answered Grant nonchalantly. "Just speaking our minds, as you've always encouraged us to do."

"Indeed I have, and I need to know right now if there's going to be any resentment over this," she firmly told them. "Let's get it out in the open."

"I'll reserve judgement for now," Grant replied honestly. "I've nothing against Fenris, but it's my view that he's not ready for this, yet. He hasn't even been horse-trained and he's only ever been assigned to Darktown. He needs more experience. You asked for my opinion, Captain."

"It's noted," she said evenly. "You'll be overseeing his horse training when we return?"

Grant briefly looked over his shoulder as one of the kitchen staff placed a trencher and cutlery in front of him and Menzies. "It's already arranged," he confirmed. "Yes, I'll train him. Don't get me wrong, Captain – I want him to do well. But I know he used to be a slave and that his master was a complete basket case. I'm just not sure it's wise to expose him to more of that kind of thing."

"He's stronger than you think," Donnic said.

Aveline nodded. "He also knows that not all blood mages are evil – I believe he'll keep his perspective."

Donnic, who did not know that Fletcher was a blood mage, leaned closer to Aveline. "Care to explain that?" he whispered.

Realising her mistake, she stiffened. "Later," she mumbled, turning back to the other guards. "I appreciate your candour, Grant, and if I believe Fenris is showing signs of stress, I'll act on it. Menzies? Any opinions from you?"

"Nothing to add, Captain," he answered, piling food onto his trencher.

"How are you getting on with the Wardens, anyway?" Grant asked as Donnic resumed reading his letter.

"They've been quite accommodating, actually," replied Aveline. "I'll brief you both fully about the mission when we're back in our quarters. I called you here initially because I wanted to ensure the commander and his second didn't make a run for it, but they've shown no signs of doing that so far. The King of Ferelden will be visiting soon-"

"The king?" exclaimed Grant.

"Yes. Apparently _he's_ the one who has answers to this mess. He'd better, anyway. If these Wardens are stringing me along I'll arrest every last one of them. There are more guards at the barracks than there are Wardens here."

Donnic looked up from his letter and snorted.

"Never mind, 'pfft!'" she reprimanded, frowning at the several pieces of paper Donnic was sifting through. "What do you have there?"

"I've had a reply from Rari Ogradrad at the Council of Surface Dwarves," he answered. "Thirteen pages long."

"You mean about Bartrand?" she asked.

"Yes, and who's responsible for what happens in the Deep Roads, seeing as it's not us."

"Well, what does it say?"

"I'm still reading through the list of names on the committee selected to debate the matter – their achievements, their houses, their personal wealth, which paragons they're descended from… Maker, there's eight pages of this shit."

Impatiently, Aveline snatched the pages from him and quickly read through them, discarding several to the side before handing a few back to Donnic. "There. We don't need to know their names, just what they've decided."

" _Captain_ ," whispered a soft voice from behind her and she lurched forward in fright, her eating utensils clattering loudly as they skittered across the table.

"What the bloody-!" She whipped around, finding herself face-to-face with Warden Howe, who'd appeared from nowhere and was standing behind her.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you," he purred with a ghost of a smile, a dark eyebrow arching.

"You didn't _frighten_ me, Warden – let's get that straight. You like getting things straight, don't you?" she sniped.

"Oh, I _didn't_ scare you? Then you're being pissy because…?"

Still reading his letter, Donnic clamped his lips together, trying not to laugh. Warden Howe had been more relaxed with them before he'd been called away, and had showed signs of a mordant sense of humour that Donnic appreciated. He doubted Aveline did, however.

"Is there something you need?" she demanded of the smirking Warden.

"No, not really." Nathaniel shrugged, folded his arms and waited silently for a minute or two until Aveline had almost turned puce with anger and impatience.

" _Warden_ , what-"

"The king will be arriving sometime during the early hours of the morning. You'll be able to speak to him once he's slept and broken his fast with Commander Surana."

"I'll _speak_ to him as soon as he arrives," she insisted, and Nathaniel shook his head dismissively.

"That's not going to happen."

"Yes, it _is_. Do you really think I'll allow him to get his story straight with your commander before I speak to him?"

Nathaniel groaned, rolling his eyes. "Not _this_ again. There's only one story, and it's _already_ straight. And you are not going to 'allow' the king to do anything. The king does whatever he pleases." He leaned down slightly. " _That_ is because he's the _king_."

Seeing Aveline's knuckles turning white from the corner of his eye, Donnic intervened. "Thanks for telling us, Nathaniel. Shall we discuss this later? I'm sure you want to get your dinner."

" _Lieutenant_ ," she growled in warning.

"Very generous of you, Donnic," Nathaniel replied smugly. "I believe I'll do that very thing."

With that, he sauntered off, leaving Aveline staring bloody, poison-tipped daggers at Donnic. "What do you think you're playing at?" she hissed. "We've been over this-"

"Never mind _that_ ," he beamed, hitting one of the pages of his letter with the back of his hand before placing it in front of her. "Just read. We've got him, Aveline, thanks to Rari! We've finally got something to pin on the bastard!"

She shot him a dubious glance before turning her attention to the letter. Slowly, a cunning smile bloomed on her face as she read its contents. When finished, she turned to Donnic, the infuriating Nathaniel Howe already forgotten as she grinned widely.

"Well, well," she murmured. "Ancestors be praised."

~o~O~o~

When Fenris finally arrived at Fletcher's house, it was past eight bells and Quentin had long since departed – unable to stay any longer as he had errands to attend to – and had been sent on his way with sincere thanks as well as a reminder from Fletcher to be alert for Templars.

Fenris was lifted clean off the floor as Fletcher hugged him tightly before closing the door. "I've been worried!" Fletcher fretted. "Where've you _been_?"

Fenris groaned, his shoulders slumping, and he gave the mage a tired smile. "I have had a _very_ long day," he stated. "I have much to tell you."

Immediately, Fletcher's face fell and he quickly steered Fenris through to the parlour. "Shit, I'm sorry. Selfish of me. Here, sit down. Wait there, I'll fetch you some food-"

Fenris sank back on a comfy settee and grabbed Fletcher's wrist, pulling him down next to him. "I do not require food _or_ fussing," he teased. "Your company is all I need. The Templars are gone for the time being. I have sent a message to Anders. Is Bethany in residence?"

"Yes, she's with Mother in the drawing room. Thanks for the warning, Fen. Are you okay?"

Fenris nodded and released a quiet sigh. "I am well. However…" He sat forward and turned to Fletcher. "I fear I have ill tidings to impart."

"Go on, then," Fletcher murmured, stroking one of Fenris's arms.

Fenris glanced down, a heavy frown marring his brow. "The woman – Alessa – was… found dead during the night." He glanced up at Fletcher, whose mouth had fallen open.

" _What_? But how?"

"It would seem that _another_ blood mage is afoot," he answered rancorously.

"Fenris… I'm so sorry. How do you feel about this? You mustn't feel guilty, you know that, don't you? Because I _know_ you."

"At first, I felt a sense of responsibility," the elf confessed with a shrug, "but Lieutenant Bradley disabused me of that… mostly. Fletcher… there is more." Fenris took one of the mage's hands and squeezed it. "You should prepare yourself."

Fletcher gulped, wondering what could possibly be worse. "Just tell me."

Not wanting to prolong Fletcher's anxiety, Fenris eschewed preliminaries. "Ser Emeric was also found dead late this morning."

Fletcher gaped at Fenris, his confusion and upset clear. "But… I…"

"I am sorry," consoled Fenris.

"So that's why he didn't show up…" Fletcher shook his head, blinking several times. "Did you say another blood mage? Do you think it's the same-"

"Yes, that is what we believe. At least, I _hope_ there is no more than one blood mage involved in this."

"Poor Emeric," Fletcher said dejectedly. "If only people had listened to him from the start."

Fenris shuffled closer to Fletcher and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I have been working with the Templars today – that is why I sent the warning. We have ascertained several things, the most disturbing of all being that the killer might know _you_."

" _Me_?" Fletcher demanded, his blood running cold. "What do you mean?"

"We have determined that _you_ were the only person on the outside that Emeric discussed his findings with in detail. Perhaps that is because you initially rescued him and did not impugn his suspicions. A note was found in Emeric's quarters, directing him to a residence in Lowtown. It was apparently sent by you."

"What?" Fletcher exclaimed with a fierce frown. "Now, wait a minute!"

Fenris held up a hand. "It was quickly deemed a forgery. But someone knows that the two of you were working together and used that information to lure Emeric to the house, where he was… killed. There is no doubt that blood magic was used."

"But I don't know any other blood mages apart from Merrill!" Fletcher protested, his voice trailing off. "Not… not that I know of, anyway."

"I must ask you to compile a list of _all_ mages you have had contact with in recent months," said Fenris. "I am not willing to discount anyone at this stage. Well… almost anyone, but I must be seen to be impartial."

"Then you're going to have to include me on that list," Fletcher surmised, watching Fenris in concern when he noticed the elf's jaw tighten. "And Bethany, Anders, Merrill, Quentin-"

"This is… difficult," Fenris murmured, shaking his head. "I would prefer for you to come forward and make a statement sooner rather than later, else the choice may be taken away from you."

"You mean when the Templars become more involved?"

"Yes. This is _still_ a city guard investigation… for now. That might change. Would you volunteer to make a statement at the barracks, while the Guard is still presiding over the investigation? The city guard is _not_ obliged to reveal the identity of apostates to the Templars."

"Can't I give you a statement now?"

"I would prefer if you gave it to a neutral party – one who does not know you. Lieutenant Bradley would be ideal. You do not know him personally, and I trust that he will withhold your name – on the night the gas was released in Lowtown, the Templars demanded to know who had been using magic. Bradley refused to co-operate. He is… sympathetic. If you agree to do this, there can be no accusations of impropriety."

Fletcher wrapped his own arm around Fenris's waist. "You've been worrying about this, haven't you?"

Fenris took a deep breath and leaned against Fletcher. "It will not be easy working with the Templars, considering our… situation. But I will do all I can to protect you and those you hold dear. Lieutenant Bradley is still on duty at the barracks – he is working a double shift. Would… would you and Bethany consent to providing a statement this evening? It would greatly set my mind at ease. It will not take long, and we do not have far to travel."

"I'll fetch her now." Fletcher kissed Fenris's cheek and rose. "Wait… aren't you supposed to be on duty soon?" he asked the elf. "Have you had any rest?"

"My shift pattern has been changed," Fenris replied as he also stood up. "I am on 'earlies' as of tomorrow – I am to concentrate on this case, with a few other colleagues. I should have been on my way to Edgbaston, but Lieutenant Bradley requested I head the investigation," he said with a modest shrug.

"That's wonderful!" Fletcher grinned, before frowning when he recognised the name. "Edgbaston? That's where Aveline wants me to go."

"She sent for you?" Fenris asked in surprise.

Fletcher explained the contents of the letter, and Fenris nodded in realisation. "Of course she would want you to be there. What of Varric?"

"Beth told me he's paid a visit to the mining site and should be back tomorrow. I'll wait for him and we'll go together."

"Can he ride a horse?" Fenris asked with an amused smirk.

"He'll want to go," Fletcher insisted. "If it means me dragging him along at the end of a rope, he'll go, trust me. We'll work something out. Hey, Fen," he murmured. "If you're on earlies… would you like to stay here tonight? I don't know how long I'll be away for. When we get back from the barracks, we could take supper in the library. We have some very nice wine here."

A faint smile pulled at the elf's lips. "And what of… the sleeping arrangements?"

"Well, as Mother and Beth are at home, you'll have one of the spare rooms." He leaned closer to the elf and whispered, "I'll sneak in during the night."

Fenris looked up at Fletcher, a cheeky glint in his eyes. "If I do not sneak into _your_ room, first."

"That's settled, then," Fletcher laughed. "Come on, let's go and find Beth. Then, when we return home I'll regale you with the details of my meeting with Quentin. Very, very boring magey stuff," he threatened, "and we haven't arrived at an answer yet, but I'm going to share every last bit of it with you."

"I look forward to it," Fenris replied genuinely. "And I need to ask your opinion about Anders's brother."

Fletcher blinked in surprise. "What, we're calling him Anders's _brother_ , now? I thought he was just a templar who looks a bit like Anders?"

"I have spent a good deal of time with him today. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind," Fenris said with certainty. "They look alike, they have similar mannerisms… they even sound alike, though Ruben has a more pronounced northern accent. They also hail from the same village in the Anderfels. They _are_ brothers."

"Then we're going to need to work out how to approach this," Fletcher murmured with a sigh.

"Indeed."

"All right. Let's get this barracks business out of the way first," Fletcher decided. "Don't want you worrying your pretty little head for any longer than necessary."

"… _Pretty_?" Fenris scoffed as Fletcher moved to the door.

"Cute, then."

Fenris shook his head. " _No_."

Fletcher opened the door and exited the room. "Adorable."

"Will you be quiet?" Fenris hissed, following him.

"Agree to a moniker, then," Fletcher called over his shoulder, speeding ahead to the drawing room.

"Wait!" Fenris ordered and Fletcher halted while the elf caught up to him. "You may call me whatever you wish… later," he whispered. "But not _here_."

"May I call you Fen-Fen? Finally?"

Fenris folded his arms and glared at the mage. " _That_ is beyond the pale."

"Sexy?" Fletcher resumed loudly and Fenris grabbed his arm, pulling him hard against him.

"Be _quiet_!"

"Look at us, having a domestic," Fletcher grinned. "Isn't it wonderful? We're arguing about something stupid, instead of something profound or important or world-shattering. I'm so happy!"

Fenris shook his head and groaned before laughing softly. "You are _quite_ insane, do you know that?"

"You love me though, don't you?"

Their eyes met and Fenris reached up, brushing a stray curl off Fletcher's forehead. "More than I… could have imagined possible."

Fletcher drew him close, placing a gentle, lingering kiss on his lips. For a second, Fenris forgot where he was, not even caring about the possibility of being caught. A deep, hungry yearning rose inside him and he pulled away, dazed, Fletcher's laughter caressing his ears.

"If you've quite finished _mauling_ me, I believe we have an appointment at the barracks," joked Fletcher. "I'll go and fetch my sister."

"Thank you," Fenris murmured as Fletcher walked away, and the mage turned back to him. "For setting my mind at ease."

"And thank you for having my back." Fletcher smiled and doffed a small bow before disappearing through a doorway.

"Always."


	88. Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Has that pricked your consciences?" Aveline demanded, "or do you want to see a grown man cry? Would that be enough for you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the stoic Mary for braving another rambling chapter while still unwell. I really appreciate your help, Mary.
> 
> My thanks also to everyone following the story and for your comments and kudos.

Fenris's eyes opened to a feast of colour and light. The view out of the window from Fletcher's bed, as dawn chased away the last remnants of night, filled his vision and heart; never before had he seen such a spectacle. Or maybe he had, but had never really noticed or appreciated it?

He uncurled himself from around Fletcher's back and pushed up onto an elbow, peering over his mage's shoulder. Fletcher was still in the Fade, his facial muscles slack and his mouth slightly open, his breathing slow and regular. Fenris smiled, drawing his slender fingers through the mage's thick mop of chestnut curls before leaning down and feathering his lips against Fletcher's ear.

"Wake up," he whispered.

Fletcher emitted a faint groan and his mouth opened and closed a few times, but he did not awaken.

Fenris placed a hand on Fletcher's shoulder, gently shaking him. "Fletcher," he murmured.

"Mmm," maundered Fletcher, his eyes still closed. "I 'ad ze mose wonzervul zream…"

"It was no dream," Fenris softly replied, his smile reflected in his voice. "I apologise for tearing you from the land of fantasies, but look," he invited. "The real world is infinitely more beautiful."

Slowly and reluctantly, Fletcher's eyes opened and he blinked several times as they focused on the herald of a new day through his window. Fenris was entranced as the smoky tendrils of cloud, lent an ethereal glow from the rising sun as they wafted in a violet-pink sky, were reflected in the mage's eyes. A long sigh and a fat smile from Fletcher gave Fenris his answer before he even spoke.

"That _is_ beautiful. Wow."

"I thought you would like to see it," guessed Fenris as Fletcher turned onto his back and pulled him close.

"That's our second sunrise," Fletcher mumbled sleepily, burying his nose in Fenris's hair. "You owe me two sunsets, mister."

"And you shall have them, though not tonight, I fear."

"Hm," Fletcher murmured thoughtfully before yawning. "Probably not. I wonder how long Aveline will need me for."

"She is nothing if not efficient – I do not imagine she will detain you unnecessarily. So long as you are returned to me by the tenth."

"That's the day after tomorrow, isn't it?"

"It is."

They fell quiet, both turning to the window. Fletcher pulled the coverlet over Fenris's shoulders and together they watched the birth of a new day, Fenris's head nestled in the crook of Fletcher's neck.

"Thank you," Fenris whispered after a long silence.

"What for?"

"Everything."

Fletcher frowned, his stomach tightening with worry. "You okay?" he asked, keeping his tone light.

Fenris raised his head, his easy smile almost assuaging Fletcher's concerns, but not quite. "Yes," he answered, turning onto his belly, coming face-to-face with Fletcher. "I asked myself yesterday if I was happy."

"And… are you?" Fletcher asked expectantly, his eyes betraying his anxiety.

Fenris nodded, a soft light in his own eyes as they held Fletcher's. "I am not only happy. I am _content_. That is a word I never imagined would enter my vocabulary, but there it is. I feel as though it will remain there always."

Warmth trickled into Fletcher's belly and the edges of his eyes crinkled as he brought his hands up to cradle the elf's face. "That makes me very happy."

"And content?" asked Fenris.

"You betcha," Fletcher answered with a delighted grin which was quickly obscured by Fenris's kiss.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher was still grinning on the way to the barracks. He had many reasons to smile. He'd seen Fenris blush before but never like today – following an _almost_ successful attempt to sneak the elf out of the house, Bethany had casually walked through the reception hall and bid them good morning. Upon seeing the alarm in Fenris's eyes, she'd given an exaggerated gasp.

"Oh, that's right… I'm not supposed to know you're here, am I?" She immediately turned her back on them but her shoulders quivered. "I haven't seen a thing," she assured them, "and neither has Mother. She told me so. She _also_ hasn't seen a thing each of the three times Fenris has stayed here overnight. _You don't need to sneak out_ ," she whispered over her shoulder. " _Just thought I'd save you the trouble."_

Fletcher had walked with Fenris to the barracks and it had taken much of the journey to talk down the subsequently flustered, highly-agitated elf, who'd solemnly averred never to spend another night in the Hawke mansion while Leandra _or_ Bethany were there.

When Fletcher reminded him about the tenth, however, as well as the many other places they could be _alone_ , Fenris's mortification eased somewhat and they entered the barracks together.

After Fletcher had given a statement to Lieutenant Bradley the previous evening, he'd arranged to visit the stables in the morning. He and Fenris said goodbye to each other and exchanged good wishes for the day ahead before Fletcher went to the stables and found Melanie, one of the city guard's horse masters.

"Ah, yes, you're riding out to meet the captain, aren't you?" she asked after introductions had been made. "How many steeds will you require?"

"Two, please," answered Fletcher. "I'm an experienced rider, though I haven't ridden for a couple of years. My other companion… well, he's _not_ experienced, and will need your most patient and gentle animal."

"Do you mean he has little experience, or none at all?" asked Melanie as they entered the stables.

"He's a dwarf," Fletcher replied to a chorus of laughter as several stablehands' heads popped out from their respective stalls.

"You're having me on, aren't you?" Melanie groaned.

"Nope," Fletcher smiled.

"Then you're going to need some rope," Melanie declared, waving for assistance, and two unoccupied grooms joined them. "Are you okay with a stallion?" she asked Fletcher.

"Absolutely."

"Have Zephyr and Chance made ready," she instructed the grooms.

"Yes, Miss," they replied before taking off.

"Zephyr will take charge, but he's biddable," she informed Fletcher. "Chance is a very calm, gentle gelding who responds well to Zephyr – they often go on patrol together and are pals. Just point the way and Zeph will do the rest."

"That sounds perfect. Thank you ever so much," said Fletcher. "Will Chance be all right with a potentially fidgety, whiny and grumpy dwarf?"

"He won't be _able_ to fidget – we'll tie him quite firmly, don't you worry," Melanie promised.

Fletcher bit his lip and nodded, knowing he should feel guilty for being amused at that mental picture. _Should._

"Then you can count on whining and grumpiness," he replied.

~o~O~o~

"Oh, stop whining!" Fletcher complained, a poorly-hidden snigger in his voice as he glanced at the grumpy dwarf atop the very patient Chance, which was tethered to Zephyr.

"That's easy for _you_ to say," Varric protested, gripping Chance's broad neck for dear life as the gelding almost stumbled on a small rock before gracefully righting itself. "I can feel every damned pebble and piece of grit on this Stone-forsaken trail. Haven't they heard of _highways_ around here?"

"It's no fun riding a horse on a highway – you might as well walk! Anyway, if your legs were long enough to reach the stirrups, which they're _not_ , you'd have more to complain about than a few wobbles. My thighs are absolutely _killing_ me. I need to take this up again – I'm badly out of practise."

"At least you can raise your balls off of the saddle for some air – mine are pummelled to dust!" wailed the dwarf, who was very securely tied to saddle and horse. "And my sphincter feels like it's been turned inside out!"

"You don't know you're _born_ ," Fletcher said with irritating breeziness, drawing in a deep lungful of air. "What could be better than being out in the open, astride a magnificent, noble beast, at one with nature?"

"I just felt a spot of rain," Varric grumped. " _Wet_ rain?"

"Really?" Fletcher asked seriously, a cautious eye on Zephyr. "Some horses _hate_ rain. Let's hope it doesn't spook them."

"And… what would happen if they _were_ to become spooked?" Varric demanded.

"Oh, they might buck and kick a bit. _You_ don't need to worry about being thrown off, though – you're tied down."

"Well that'll be a great comfort, Hawke, when I wind up with a fucking _horse_ on top of me because I'm _tied_ to it! And what are you _laughing_ at?"

"They've given us two of the calmest horses they have," Fletcher reassured him as a light shower broke out. "Look at their ears – they're fine."

"First, Hawke, I don't speak _horsey-eary_. Second, I can't _see_ my horse's ears."

"Let go of his neck, then. Sit up straight. Horses know what you're feeling. If Chance senses you're nervous, he might absorb that."

"Nervous? _Me?_ Oh, no, Hawke – just in fear for my bloody life! No big deal or anything!"

"You wanted to come. You _insisted_ on coming. I _told_ you you'd need to ride a horse. We're nearly there, anyway – only another twenty miles or so to go," said Fletcher, turning a crafty eye to the dwarf.

"You told me we were nearly there about an hour ago!"

"That was to shut you up. Didn't work, though, did it?"

"Wait, what? Twenty _miles_?" squawked the dwarf. "You're shittin' me!"

"Did I say miles?" Fletcher rolled his eyes, dramatically palming his forehead. "I meant _furlongs_. I always get those two mixed up. See?" He pointed ahead to the Warden compound, clearly visible a mile or so in the distance.

"Bastard," Varric ground out.

"I think our boys are up to a little trot," Fletcher declared gleefully. "They don't seem to mind the rain. What do you say, fella?" he asked his horse with a pat to its neck, and Zephyr whickered his approval.

" _Trot?_ Don't _I_ get a say in this, Hawke?" Varric asked with a plaintive look at the mage.

"We can't let them get too wet, so no," answered Fletcher as he squeezed the horse with his thighs. "Go on, boy," he encouraged, and Varric screwed his eyes closed, clinging tightly to Chance's neck as Zephyr confidently led them forward.

~o~O~o~

"This is perfect," Aveline laughed. She, Donnic and their fellow guards were seated in her quarters, awaiting a summons for an audience with the king, who'd arrived earlier that morning. "Read that bit again, Donnic – my favourite bit."

"You'll wear it out if you're not careful," Donnic joked, unfolding the dog-eared page. He cleared his throat.

"… _Witnesses and testimony are not necessary; as the self-appointed leader of the expedition, Messere Tethras was solely responsible for the safety and well-being of his workers. The fact that Messere Reijyr Vonald perished because of a tunnel collapse_ after _Messere Tethras conducted – or failed to conduct – surveys, places Messere Tethras in the invidious position of heaping ignominy upon his house and the dwarven race. For countless ages we, the dwarven people, have prided ourselves on our craftsmanship, work ethic and safety-consciousness. In one fell swoop, Messere Tethras has destroyed the good name of an entire people and shamed his ancestors. For that alone, he faces severe punishment, which will be meted out once he is delivered to us. If, however, any other members of the now-maligned House Tethras – or the relatives of Messere Vonald - wish to take matters into their own hands, they may do so with our blessing and thanks."_

"Not pompous at all, is it?" Aveline smiled. "You've got to love the dwarves."

"What about the tunnel Bartrand collapsed on purpose?" asked Sergeant Grant. "Aren't they going to punish him for that?"

Donnic shook his head. "They make very little mention of that. Reading between the lines, it seems that killing someone to acquire riches or prestige is not seen as a crime in Orzammar or on the surface, at least between dwarves. I get the impression it's seen as acceptable, if unsophisticated. Sully the name of the dwarven race, someone's house or their ancestors, however, and that's it – you're finished."

"Right," Aveline agreed. "Varric has always maintained that the dwarves of Orzammar would sell their own mothers if it guaranteed wealth or was good for their house. Their position is _everything_ to them. Personally, I couldn't care less – as long as that bastard gets what's coming to him, I'm satisfied. Well done, Donnic. Great idea of yours to write to them."

"Looks like we have Nathaniel Howe to thank as well," he replied.

"And how do you work that out?" she questioned sharply.

"Well, he was the one who made the tunnels unsafe in the first place. If he hadn't done that, Bartrand would have got away with it. It's a shame Reijyr died, but Bartrand should never have taken them down there in the first place."

Aveline huffed and folded her arms. "He needn't think he'll be getting thanks from _me_."

"You really don't like him, do you?" asked Donnic. "He _did_ try to stop the expedition from going ahead."

"He _also_ admitted his part in collapsing the second tunnel as well as sealing off the Cumberland exit," she reminded him before sighing. "It's his commander I really want, though – let's see what _he_ has to say in front of the king."

"Aw, let us come in with you, Captain?" pleaded Menzies.

"Sorry," said Aveline with a shrug, "but they said only Donnic and I are to be there, and I had to fight for him. They think he's my bodyguard. I also negotiated for Hawke and Varric to attend… if they turn up, but I might need you both if the Wardens want to question Hawke. Warden Howe seemed very interested when I told him Hawke was a mage and had been affected by the lyrium. They'll _not_ question him without our presence, I'll see to that. You can wait outside, just in case of trouble."

"Someone's coming," muttered Donnic and they listened as the sound of booted footfalls drew nearer to the door.

"Come in!" Aveline called when it was knocked. The door opened and a nameless Warden stepped inside.

"The king will see you now, Captain Vallen."

"It's about bloody time," she replied as she and her men rose together.

~o~O~o~

"She's been sent for, your Majesty," said Commander Surana as he took a seat in an armchair opposite the king in the monarch's large quarters. Alistair was seated on a plush settee, wearing plain if well-made clothing, while Nathaniel sat a distance away from them on a dining chair, one leg crossed over the other while he fiddled with one of his boot straps.

"She's a bit of a fiery one, then?" asked Alistair. "Mind you, I suppose she would be if her friends had been placed in danger. I know _I_ would be. Well, maybe not _fiery_ , exactly, but I'd definitely have something to say on the subject. Quite a lot, actually."

"It couldn't be helped," Surana replied. "We did everything we could-"

"I like _that_ ," Nathaniel scoffed. "I like the way the word 'we' just rolls off your tongue. You did _nothing_ and you bloody well know it."

"Maybe that was because I was here, in Edgbaston, doing what I was supposed to be doing, while you took over a week _not_ getting any information in Kirkwall?" sniped Surana, while Alistair's eyes darted back and forth between the two men as though he was watching a swinging pendulum. "I gave you three days – three days we were down a Warden here – and you slunk back after _seven_ with nothing to show for it. I had no other choice after that."

"So that's your plan, then – to sell me out in front of the king?" Nathaniel accused with an icy glower, leaning forward in his chair. "Well, you're not the only one with something to say. I have _plenty_."

"Uh… why don't we order some more wine?" Alistair suggested with a slightly nervous laugh as the Wardens glared at each other. "Wine, please!" he called out and a flunkey immediately appeared to refill their glasses. "Drink up," he said to the Wardens.

"Actually, your Majesty-" Surana began.

"That wasn't a request, Lewi," Alistair sternly broke in – at least, he _hoped_ he sounded stern – and watched as the Wardens sighed and took a drink. "Wine relaxes people, and that's what _we're_ going to do – relax and present a united front. What happened wasn't nice, and we all have our own opinions of it. That's fine. But Captain Vallen is here for facts, not to listen to us squabbling. We all agree that the action we took was necessary, and none of us were forced into that action. So let's save the moralising for another time, hm?"

He sighed inwardly as the Wardens nodded their assent and reached for his own glass, taking a large gulp. "So we're really going to do this?" he asked them. "We're going to tell her? Everything?"

"I think we have to," answered Surana. "She wants someone's head for this and won't settle for anything less than the truth."

"You won't be able to soft-soap or charm her, your Majesty," Nathaniel added. "She's no fool, and is well within her rights to make arrests."

Alistair's eyes widened for a second before he frowned. "But this _is_ a Warden Secret we're talking about. A pretty _big_ one."

"Alistair… very few Warden Secrets still exist after the Blight, thanks to us," Surana pointed out. "Everyone knows the Joining can kill you. Everyone knows our life expectancy is shortened. Anyone who ever dines with us knows we eat like pigs. There's no mystery to the Grey Wardens anymore, and this is no exception."

"But this is a secret that could cause panic and chaos," Alistair argued. "Kirkwall and Cumberland are full to the brim with refugees. Would _you_ want to live in either city if you _knew_? Where would everyone go? And how do we know this Captain Vallen isn't going to go home and tell everyone?"

"We _could_ just kill her and have done with it," Nathaniel muttered with a pointed look at his commander. "That _was_ your answer the last time, wasn't it?"

"That's not funny, Nathaniel," Surana bit back.

"Why? Because you've spoken to her? Because she's _real_? What's the difference between her and some slogger in the deeps you've never met? Or twenty-six of them, for that matter?"

"All right, that's enough," Alistair decreed before blinking and gawking at Surana. "Wait a minute… _twenty-six_? There were twenty-six men in the expedition party?"

"Yes…" Surana sighed, shifting uncomfortably as he _felt_ Nathaniel's satisfaction oozing from every pore.

"You told me it was a very small contingent!" blustered Alistair, his face reddening. "'Insignificant', you said! I'd hardly call twenty-six insignificant!"

"That _is_ a very small contingent to take into the Deep Roads," Surana argued.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this!" Alistair pushed to his feet and walked to the fireplace, where he shook his head, hands on hips. "I assumed you meant just one or two people at the very most!"

"You didn't _ask_ how many," Surana defended angrily, also standing up. "It doesn't matter, anyway – whether it was one or a thousand men, we _all agreed_ to this. So take your own advice and stop moralising, Alistair!"

At that moment, a knock came at the door.

"What?" Alistair called, his voice strained.

"Captain Vallen here for you as commanded, your Majesty," called a voice from outside.

"Now, let's not forget to present a _united front_ ," Nathaniel sneered from his chair before knocking back the rest of his wine. Both men turned to glare at him but he folded his arms and sat back in his chair, seemingly unconcerned. "As commanded."

"It would have been nice if I'd been in possession of _all_ of the facts, Lewi," Alistair said through gritted teeth, turning back to the elf. "I had it all planned out, what I was going to say to her, and _now_ I find myself coming down on _her_ side!"

"Then you'd better make what you have to say to her _good_ , hadn't you?" snapped the commander before drawing a long breath and holding his hands up in apology, realising he was out of order.

"Why don't _I_ let them in?" Nathaniel sprang out of his chair and walked to the door. "By your leave, of course, your Majesty? Wouldn't want them suspecting anything's amiss, would we?"

"I am _not_ happy about this," Alistair firmly told Surana before looking at the door and sighing. "All right, then – let them in."

Nathaniel opened the door and ushered the new arrivals inside. "Captain, Lieutenant – his Majesty, King Alistair Theirin," he introduced before closing the door.

Immediately, Aveline and Donnic bowed before straightening up. "I'll have to ask your pardon for not curtseying, your Majesty," said Aveline.

Alistair smiled in understanding, hoping he was hiding his anger with the commander well. "The armour. I get it. I doubt _I'd_ be able to curtsey in it, either. Well, let's get down to it – please be seated. Anywhere you like. Except the settee – that's mine," he grinned.

Mumbling their thanks, Aveline and Donnic brought a dining chair each from the table and sat close to Alistair's settee, Nathaniel moving his own chair so he could sit next to Donnic. After wine had been offered to the guards and small talk made, Alistair sent the servants out.

"I understand we're awaiting the arrival of two more people?" he asked Aveline.

"Yes, but I've had no word of their expected arrival time. I had hoped they'd be here by now – one of them is the brother of Bartrand Tethras, and the other eventually took over leadership of the party when Bartrand was arrested by one of my men, who also participated in the expedition."

Alistair nodded, his eyes wide as he absorbed the information. "Bartrand was arrested because he was suspected of collapsing one of the tunnels, is that correct?"

"That, and his complete disregard of the workers' safety. If Corporal Fenris hadn't arrested him, he probably would have been gutted. There were plenty of other dwarves down there."

"I have some experience with dwarves, and that sounds about right," Alistair agreed. "You say Bartrand's _brother_ is on his way here?"

"There's no love lost between them, if that's what you're worried about," Aveline answered. "Varric and Hawke were the other two investors, and I want you to hear _their_ account of what it was like to be down there, fearing they'd never get out," she added, her tone hard. "If you Wardens have cooked up some elaborate story to get yourselves off the hook, maybe hearing what they have to say will tug at your consciences. _Maybe_."

A moment of silence fell and Donnic watched the king closely, wondering how he'd react to Aveline's accusation. However, he was surprised by Alistair's answer.

"Captain Vallen, trust me, we couldn't make up what I'm about to tell you," he sighed. "I have no intention of misleading or lying to you. I can't deny that we _could_ have gone about things better," he admitted, resisting the urge to look at Surana, "but when you're in possession of the facts, you might even understand why we did what we did."

"I doubt _that,"_ she huffed with a derisive laugh.

"They're here," Nathaniel muttered, looking out of a window, "unless you're expecting another dwarf." Aveline craned her neck and groaned at the sight. All eyes turned to see a laughing Fletcher untying a very irritated Varric from his horse before calling for assistance to lower Varric to the ground. Both were soaked and bedraggled, though the rain had stopped.

"Let's go out and meet them," Alistair decreed, rising from his seat, followed by the others. "Might be a bit less intimidating for them."

He led them to the courtyard where they waited a short distance away while Fletcher cooed over the horses and chatted with the stable boys. Upon spotting the red flash of Aveline's hair, he gave Zephyr a farewell pat and walked to the guard-captain's side.

"The cavalry's here!" he chirped as Varric hobbled behind, muttering under his breath. "Now, let's get these Wardens sorted out quickly – I have an anniversary to celebrate back home."

"Are you all right, Varric?" Aveline asked the dwarf, who appeared to be in severe discomfort as he stopped beside Fletcher.

"He's _fine_ ," Fletcher teased, wrapping an arm around the dwarf which was immediately shrugged off. "We've had a simply _wonderful_ ride from Kirkwall – four hours of complete bliss. All is well with Varric's bum and balls, and he can't _wait_ for the return journey."

Before Aveline could interrupt, Varric spoke up. "For your information, Hawke, my ass feels like it's been shredded, eaten, shat out and then trampled on by one of your damned _horses_. As for my balls, have _you_ ever seen dried mushrooms?" he demanded of Aveline, who was frantically waving her hands to shut him up, to no avail. "Well, there's your answer. Black and shrivelled! And if this king blighter expects me to bow, he can think again. I couldn't bend if all the riches of the ages were laid at my feet. Where's the latrine around here?" he asked, looking around. "I need to know if I'm still capable of pushing one out voluntarily – I don't want to drop anchor without an order from the captain, if you get my drift. Any problems, _you've_ got a lot of healing to do," he said, pointing at Fletcher, who firmly shook his head.

"Sorry, I don't do arses. The only one _I've_ ever healed is my own after Fenris has-"

"Hawke!" Aveline hissed. " _Company!"_

By now, Donnic had turned his back on the visitors, and it was unknown to all except the irate Aveline whether he was embarrassed or laughing his head off. Nathaniel's expression was unreadable but a slight quirk of an eyebrow was observed as he stepped beside Alistair, who'd turned a fetching shade of pink.

"Gentlemen," Nathaniel said, gaining Fletcher and Varric's attention. "Welcome to Edgbaston. I'd like you to meet his Majesty the king."

Varric groaned while Fletcher had the good grace to look abashed. He bowed to the king before prodding Varric's arm, and the dwarf made a brave attempt at a bow of his own, amid much grimacing and cursing.

"It's good to see you again, your Majesty," Fletcher greeted to a few surprised expressions.

"Um… have we met before?" asked Alistair with a frown, carefully scrutinising Fletcher's face. "I don't recall…"

"You spent the night in our barn, and so did your friend," Fletcher elaborated with a nod at Surana. "It _was_ a couple of years ago, though, and I had shorter hair and was a lot slimmer then. I'm not surprised you don't remember."

"Where are you from?" Surana queried.

"Lothering. You arrived not long after Ostagar fell. You were only Wardens then, not royalty or anything."

A look of realisation came to Surana and Alistair's faces and they nodded. "I think I _do_ remember you," mumbled Alistair. "I heard about Lothering… did… your family escape? Your mother? Your brother and sister?"

"My mother and sister made it," Fletcher answered with a glance at Aveline.

Alistair nodded again, his expression grim. "Well, that's something to be thankful for. I'm sorry for your loss, though."

"Thank you," Fletcher replied, placing a hand on Aveline's shoulder, "but I wasn't the only one. Anyway," he went on, eager to change the subject, "we have some things to discuss, don't we? Begging your pardon, your Majesty, but I'm needed back home as soon as possible."

"Of course," Alistair said with a faint smile. "You have an anniversary to celebrate. Let's get on with it then, shall we?"

~o~O~o~

"Hawke and Varric will speak first," Aveline decided once they were all seated in the king's quarters within the Warden compound. "Unless there are any objections? I think it's only fair that we hear about the expedition from those who were a part of it."

A few pairs of eyes glanced around but Donnic's were firmly fixed on Aveline and he couldn't help but smile. Maker, he admired her.

"No objections," replied Alistair, gesturing to Fletcher and Varric, who were seated next to each other. "Say your piece."

"What… do you want us to say?" asked Fletcher, feeling put on the spot.

"Tell us what it was like down there," Aveline encouraged. "Tell us how you felt when you discovered the tunnels had been sealed off and there was no way back for you. Because I want these Wardens to hear it before they attempt to _justify_ their reasons for attempted murder."

Surana cleared his throat and Alistair fidgeted, but Nathaniel, as always, remained poised.

Fletcher glanced at Varric, who shrugged. "Well… when we discovered the tunnel had been sealed off, we immediately thought Bartrand was responsible," Fletcher related, "because Varric and I had 'relieved' him of his leadership. He'd taken off with another group of dwarves-"

"Most of whom were found dead at the entrance," Aveline interjected, and Surana and Nathaniel exchanged a confused glance.

"That was nothing to do with us," Surana stated defensively.

"Most of them were tainted, so it's possible they ran into some darkspawn," said Donnic, "but some of them weren't – they'd been in a fight of some kind. We're working on the hypothesis that one of the other dwarves – Gaar – found some riches and double-crossed the rest of his group, because he was unaccounted for, and was also implicated in one of the tunnel collapses. We'll come to that later, though – we'll need to eliminate the Wardens from that part of the investigation."

"Go on, Hawke," prompted Aveline. "How did you all feel about the collapses? When did it really hit home that you might not get out alive?"

Fletcher looked down and examined his fingernails for a few moments. "It was after we came through the lyrium tunnels," he murmured quietly. "We'd engaged a pack of darkspawn and most of our food was destroyed. An… Another mage and I were out of usable lyrium and that was bad enough, but even we couldn't make food. We had about a week's grain left but were five or six weeks from the surface. I wondered if there was any point in prolonging things. The other mage and I privately discussed what we'd do when people started to starve. We… I didn't tell you this, Varric."

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath before slowly releasing it. "We discussed… when the time came, we'd put everyone to sleep, while they were asleep, if that makes sense, and then… you know. We'd end it. No one would suffer that way. Then the other mage would put me to sleep – it was decided for reasons I won't go into that he would remain, and therefore be condemned to a slow, lonely death."

"Shit," Donnic muttered, appalled; the expedition party had been in such high spirits when they were rescued he hadn't stopped to consider how truly dire their situation had been.

"He rescued us," Fletcher told the others, pointing at the lieutenant. "Donnic, when I heard your voice…" He shook his head, clearly struggling with his emotions. "When I knew I'd see Mother and Beth again, and Varric, Fen… I thought I'd have to watch them die. I-I can't tell you how beautiful your voice was to me, Donnic," he went on, blurting out his last few words before shaking his head again, unable to continue.

"Hawke took everything on his shoulders," Varric angrily cut in. "He blamed _himself_ for all of that, not because _one_ bastard and a _bunch_ of bastards," he said with a pointed look at the Wardens, "had sealed us down there. All he wanted from the expedition was enough money to provide his family with a home that wasn't infested with rats. He didn't go down there looking for Warden Secrets or whatever the hell you morons are trying to protect. Sure, there were a few greedy dwarves down there but the majority of them just wanted to make life a little less shitty for themselves and their families. They didn't _deserve_ what you and Bartrand tried to pull. I don't know about any of you, but _I'm_ ready to hear some kind of explanation. Then I hope the good captain arrests your asses and hauls you off to jail." He sat back and glared defiantly at all of the Wardens, king included.

"Has _that_ pricked your consciences?" Aveline demanded, "Or do you want to see a grown man cry? Would _that_ be enough for you?"

"No," Alistair murmured with a glance at Fletcher, who was obviously upset at the memories stirred by their conversation. "Do you need to take a break?" he asked the mage, who briefly glanced up, silently shaking his head.

Alistair released a sigh before standing up, holding a hand up to indicate that the others should remain seated. "I'm under no illusions that it was easy for any of you, Messere Hawke," he commiserated, his tone genuine. "That was why it was not an easy decision to make. I want you to know that I spent sleepless nights thinking about what we were doing-"

"At risk of being locked up in a dungeon, your Majesty," Varric cut in, "we don't need to hear about your ethics."

"That's right," agreed Aveline. "We're here for answers, and we want them now. No pussy-footing, if you please."

Alistair nodded and folded his hands behind his back before slowly pacing. "All right. I don't think I even _need_ to swear you to secrecy, because it would be foolhardy in the extreme to share what I'm about to tell you with anyone."

"Is that a threat, your Majesty?" asked Donnic.

"No, I didn't mean it like that," Alistair said, holding a hand up in appeasement. "I'll just tell you and let you decide." He sighed and came to a halt, facing Hawke and Varric. "During the fourth Blight, a few of the Wardens speculated that there was some kind of link or relationship between the darkspawn and the lyrium in the Deep Roads. It wasn't known at the time what that relationship was – in fact, we _still_ don't know, but at several sites throughout the Anderfels and Antiva, a change in the indigenous lyrium was observed."

Fletcher looked up, deep frown lines carved into his forehead. "A _change_?"

"Commander?" Alistair prompted.

"Being a mage yourself, you'd understand better," Surana surmised, addressing Fletcher. "As you likely discovered, raw lyrium is extremely dangerous to mages. It can cause delusions and paranoia, and in some, sexual deviance, violent behaviour and hallucinations. With enough exposure, permanent, incurable insanity is possible."

"Yes, I did discover that," Fletcher sighed, recalling his aberrant behaviour.

"Well, during the fourth Blight, it was documented that some magi Wardens travelled through the Deep Roads and encountered lyrium that did none of those things, but in all other ways acted as lyrium, and was usable, and safe to handle."

Nathaniel, who had remained silent so far but was carefully observing the others, noticed the sudden rigidity of Fletcher and Varric's expressions.

"After Andoral was defeated," Surana continued, "and the Deep Roads mostly cleared, this unusual lyrium was researched and the results documented. It was found all across north-east and north-west Thedas, but the highest concentration was found at and around Ayesleigh and the border between Antiva and Rivain. Then, some old records from the third Blight were found.

"According to those records, similar discoveries of 'altered' lyrium had been made throughout Nevarra and the Tevinter Imperium, the greatest amount of all in and around Hunter Fell. The records were barely legible, but scholars of the day were able to restore and interpret them. How's your history, Messere Hawke?"

"Uh… not brilliant," he confessed with a shrug.

"Well, those two sites have something in common," said Surana with a glance at Alistair, who nodded. "Ayesleigh was where Andoral, the fourth archdemon, was defeated. Hunter Fell was where Toth, the third, was slain."

He gave everyone a minute to absorb that information before Alistair spoke up. "We don't yet know where Urthemiel – the fifth archdemon – was awakened. The circumstances of the fifth Blight were somewhat… unusual. To cut a long story short, the Wardens have been observing several key sites around Thedas where this altered lyrium has been discovered. The thaigs beneath Cumberland and Kirkwall have shown changes over the last fifty years or so, which have accelerated during the last decade or two."

"Wait," Fletcher interrupted. "You're saying that this unusual lyrium is found where there are Blights?"

"Where archdemons are awakened, to be precise," Alistair declared sombrely. "Andoral was awakened in, or near to, Ayesliegh - and Toth, Hunter Fell."

Almost in unison, Aveline and Donnic, and Fletcher and Varric exchanged fearful glances, amid stunned silence.

"Which means one of two things," Alistair resumed. "Either the site of your expedition is where Urthemiel awakened, or it's where the _sixth_ archdemon will emerge."

"Maferath's balls," uttered Varric.

 _"Now_ do you see why we can't allow anyone to be down there?" asked Surana. "When we heard about the expedition, we didn't imagine for a second Bartrand Tethras would choose that site. Of all the sites around Kirkwall and Cumberland, it was the poorest in terms of stability and plundering value. Any explorer worth his salt would have known that. Nathaniel… Nathaniel did his best to find out numbers, names and so on, but his investigation met several dead ends." He turned and faced Nathaniel. "When all's said and done, he did everything he could to prevent the expedition from going ahead. A lot more than I did, anyway… a lot more than I _should_ have done."

Receiving a nod from Nathaniel, he then turned back to Aveline. "There wasn't enough time to consult the First Warden, so I consulted the next senior Warden to myself – the king. He agreed that we had no other choice, but, to be fair, he wasn't aware of the numbers involved. I _was_. If you're looking for someone to blame for all of this, Captain, blame me. But I'd do it again without hesitation. We must know if Cumberland is where the next archdemon will emerge – and maybe this time we'll be able to contain it before a true Blight breaks out. We can't allow _anyone_ to interfere with our research – I deemed the deaths of the expedition party an acceptable loss when compared to the potential fatalities a sixth Blight would bring."

"Actually, I'm just as culpable as the commander," Alistair confessed. "He wouldn't have gone ahead without my say-so."

"And so am I," said Nathaniel, to everyone's surprise. "I'll admit, I wasn't happy about it, but it was a neat solution to the problem. I apologise if that sounds callous, but the commander – the commander and I – were doing our duty as Wardens. I wish there had been another way."

"We all do," said Alistair heavily, facing Fletcher and Varric. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you survived. The problem we have now is whether you still think you need to make arrests, Captain, and whether we can trust you all with this information. I'm sure I don't need to tell you the possible ramifications if this were to become common knowledge."

"Are you… proposing a deal?" Aveline asked, her eyes narrowed.

"I didn't propose anything," Alistair answered cryptically.

"We also need to ascertain whether or not the lyrium has been disturbed in any way," Nathaniel added, looking at Fletcher, who did not look back at him.

"That… wouldn't be good," mumbled Alistair in agreement. "Well, I think a break is in order. I could do with a walk. Commander, Warden Howe, with me." The Wardens stood up and headed for the door. "Make yourselves at home," Alistair invited the others. "I'm sure we all have some talking to do. We'll return shortly. Just call one of the servants if you need anything – they're outside." With that, the three Wardens left the room, and the door was closed.

For long moments, no one spoke, and Aveline was the first to break the silence. "What do you make of that, Hawke?" she asked quietly.

"I lost my home and my brother during the fifth Blight," he replied. "No… _because_ of the fifth Blight. You lost your husband. I… I'm finding it difficult to… I don't know."

"To blame them?" she asked, and Fletcher shrugged.

"If they can prevent a sixth Blight, then maybe they can prevent another family from almost being destroyed, or another marriage being ended before its time." He looked up at Donnic. "Sorry, I didn't mean…"

"It's all right," Donnic answered, taking one of Aveline's hands, and she gave him a thin smile.

"Sorry to, uh, be the insensitive dwarf and all," Varric piped up, "but his Royalness didn't seem too enthusiastic about the 'strange' lyrium being _disturbed_. That… could be a problem."

The colour drained from Fletcher's face and he closed his eyes, placing his head in his hands. "Oh, Maker," he groaned. "Oh, no…"

"Didn't you and Anders conduct some experiments on it?" Aveline asked.

"It's a _little_ more serious than that," Varric answered with a grimace.

"Let's have it, then."

Fletcher uncovered his face and looked at Varric, both of them sighing together.

"The thing is," Varric whispered, "we're… kind of mining it."

This time, Aveline's face paled and she blinked several times before shaking her head and holding her palm out. "Don't even… just _don't_ , all right?"

"Do we tell them?" Donnic asked, a deafening silence his reply.


	89. Inner Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair nodded and tilted his head, a faraway look in his eyes. "Cold, cramped tents, spiders, terrible food, having to defecate in the woods and mortal danger at every turn. I've missed it, in a strange sort of way."
> 
> "Only this time around, there'll be no Morrigan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank-you to Mary for your beta expertise. Glad to hear you're on the mend! :-)

"Right, I'll leave you to it. I want bi-hourly reports, or sooner than that if anything important crops up." Lieutenant Bradley exited the briefing room and closed the door, leaving Fenris with his new taskforce of five colleagues, who had been charged with finding the serial killer.

Fenris lightly cleared his throat and glanced at his colleagues, all seated around a table with him. He knew three of them quite well, while the other two - Corporals Mortimer and Black - usually worked opposite shifts to him and so were strangers. Feeling slightly intimidated, but determined not to show it, he began.

"I have compiled a list of mages - and those known to associate with mages - who must be eliminated from the investigation." He passed a copy of the list to each of his colleagues. "It would be preferable for us to interview or investigate these people before the Templars do - this is not to turn into a witch hunt. Our purpose for now is to gather information, not bandy accusations about."

"Thank you, Corporal Fenris, but we _do_ know how to conduct interviews," commented Mortimer in a slightly bored tone.

Staff Sergeant Hunter - the scout who'd accompanied Fenris during the pursuit of Hadriana and had investigated the collapses in the Deep Roads - leaned forward. "This is Fenris's first investigation. We've all been there, and I'm sure we appreciated our colleagues' support during that time," he reminded them all crisply.

"Yes, Sergeant," replied Mortimer, looking straight ahead.

"Where do you want us, Fenris?" Hunter asked.

"Corporal Black, as you are familiar with the layout of Darktown, I would like you and Lance Corporal Nash to ascertain whether any apostates have passed through there recently, and their current whereabouts, if possible. Lieutenant Bradley has authorised the release of bribe monies, should they be needed. As for Corporals Steadman and Mortimer, you are to visit the Gallows and liaise with Knight-Captain Cullen. Ask him if any of the Gallows mages have recently displayed unusual behaviour, or if there have been any escapes or unexplained absences. It is my hope that he will co-operate with you. If he does not, then return here and do not provide him with more information than is necessary. It is vital that we do not antagonise the templars, but nor will we allow them to dictate to us."

"And what will _you_ be doing?" Mortimer asked.

Fenris paused for a second before answering. "Sergeant Hunter and I will be interviewing these people," he said, indicating a few names on the list. "I am personally acquainted with these apostates and they will respond more favourably to me than a stranger."

"You mean they're friends of Hawke?" Mortimer astutely pointed out. "Should you even be interviewing them? Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

"All on the list are known associates of Hawke," explained the frowning elf, a slight firmness in his voice the only hint of his growing impatience. "Have we not already determined that? To ensure transparency, Sergeant Hunter will conduct the interviews with me. I also have other matters to attend to."

"Such as?"

"Oh, put a sock in it, Mortimer," muttered Black with a roll of his eyes.

"I do not believe I am required to explain myself to anyone save Lieutenant Bradley," Fenris answered, fighting to keep his tone even. "Should you suspect I will bring the name of the Guard into disrepute, I suggest you speak with him. _He_ is presiding over this investigation – I am merely following his instructions, as are we all."

A thoughtful, slightly tense silence fell before Fenris drew a deep breath through his nose and sat up straight. "We will reconvene here at two bells. If there are no questions, you are dismissed."

"I usually take my lunch break at two bells," Mortimer piped up to a few groans from his colleagues.

"Then bring your food with you," replied Fenris, meeting Mortimer's gaze. "We will all take lunch together."

"Right," mumbled the corporal before he departed, followed by everyone else with the exception of Hunter. Fenris moved to the door and closed it before releasing a soft sigh.

"Difficult, isn't it, giving orders to men more experienced than you?" guessed Hunter. "Or of higher rank?"

Fenris slowly turned around, wearing an awkward smile. "Yes. Not to mention, those who are not elves."

"Ah. You noticed that, then." Hunter took a seat at the table and gestured for Fenris to join him. "Let me give you a heads-up on Mortimer," he began as the elf sat next to him. "He was employed by Captain Jeven and his record's far from pristine. In the past he's demonstrated a… how can I say this? A _dislike_ of elves. He's up for review soon and I'm guessing Bradley's giving him one last chance, to see if he can actually work with an elf. I'm probably not supposed to tell you this, but the captain wants more elves in the Guard. I think she has something in mind for you, and this is a kind of test."

"A test?"

Hunter nodded. "I haven't told you, all right?"

"Told me what?" asked Fenris, and Hunter smiled.

"Just know that you have the support of the senior officers. Don't let that pressure you, though – just keep doing what you're doing. And _don't_ let Mortimer talk down to you. I think he backed down this time because I was here and I outrank him, but I might not always be around. Don't take any shit from him."

"I appreciate the warning," said Fenris with a grateful smile. "I will not take any… _excrement_ from him."

"The _word_ was 'shit'."

Fenris folded his arms and sat back in the chair. "I have _heard_ that some of the guards have organised a betting pool. Would you happen to have heard about it?"

"Me?" asked the long-haired rogue, his eyes sparkling with humour.

"Apparently, bets are being placed on how long it will take me to use a curse word aloud. There is even a list of qualifying words, in both the Thedosian _and_ Tevene languages. How long have _you_ given me, Sergeant?"

Hunter started to snigger, unable to keep a straight face under Fenris's probing, if slightly indulgent, gaze. "Three days."

"I see."

"But that wasn't my choice – I had to settle on what was left. I reckon you'll be effing and blinding before the day's out, especially with Mortimer around."

An amused glint came to Fenris's eyes and an eyebrow cocked upward. "And if I do _not_ utter said expletives within the allotted time?"

Hunter shrugged. "Then the money goes to you. But that's _not_ going to happen."

Fenris's smile widened. "I accept your challenge. It is only fair to warn you, however, that I can be exceptionally bloody-minded when faced with a challenge."

Hunter lurched forward, his features animated, before Fenris shook his head.

"'Bloody' is not on the list."

"Rats!" Hunter snapped his fingers in mock-frustration before pointing at the elf. "I'll get you to swear if it's the last thing I do."

Fenris shook his head again, and they shared a laugh before Fenris's expression turned serious. "Sergeant… I would like to ask something of you. Would you assist me with the reports, if it is not too much of an imposition? My reading and writing abilities are quite basic."

"Of course I will."

"Thank you," Fenris breathed in relief and gratitude. "Well, shall we depart? Once we have interviewed Anders, Merrill and their friends, I have a special task in mind for us both – an investigation within an investigation, if you will."

"This sounds interesting," Hunter replied as they stood up.

"I will explain on the way. There is one mage I have not included on the list, and I have reasons for that. I require someone with your unique skills to assist me. Also… someone I know to be trustworthy. Perhaps this _would_ constitute a conflict of interest, I am not certain. If you are uncomfortable with assisting me in this endeavour, I will not hold it against you."

"Well, now I really am intrigued. Tell me all about it, Corporal."

~o~O~o~

While Aveline and Donnic discussed the implications of the king's revelation, Fletcher moved to the window, where he quietly watched the horses being exercised in the paddock. He expected Varric to join him, so was not startled when the dwarf appeared at his side.

"You okay, Hawke?"

"Mm. Just-" He turned slightly and looked down at his friend. "Bad memories and all that," he replied morosely with a sigh.

Varric nodded and stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Sorry not to tactfully change the subject, but I gotta know this. Would Blondie really have done it? Stayed behind and just watched us all die? Isn't that a little cruel? And you _agreed_ to that?"

"No, not exactly." Fletcher glanced behind himself to ensure the guards weren't listening. "We discussed it at length and finally arrived at a solution – once I was, you know, asleep, he would return to the lyrium tunnels. He wanted Justice to hear the song one last time."

"And then what? Blondie starves to death and Justice's ghost floats around the Deep Roads, singing and righting wrongs for the rest of eternity?"

Fletcher shook his head. "Justice would have died with him – he can't exist without a mortal host. It was our hope that, once he'd heard the song again, he'd end Anders's life – he _is_ capable of using magic independently of Anders. Thus, both would be at peace. I don't think Justice would have allowed Anders to suffer, even if it meant his own death."

A lull took the conversation and a heavy sigh was heard from the dwarf as he joined Fletcher in watching the horses. "Hey, Hawke? I didn't mean to accuse you of being selfish or anything. I should've guessed you two would figure out something as weird and convoluted as that."

"I know." Fletcher gave his friend a faint smile, receiving a hearty slap on the back in return. Varric roughly cleared his throat and turned toward Donnic and Aveline, but halted when Fletcher clutched his arm. "Varric – you know we're going to have to stop the mining operation, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know." Varric turned back to the window and folded his arms. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

"What are we going to tell the men? Some of them are refugees and hoped to save enough money to provide a decent life for their families. What now? We tell them they've got to return to Darktown? How can we condemn them to that? They were counting on us."

"I've been thinking about that." Varric glanced over his shoulder. "How about we pay them off, using the expedition funds? Give them a severance package, enough to keep them going for a while. Should give them enough time to find something new."

Fletcher shook his head. "I wish I could contribute, but almost all of my money went on the house. Don't get me wrong, I'm doing okay, but…" He pushed a hand through his hair and sighed. "This _is_ selfish of me, but I'd hoped to become a full-time healer once the expedition was over. I don't want to go back to mercenary work. And I don't like the idea of you digging into your own funds, either. You earned every copper of that money. This is _shit_."

"Easy, Hawke," consoled the dwarf. "I have no intention of digging into my own funds."

"What do you mean? How else can we do it, then?"

"I still have Bartrand's share."

Fletcher's mouth fell open and his eyes lit up. "Really?"

"I think it's a pretty safe bet that he's forfeited his share now, don't you, Hawke? And I doubt he'll be needing it where he's going – the Council of Surface Dwarves isn't known for slapping criminals on the wrist. I reckon Bartrand will be given hard labour – _without_ pay. That's pretty much the harshest punishment you could give a dwarf."

"But couldn't he make a claim for that money? I wouldn't put it past him."

"Nuh-uh. We're going by dwarf rules here, not human ones. As the only remaining member of the now-disgraced House Tethras, I'm entitled to compensation for the crushing dishonour and shame that's supposedly been heaped upon me." He pressed a hand to his brow before winking at Fletcher. "I'd be within my rights to kill him, but he's not getting off that easy. No, I think I'll take his precious money, thank you very much, and do some good with it."

"I love you, you know," Fletcher whispered with a starry-eyed gaze at the dwarf.

"Hey! Don't let Broody hear you talk like that! I don't want to spend all of Bartrand's money on a prosthetic dick because my real one's been fist-killed."

Fletcher's head fell back and he laughed loudly, a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. "Seriously, though, if things don't work out between Fenris and me, I'll be knocking at your door. And yes, I mean the _rear_ one."

"Get outta here!" Varric shoved the sniggering Fletcher away and quickly moved to Donnic and Aveline, taking a seat opposite them. He was delighted, however, to have banished the black cloud from above his friend's head.

"All right, you two, enough messing about." Aveline beckoned Fletcher closer, and he plonked himself beside Varric, making a fist and knocking on the dwarf's shoulder, causing him to squirm.

"Oy! Listen!" Aveline ordered, and the high-spirited friends ceased their buffoonery. "We're in a bit of a fix, here, but the law is _still_ on our side. Firstly, the Wardens don't own the Deep Roads or the lyrium, so it's not like you've trespassed or stolen anything. Secondly, if they get snitty about the mining operation, I can still arrest them and charge them with attempted murder. I think the king was hinting at making a deal – we have plenty of bargaining power."

"Assuming, of course, the Wardens don't cop Varric or Hawke when they're not expecting it," Donnic warned. "They're not averse to using extreme methods to silence people, are they?"

Aveline shook her head. "I'm going to let those Wardens know that if Varric or Hawke so much as cut themselves shaving, I'll be down on them like a ton of bricks. The Wardens have been exposed, now, and every guard in my regiment will inform me immediately if Hawke or Varric come to harm or go missing. They've done nothing wrong, just a bit of free enterprise, that's all."

Hawke sat back and drummed his fingers against his thigh, deep in thought. "I'm not sure the Chantry would see it that way if word gets out. Isn't the king a templar? Or used to be?"

"Well, that's where we'll need to negotiate." Aveline folded her arms, indicating that she was sure of herself. "No matter what they throw at us, they still tried to kill you all. _We_ have the upper hand, so I don't want you two worrying."

Fletcher gave Aveline a fond look. "Thanks for looking out for us. You're a good friend."

"This is nothing to do with friendship, Hawke. This is to do with the law being upheld."

"And deals being done, to get her friends out of trouble," Donnic quipped.

"Needs must when the devil kicks your arse," Aveline stated grimly, pushing to her feet. "Let's go and find the king and his lackeys. No time like the present. Ready?" she asked Fletcher and Varric, who also rose.

"With you behind us, Aveline, we're ready for anything," Fletcher grinned, feeling much more confident. "And with Varric behind _me_ -"

"I'm way _in front_ of you, Hawke." Varric pushed past his friend, keeping a wary eye on Fletcher's bottom.

"Oh, good! That's means I'm behind _you_. I'm not fussy."

Aveline groaned and picked up her sword and shield. "Get a bloody move on! Honestly, it's like having a pair of kids around."

For once, Varric led the party out, with Donnic's laughter following behind.

~o~O~o~

Anders took a few steps back and smiled. He'd been busy. Thanks to the generosity of well-wishers, as well as Cricket and Mallory's help, he'd acquired an enviable range of crafting ingredients and now admired the fruits of his work. One entire corner of the clinic was taken up by his creations, which filled various jars and bottles, and in the opposite corner was a bookshelf, holding several tomes on magic and healing.

"It's just like the old clinic, only better." He turned to Mallory, his eyes alight, and reached for her hand. "It doesn't stink of sewage for a start, and I haven't seen a single rat, not that there's any way for them to get in. I miss the cats, though."

She squeezed his hand, delighted to see him so full of purpose and, it had to be said, pride. "Lirene told me that since you moved in here, she can't get rid of the cats from outside. They must be attracted to you."

"Are you saying I smell of fish?"

"No!" she protested with a laugh. "I mean, you do attract people… things. Uh… there _is_ a compliment in there, somewhere."

"Yes, I know." With a sigh, he slipped his hand free and moved to his desk, where he took a seat. "I couldn't have done this without you, Mal, and I want you to know how grateful I am."

"Have I done something wrong?" she asked quietly.

He looked at the desk, his stomach plummeting. "No, of course not. What-"

"It's just that, every time I try to get close to you, you shy away. Sometimes I feel like there's something between us… am I wrong? Because every time I think that, the walls seem to go up. Just tell me now, Anders, before I end up making a fool of myself. Is there something there? Or am I imagining things?"

He brought his hands to rest on the desk and stared down at them, shaking his head. "You're… not imagining things."

She moved closer but halted when Anders stiffened. "What is it, then? It's almost like you're afraid of me."

He looked up, sadness and longing in his eyes, and she took another step closer, bringing her to the side of the desk. "I'm not afraid of you, Mal. I'm afraid _for_ you."

"I'm not frightened of the Templars," she declared with conviction, anger flashing in her eyes.

"You should be. I've been hearing stories. Knight-Commander Meredith hasn't been seen in public for several months and is becoming more and more isolated. I correspond with several mages at the Gallows and they tell me things are getting worse. Anyone visiting the Gallows is questioned and searched, and I wouldn't put it past the Templars to have them followed. You shouldn't even be associating with me – they could be following _you_."

Alarmed by how paranoid he sounded, she moved to the front of the desk, stopping a foot away from Anders to allow him space. "Nobody's following me. I hardly ever go anywhere and when I do, I go with you. If they were following us you'd have been captured by now. _Think_ about what you're saying. You should be enjoying your freedom, not obsessing about what _might_ happen."

He snorted in derision. "Freedom? Is that what you call this? Living in a cellar, only able to go out at certain times when there's a brief window between Templar patrols? I might not be under lock and key, but I'm far from _free_ – let me be clear about that. And nor are you. You-you should be out, enjoying yourself, not stuck down here with me." His look of indignation quickly changed to one of uncertainty and she sighed, inching closer.

"But I don't want to be anywhere else. I like being in the clinic and I like being with you."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to-" He groaned and leaned back in his chair, noticing that she was closer to him than he'd realised.

"You need to spend some time away from here," she guessed. "I remember you used to get like this at the old clinic. You know what you need? A nice stroll along the coast, clear your head."

"Well, that'd be great, provided you don't mind being followed by scores of templars," he sniped, wondering why she was bothering with him.

"I _meant_ tonight."

"Tonight?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "We'll sneak across to the safehouse and then go through the tunnels to the coast. It'll take us a while, but it'll be worth it. We could bring some food, have a moonlit picnic. What do you say?"

"It'll be chilly," he began.

"Then we'll wrap up."

"You're not going to take 'no' for an answer, are you?" he asked, his eyes soft as warmth bloomed in his chest.

She edged even closer along the desk, her leg brushing against his thigh. "Of course, if it's _too_ chilly, we could just go to the safehouse and I could cook something. It won't be going out, exactly, but we'll be away from here. And you're right, I won't take 'no' for an answer."

He cast his eyes down, wondering if he was doing the right thing. She'd been so good to him and had never asked for anything in return. Could he give her what she seemed to want? Was that what she was hinting at? Some kind of normal life together?

A future?

He glanced up as a small hand wrapped around his. His eyes locking with hers, he drew her closer until she was resting on his lap, and he gazed intently at her.

_Enough of this._

He tensed for a second and Mallory drew back a little in concern. "What is it?"

"Nothing." He squeezed her hand, forcing a smile.

 _We have discussed this. I sense more than a need for gratification within you. You_ must _desist._

"Anders?" She brought her hands up to cup his face, sensing his ambivalence. He was so kind, so funny, but there was no doubt he was also deeply troubled. She knew she should keep away, but his qualities were a potent combination for any woman to resist.

Particularly a woman who had wronged him, and had been so wrong about him.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," she murmured, placing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

_Enough, Anders!_

He sighed, relaxing against her touch, and brought his arms around her tiny waist, his forehead resting against her cheek. Glancing down, he caught a tantalising glimpse of cleavage and closed his eyes, a sweet shiver tightening his muscles.

It had been so long since he'd felt the loving touch of another. There had been casual encounters, of course, but this was different. Different from the prostitutes, different from Isabela. It had been so long, he'd almost forgotten.

_Anders!_

"Tonight," he whispered, losing himself in her scent and warmth.

~o~O~o~

The assembled templars waited expectantly in the Gallows square as their knight-commander paced back and forth. Morale, which was low enough within the order, had taken a nosedive since the news of Emeric's death, and they expected a stirring and inspirational speech from their commanding officer.

"This will not stand," she quietly seethed, halting and facing them. "For too long the situation in Kirkwall has been overlooked. I am painfully aware that a number of free apostates reside within the city's walls. I am also aware that some of those apostates are known to some of _you_ ," she accused, her eyes lingering on Cullen for a second too long. "No more! One of our own has been destroyed, his body not fit for open cremation because of blood magic. Blood magic!" She raised a clenched fist, her face threatening to crumple with anguish before she composed herself, a rigid calm settling over her.

"You have your assignments. I want every resident questioned, every building investigated. The underground tunnels are to be thoroughly searched, and entrance and exit points to the city guarded. Unit One will take Darktown, and Unit Two, Lowtown. Begin."

"Knight-Commander." Cullen took a step forward, meeting Meredith's icy gaze with his own steady one. "The city guard is conducting its own investigation of Ser Emeric's death. We have worked well together so far, and I would recommend-"

"The city guard is naught but a refuge for apostates," she declared, her voice unsteady with barely-controlled anger. " _You_ , Knight-Captain, reported that one of Vallen's deputies refused to name two apostates who had used magic in Lowtown-"

"It is said that those apostates saved many lives that night."

She took a further step forward, her eyes like glass as she stared down her subordinate, but he did not flinch. "The city guard is clearly as indulgent of the city's apostates as _you_ are, Knight-Captain. It would not surprise me to learn that they allow apostates into their own ranks. And do _not_ interrupt me again."

When Cullen offered no apology, panic twisted her gut. What had happened to her obedient, dutiful captain? He was growing ever bolder, and if her own captain could be swayed by the apostates and blood mages, surely any of her ranks could?

"Ser Karras," she called, and the sneering lieutenant moved to her side, bowing low. "You will work directly alongside Knight-Captain Cullen. This is not the city guard's investigation, and we will show them the same courtesy they have shown us – in other words, _none_. If Guard-Captain Vallen or any of her underlings have views on the matter, send them to me."

"Yes, Knight-Commander." Karras bowed again and raised an arm, waving with a flourish. "Everybody, move!"

As the templars moved off, Cullen remained where he was.

"Is there something further?" Meredith demanded.

"Yes, Knight-Commander. I do not think it appropriate that you take every opportunity to belittle me or make thinly-veiled accusations. I am no fool, and it is clear to me that you do not trust me. I submit that any conversations of this nature should be made in private. The men and women are uncertain enough as it is."

"Why, thank you," answered Meredith with a cold smile. "I was not aware that I was in need of instruction in how to do my duty by _you_. I am most grateful for your generosity. Are there any other matters of which I need to be apprised?"

Cullen shook his head, but in disapproval rather than as an answer to her question.

"You may leave. Now."

He waited a few seconds before giving a perfunctory bow and walking off to join the rest of his unit. She watched him, breathing unsteadily through flared nostrils and did not notice the messenger arrive at her side.

"Knight-Commander. My pardon. There are two guards here to see Knight-Captain Cullen."

"Have them sent to me," she replied archly, turning to head inside. "I will deal with them."

~o~O~o~

After throwing her weight about among the Wardens, the bombastic guard-captain was eventually shown to the room where the king had taken Surana and Howe. Their escort had offered apologies but Alistair, remembering how insistent Aveline could be, waved him away and invited Aveline and her companions in.

"Guard-Captain?" he asked, rising from his seat. "Is everything all right? We haven't finished our discussion yet."

"Well, we've finished ours." She noticed her three companions straightening up. "Oh, right." She finally remembered to bow and watched with irritation as Warden Howe looked on in amusement.

"Well?" Alistair asked.

She took a deep breath, hoping her bluster would carry her through. "This is what's going to happen. We are going to return to the expedition site, right now. You'll need a few of your Wardens, and my guards will also be going along with them. They'll need enough provisions for two weeks-"

"Just a minute." Alistair held a hand up. "We have no plans to revisit the site for a while. Why would we need to do that?"

"Because the lyrium is being mined, that's why."

"What?" Surana scrambled to his feet and Nathaniel also rose, but more slowly and deliberately. Alistair, momentarily lost for words, stared at Aveline, his mouth slack.

"Dwarves?" Nathaniel asked Varric, not even sounding surprised.

"Dwarves."

"How many dwarves? How much has been mined?"

"Enough."

"Mined?" Alistair spluttered. " _Mined?_ Seriously? Do you have any _idea_ how bad this is? I-I can't even-"

"Yes, I _do_ have an idea of how bad it is, now that you've finally told us _why_ it's bad," retorted Aveline. "There are… how many?" she asked Fletcher.

"Forty-four."

"Forty-four men who need to get out of there as soon as possible," she finished. "If any of them have come to harm, I'll hold the Wardens – in other words, you three – directly responsible. But I'm sure we all agree that recriminations can wait."

"I'll get the horses ready," announced Nathaniel, calmly moving to the door. "Messere Hawke, walk with me, if you please."

"I'll go with you," Donnic insisted.

"We'll _all_ go," Aveline added and Nathaniel rolled his eyes before doffing a small and – in Aveline's estimation – sardonic bow. "After you."

Left alone with Surana, Alistair covered his face with his hands before his arms fell to his sides. "How could this possibly get _any_ worse, Lewi?"

"Let's just see what we find. If we're lucky, they won't have found the trench, and might not have dug down far enough."

"He said dwarves were involved. They're the best miners in Thedas," Alistair stated with a disconsolate sigh.

"There's no point guessing, is there? Let's just get down there and see what's going on." He laid a hand on Alistair's arm. "I'll take full responsibility for this if it goes awry."

"No you won't, old friend. We're in this together."

A small smile crept along Surana's lips. "Just like old times, eh?"

Alistair nodded and tilted his head, a faraway look in his eyes. "Cold, cramped tents, spiders, terrible food, having to defecate in the woods and mortal danger at every turn. I've missed it, in a strange sort of way."

"Only this time around, there'll be no Morrigan."

"You always know exactly what to say, don't you?" Alistair chuckled before his smile faded and he stared gloomily at the door. "Well, shall we?"

In silence, they left the room, for a moment not the king and warden-commander, but the two green Wardens who'd left Flemeth's hut for Lothering with the world on their shoulders.


	90. One Last Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Someone else is in the tunnel with us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the land of the living, Mary! :P And thank you for your beta and spot-on suggestions!

"How are those stones of yours, Varric?"

"Why don't I rephrase that question for you? Let me see… 'How are those two specks of dust which are clinging on for dear life, in constant fear of the cough, sneeze or fart that'll send them plummeting to their doom?'"

"Glad to see you're not being over-dramatic again," Fletcher remarked with a wry upturn of his mouth. "Hey, look on the bright side – at least you don't need a prosthetic dick."

"There's always that, Hawke. There's always that."

Having reached the Kirkwall entrance to the Deep Roads, Fletcher and Varric stood a little way back from the others, watching as the Wardens sprang into action – or rather as Nathaniel sprang into action while Surana and a beleaguered-looking Alistair bickered.

"Reminds me of you and Broody," Varric commented, "back when you were _interesting_ , that is. You're not giving me much in the way of juicy material lately."

Fletcher shrugged, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "We could always make a story of our own, you know. How about a massage for those crushed nuts of yours? I've been told I have magical hands." He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers to make his point.

"I think we need to get you back to Broody, and quick. Lovesick, that's what you are, or cocksick or… something."

"And I think we need to get you back to Sunshine, before you turn," Fletcher teased. "There's only so much temptation a man can take."

"Why don't we go see what those Wardens are up to?" Varric suggested, distancing himself from his laughing friend. Fletcher followed and they approached Warden Howe, who was on one knee, examining the ground near to the entrance.

"Anything?" Fletcher asked.

The raven-haired Warden looked up and nodded. "There's been recent activity here, possibly today. A small group of dwarves, judging by the boot prints. There are also some animal prints, but I don't suppose that's relevant."

"At least we know some of them are safe, then," Fletcher sighed as Nathaniel straightened up.

"I doubt any of them are in immediate danger, but we need to move fast. Captain?" he called to Aveline, who was giving orders to her men. She said a few last words to them before joining Nathaniel and the others.

"Yes, Warden?"

"Some of the mining crew are not far from the surface. If we're quick, we'll catch up with them. Are you and your men ready?"

She nodded. "I'll be heading back to Kirkwall shortly, but Lieutenant Hendyr and the rest of my men will remain behind."

"Leaving so soon?" Nathaniel asked in amusement. "That's a shame. A _real_ shame."

"Yes, for both of us," retorted Aveline, her irritation clear. "You needn't think Donnic will put up with any of your nonsense. While I'm gone, _he's_ in charge."

"The king would beg to differ, Captain."

"The king?" she snorted contemptuously with a glance over her shoulder. "Well, when he's finished reminding everyone how terrible this all is and that we're all _doomed_ , sure he can take charge. I'm not holding my breath, though."

To everyone's surprise, Nathaniel smiled and walked off, laughing to himself. Aveline watched him, shaking her head, before turning to Fletcher.

"Will you be coming back with me, Hawke? You wanted to get back for Fenris, didn't you?"

"Yes. I'll go as far as the first chamber, but no further than that. I might even be able to retrieve some of my lyrium potions, provided the dwarves haven't _eaten_ them. How about you, Varric? You want to come back and see Bartrand get his comeuppance?"

"Nah, I think I'll oversee things here, see if anything can be salvaged. Do what the hell you like with Bartrand," he said dismissively to Aveline.

"Let's get started then," she instructed before walking ahead, calling to her men. Varric and Fletcher remained where they were for a moment.

"You worried about the lyrium tunnels, Hawke?" Varric guessed. "Is that the real reason you don't want to go further in? You don't need to be back in Kirkwall until tomorrow."

"Yes, that's the reason," Fletcher confirmed with a knowing look at the dwarf. "I'm running away from the lyrium, just like you're running away from seeing Bartrand again. Don't worry, I'll pop him one for you."

"Pop him two," Varric muttered before he also walked away. "Bloody smartass mages."

By the time everyone had convened at the entrance, Surana and Alistair were still arguing.

"You _can't_ come with us, your Majesty! It's too dangerous, and besides, you're due in Kirkwall to visit Viscount Dumar."

"And you can't go, either, Lewi, not with the lyrium tunnels." Alistair turned to Fletcher. "Will you talk some sense into him? Maybe he'll listen to another mage?"

"Well…" Fletcher sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. "It took us five days to get through the tunnels. I had to be restrained because I nearly killed one of the dwarves when – as I believed – he tried to separate me from my beloved. And yes, I'm talking about the lyrium. I also would have quite happily pushed one of my best friends over a ledge for the same reason. And that's why I'm only going as far as the first chamber – I _never_ want to go through those tunnels again."

"That's settled, then," Alistair declared firmly. "I'm sorry, Lewi, but we can't afford delays. We also can't afford the warden-commander being frightened of ever setting foot in the Deep Roads again."

"Oh, come on, that's-" Surana began, before Alistair held a hand up.

"The answer is _no."_

"I remember Anders having a similar reaction," Nathaniel piped up, and Fletcher and Varric immediately affected a frown, while Aveline resisted the impulse to clear her throat.

"Anders?" Fletcher asked with what he hoped was convincing nonchalance.

"One of the other Wardens, also a mage. We visited Kal-Hirol in Amaranthine and encountered a huge vein of raw lyrium. He went very quiet which, believe me, was in itself an indication that something was up, and then he started muttering to himself and staring at us. Eventually he accused us of trying to kill him with our thoughts. I found it quite funny at the time, until I realised the consequences if he tried to attack us with all that lyrium about. Thankfully, Lewi had stayed behind at the keep that time. I don't want to think what would have happened if both mages had been there."

"What did you do?" asked Fletcher.

"I knocked him out and we dragged him away from the lyrium. He burst into tears and hugged me when he came round. He was that relieved."

"You didn't tell me _that_ bit," Surana teased.

"I never would have lived it down if I had, would I? At any rate, I agree with the king. You can't go through those tunnels, Commander. I also agree that it's too dangerous for the king. I'll go with the guards – I trust Lieutenant Donnic not to stick a knife in my back," he joked. "You two should go to Kirkwall with the captain. Argument over. Let's get moving."

He strode through the entrance, leaving Surana and Alistair blinking in surprise.

"We'll go with the others as far as the first chamber, and then we'll _both_ go to Kirkwall," Alistair decided and Surana sighed, shrugging in defeat.

They reached the chamber after a few hours and found the owners of the boot prints, as well as the owner of the animal prints. Fletcher was almost knocked off his feet when a huge, fat nug charged towards him, tail swishing, and the chamber was filled with shrill squealing – and that was just from Fletcher.

"Tufty!" he cried in delight, and attempted without success to pick up the nug, which had quadrupled in size since their last meeting. "Look how big you are! Yes! You! Are! Who's a big, strong boy, then? Ehehehehee!"

"Yeah, nice to see _you_ , too, Hawke," quipped the mine's foreman, Torbal, while the majority of the group looked on in dismay. Fletcher sprang to his feet and held his hand out to the rotund dwarf, who firmly shook it.

"Where's Sprinkles?" asked the mage.

Torbal thumbed behind himself. "In the deeps with the rest of 'em. He might be deaf and queer, but he's a bastard when it comes to sniffing out-" He paused, noticing the rest of Fletcher's companions. "Who are your friends, Hawke?"

Alistair stepped forward and gave a small bow. "Lewi, Nathaniel and Alistair of the Grey Wardens," he said cordially.

Torbal squinted and moved closer to Surana, standing toe-to-toe with the elf. "Fenton? Did you change your hair?"

"That's not Fenris," Fletcher laughed. "They really _are_ Grey Wardens."

"Oh, crap," muttered Torbal, and the handful of other dwarves that had accompanied him moved closer for a listen. "Well, that can't be good, can it? All right, spit it out. We got work to do."

"I'm afraid you haven't, friend," Nathaniel commiserated. "We must insist that you cease all mining operations with immediate effect."

"Ha! Good one!" Torbal scoffed before noticing Varric and Fletcher's sombre expressions.

"It's true," Varric sighed with a shrug.

"What? And you didn't think to mention this the other day?" Torbal asked Varric in disbelief.

"In his defence, he didn't actually find out until earlier this morning," Nathaniel offered. "I know this is a shock to you, but I must ask for your co-operation. I need to know exactly where you have mined, and how far down you've gone."

Torbal folded his arms and scowled. "You're no Grey Warden, are you? You're the sodding law! Now, listen to _me_ , Sonny Jim-"

"No, he's not." Aveline moved to Torbal's side and gestured to her men. "We're the law. I'm afraid what he says is right – for reasons we can't go into, the mining operation must be stopped. _We're_ here to ensure there are no reprisals. You and your men are not in trouble of any sort."

"No, we're just out of work!" Torbal retorted angrily. "Are _you_ gonna pay our wages, lady?"

"Torbal," Fletcher interjected. "We'll see you and the men all right, have no fear." He laid a hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "I'm sorry, mate. It was a shock to us, as well. We've got to do what they say."

"If it's any consolation, Bartrand's going to get what's coming to him," Varric consoled.

"'Bout sodding time." With a huff, Torbal moved away and picked up his tools. "So, who's gonna give the good news to the workers?"

"I will," Nathaniel immediately volunteered, and a relieved sigh from Varric was heard.

Feeling dejected and guilty, Fletcher crouched down next to Tufty and scratched his ears. "Looks like you're out of a job as well, pal." He looked up and located Torbal. "Will you bring Sprinkles back to the surface?" he asked. "I'll give them a home. Please tell the men not to eat him."

"They're too tough to eat now, Hawke," Torbal replied. "Sure, we'll bring him up. All right, who's comin'? Best to get bad news out of the way quick."

Nathaniel and Varric joined the dwarves, and Aveline took her men aside to give a few last-minute instructions. She then had a quiet word with Donnic before dismissing him and her men, with the exception of Sergeant Grant who, along with Aveline, would escort Alistair and Commander Surana to Kirkwall.

They said their goodbyes and Fletcher, eager to return to the surface, led the way with Tufty at his side. "I know someone who's _dying_ to see you again," he confided in the nug.

~o~O~o~

Fenris and his small taskforce of guards returned to the barracks at two bells sharp and met, as arranged, in the briefing room. Corporal Mortimer, however, had not seen fit to show up on time.

"We should begin, before we starve to death," Fenris quipped, hearing a few growling stomachs. "Corporal Steadman, how did you fare at the Gallows?"

"Well, we were passed from pillar to post before we finally gained an audience with the knight-commander, if you please," sniffed the guard disdainfully.

"I take it she did not welcome you with open arms, then?" Fenris guessed from the corporal's tone of voice.

Steadman shook his head. "She more or less told us to piss off. Said that the city guard was not required and that she and her men would take care of the investigation. She looked down her nose at us the whole time. _Lovely_ woman."

Fenris grunted softly and nodded. "And you did not see Knight-Captain Cullen?"

"No. We did see a lot of templars leaving the Gallows, though. He might have been among them."

"They were heading for the mainland?"

"Yep. We had to wait a while before the boat became free. There must have been about two dozen of them."

Fenris fell quiet for a moment, wondering when Fletcher was due to arrive back in Kirkwall. He decided that, as he was due a break soon, he would visit the Hawke residence to warn Bethany. As for Fletcher, he would have to make arrangements of some kind.

"And was Corporal Mortimer with you when you departed the Gallows?"

Steadman sighed. "He was. When we got off the boat he told me he was going to get some lunch. I warned him that he'd better get back here on time. Obviously, he didn't. I'm sorry, Corporal."

Fenris forced a smile. "He is not your responsibility." He then turned to Nash and Black. "How was Darktown?"

"We heard a few rumours of apostate movement through the Undercity," answered Black, "but nothing concrete. It's hardly a secret that apostates pass through there, anyway. I'm afraid we don't have anything to tell you, Fenris."

"Do not be disheartened," consoled the elf, who looked up as the door burst open and Corporal Mortimer entered.

"Nice of you to finally join us," Sergeant Hunter remarked aridly.

"Sorry, Sergeant," began the tardy corporal as he took a seat.

"Corporal Fenris is in charge of this investigation and you will apologise to _him_ ," commanded Hunter, his voice cold and hard.

"Yeah, sorry, Corporal," Mortimer managed, sounding anything but contrite.

Staying poised, Fenris addressed the guards who had been on time. "Take your breaks and then write your reports. You have worked hard today. Perhaps tomorrow will prove more fruitful. Thank you very much for your efforts."

The guards rose and a couple of them shook his hand and said they'd see him tomorrow. Corporal Mortimer also went to rise, but was stopped by Fenris's ice-cool edict.

" _You_ will remain here, Corporal." Without taking his eyes off Mortimer, he touched Hunter's arm. "Sergeant, will you excuse us? We will speak shortly."

"Certainly, Fenris." Hunter rose and joined the others on the way out, closing the door.

"We saw Knight-Commander Meredith. She told us to keep our beaks out," Mortimer began.

" _That_ has already been established by your colleague, who had the courtesy to return on time." Fenris placed his palms on the table and edged forward. "Is there a good reason for your tardiness?"

"I lost track of time. Look, I've already said sorry-"

"Do you mean to continue in this fashion?" Fenris broke in, his voice deadly calm.

"I don't know what you mean," claimed Mortimer, seemingly unconcerned.

"There is no room for detritus in this team. If you have neither the inclination nor the wherewithal to apply yourself, then you are surplus. There are many guards in this regiment who would consider it an honour, and not a trial, to be assigned to such an investigation. Perhaps you should think about your position, not to mention your record, which is hardly laudable."

A brief twitch of Mortimer's nostril indicated his displeasure and, unwisely, he gave voice to it. "Really? You're going to sit there and dispense career advice? You've been corporal for what, all of five minutes?"

"And there it is." Fenris shook his head, giving Mortimer an almost pitying look. "I believe I have earned my rank. You appear to be in your late forties, and yet you are of equal rank to me. Perhaps you should ask yourself why."

Mortimer pushed his chair back and loomed over Fenris, who did not appear intimidated in the slightest. "You can't talk to me like that. I'll be speaking to the lieutenant."

"Do that," Fenris murmured with a sigh as the door was flung open and Mortimer departed. After a minute, Hunter entered and closed the door.

"Got rid of him, did you?" asked the sergeant as he took a seat.

"No, he did that of his own accord." He smiled faintly as Hunter watched him closely, expecting him to swear, no doubt. "He is quite a b… bullish fellow, isn't he?"

"You twister!" Hunter exclaimed as Fenris's smile turned into a laugh. "I nearly had you there! The day's not over yet, you know!"

"Perhaps you should start a pool for Lieutenant Bradley? I have a feeling the air will turn blue when he hears of Meredith's shenanigans."

Hunter's smile faded and his expression grew serious. "Never mind Bradley – wait 'til the captain hears about it." Fenris nodded and they shared a moment of thoughtful silence before Hunter resumed. "I found his address, by the way."

Fenris leaned closer to Hunter and spoke quietly. "Do you wish to proceed, then? You are comfortable with doing this?"

Hunter nodded. "I'll take Briggs with me. He's trustworthy and will make sure we don't leave a trail."

Fenris drew a deep breath and frowned. "Do you believe what we are doing is unethical? He has given us no reason to suspect him. It is just… I do not know. A feeling."

"It's only reconnaissance work. We won't be breaking into his house or anything. We've been given leave to interview or investigate all known mage associates of Hawke. That's all it is – investigating. I'll knock on his door and see what kind of reception we get, then I'll report back to you. If we happen to peek through a few of his windows on the way out, that can't be helped."

"I… appreciate this, Darren." Fenris sighed before his frown returned. "Well, I must attend to some errands. Will you be taking lunch here? I will be gone for no longer than an hour."

"Yes, I'll have my lunch here. We can write the reports when you return."

Fenris smiled and nodded in gratitude. "I am glad to be working alongside you."

"Likewise, Fen." Hunter slapped Fenris's shoulder and moved to the door. When he opened it, Lieutenant Bradley was standing outside.

"Ah, you're still here, Fenris." Bradley entered the briefing room and exchanged a nod with the departing Hunter before closing the door. "Corporal Mortimer is waiting outside my office. Anything I should be aware of?" he asked the elf as he sat down.

"There was a… difference of opinion," mumbled the elf with a shrug.

"What, you think he's a lazy bastard and he doesn't?"

"Something like that," answered Fenris, wondering if Bradley was participating in the pool.

"All right, leave him to me." Bradley sat back, groaning, and Fenris looked at him in concern.

"Lieutenant? Is something wrong?"

"You could say that, yes." Bradley sat forward and looked dolefully at Fenris. "Listen, you might have heard that there's a pool going, and the bet is that you will swear out loud before week's end."

"I might have heard about that, yes."

"Well, I want you to know that anything you say in the next thirty seconds will be exempt. Andraste herself would probably swear at what I'm about to tell you. I know I did."

Remembering the news of several templars travelling to the mainland, panic scalded Fenris's stomach and he lurched forward in his chair. "Hawke - has something happened? His sister? Please-"

Bradley held his hands up, shaking his head. "No, nothing like that… remember when I told you that you get days when you wonder why you bother?"

"I do," Fenris replied. "What has occurred?"

"It's _Bartrand_ ," Bradley growled. "It's bad news, I'm afraid."

~o~O~o~

By the time Fletcher and his group had returned to the surface and travelled to Kirkwall, night had fallen. They'd approached Kirkwall from the northeast, which meant quick and discreet passage into Hightown, and the barracks. Just as the first houses of Hightown became visible in the gloom, Fletcher and Surana called a halt and dismounted their horses.

"What is it?" Aveline whispered.

"Someone's on the road, up ahead," Fletcher whispered back.

Swords were quietly unsheathed and Aveline also dismounted. "Sergeant Grant, fall back with the king. Keep him out of sight. Is anyone behind us, Hawke?"

"No. There are two people, approximately three hundred metres ahead."

"Can you tell if they're armed?"

"We're not _that_ good, Aveline. They're not mages, though. That's about all I can tell you."

"I think they're elves… or children," Surana surmised. "They're not very big."

"Right," agreed Fletcher. "Stay back, Aveline. We don't want to frighten them." He walked ahead a short distance. "Hello? Who's there?"

"Z'at you, 'Awke?" a small voice answered from the darkness.

" _Cricket?_ Is that you?"

"Yeah! We're up 'ere! Come a bit closer an' you'll see our fire!"

"It's all right," Fletcher reassured the others. "He's a friend of mine."

They mounted their horses and rode forward, finding Cricket and his friend Walter sitting around a small fire.

"Playing bandits, are you?" Fletcher joked as he joined the boys next to the fire, warming his hands. They glanced up as Aveline rode into view and dismounted, their mouths falling open.

"Is that the captain of the guard?" Walter asked anxiously.

"That's right, young man. What are you two doing out at this hour?"

"S'only eight bells, miss," Cricket answered immediately. "S'not my bedtime yet."

"I'm sure it isn't, but it's dangerous out here, not to mention cold. Now, what are you up to?"

"Please, miss, we're not in any danger," answered Walter. He pointed ahead to the nearest house, where the glint of the guard patrol's armour was visible. "We told the guards we was waitin' for someone on the road, and they been keepin' an eye on us."

"Were you waiting for us?" Fletcher asked as Aveline hailed her guards before walking over to them.

"Yeah," answered Walter. "Fenris told us to give you fair warnin' – the Templars are goin' round knockin' on doors. They're all over the place. 'E guessed you'd come this way, as it's the quickest way to 'ightown. 'E's warned your sister and Merrill, but couldn't find Anders nowhere."

"Shit," muttered Fletcher, and Cricket chuckled because he'd used a bad word. "Aveline?" he called.

"I've heard, Hawke," she said, striding up to them. "Bloody Meredith's on a power trip by the sound of it. We'd better get you home and safe."

"No, I'll come to the barracks with you – Fenris will probably be there."

Aveline shook her head. "I'll send Fenris to you if he's there. Your house is on the way to the keep and once I'm there I'll be tied up with the king. No offence, your Majesty."

"None taken," he answered pleasantly. "I appreciate the extra trouble you've all gone to. Messere Hawke, you should take the captain's advice. Let's get you home safely and then we'll see what can be done. I know from experience how heavy-handed the Templars can be."

"Your _Majesty_?" squealed Cricket, running to Alistair's horse. "Are you _really_ a king an' all that?"

"Sort of," Alistair laughed, "but after eight bells I knock off. _You_ may call me Alistair. Would you care to ride with me?"

"I s'pose so," Cricket answered with a cheeky grin, "but only if you go back to bein' the king for a bit."

"Oh, all right. But I want overtime," Alistair joked as Fletcher lifted the boy and passed him to Alistair.

"What about me?" Walter asked quietly, obviously put out.

"Well, you get to ride with the Commander of the Grey," Surana invited. "And I'm a commander _all_ of the time."

"Ha!" Walter taunted Cricket as he ran to join Surana.

"What about Anders?" Fletcher quietly asked Aveline.

"I'm sorry, Hawke, but you need to look after yourself and Bethany for now. I'm guessing he's found a hiding place. Let's face it, if he'd been captured the Templars would be parading him through the streets, wouldn't they?"

"I hope you're right," Fletcher mumbled.

"Let's just get you home. The king and I will speak to the viscount – he's going to need to step in, here. Meredith can't just take over one of our investigations, even if one of her own men were murdered. We're _supposed_ to work together. Come on, get on your horse."

With a sigh, Fletcher mounted Zephyr and did his best not to worry about Anders by thinking instead how much he was looking forward to seeing Fenris.

~o~O~o~

"What's in the hamper, then?" Anders asked Mallory as they moved through the tunnels by the light of his torch.

"Not telling," she teased.

"Look, I'm holding it! All I need to do is open it."

"Oh, don't! You'll spoil the surprise."

"Just give me a clue, woman! Tell me one thing! Just the one! That's not too much to ask, is it?"

Hearing Mallory's laughter from behind him, Anders's heart swelled. He'd spent most of the day with Mallory – except when she'd popped out to buy food for their picnic – and things were going very nicely between them. They'd kissed and, allowing his excitement to get the better of him, he'd moved a hand to cup her breast before retracting it and blurting an apology. And then, to his astonishment, she'd moved his hand back to her breast, slipping it beneath her blouson, and told him it was all right before kissing him again.

They hadn't gone any further but Anders's entire body hummed with anticipation of what tonight would bring. She liked him. She _really_ liked him. Maybe enough to…? He grinned to himself as they walked along, continuing their banter. He felt giddy and light-headed. This lovely, lively lady actually seemed to enjoy his company, his corny jokes and even his touch.

His smile widened. He was in love!

Justice's warnings had become so frequent that he'd been able to filter them out, like white noise, until they'd finally ceased. Now, all he could hear was the sweet lilt of Mallory's voice. How he hoped to hear that voice moaning and whispering his name later…

His stomach clenched and he halted abruptly. For a second he was unable to distinguish the sensation from the butterflies that had danced inside him for most of the day, but as his mana field flared its warning, he held an arm out to push Mallory back.

"What's the matter?"

"Shh."

The early warning system that was Justice had failed, it seemed. Usually, Anders didn't need to enter the Fade to discern the proximity of others; Justice always stepped in, but on this occasion his spirit was silent. Had Justice taken umbrage at Anders's mini-rebellion?

He closed his eyes for a second and willed himself into the Fade before opening his eyes and sighing. "Someone else is in the tunnel with us," he whispered, looking over his shoulder.

Mallory's eyes widened and she pressed herself against his back. "Are you sure?"

He nodded and raised a finger to his lips before indicating that they take the left-hand tunnel. They quickened their pace and went half a kilometre before Anders's stomach turned over, dread and panic stabbing into him.

They were being followed.

How? When Anders had initially detected the presence, it was too far away to see the light of their torch or to hear their whispered conversation. It wasn't an animal – the brief image his split-second foray into the Fade had shown him was an upright, humanoid figure. How, then, was this person tracking them? And why?

He held the torch in front of him and his stomach dropped. Magic. He'd used magic to light the torch. How could he have been so stupid?

He felt Mallory's anxious tug at his coat and turned to face her. "I think it's a templar," he communicated, sotto voce.

Her mouth fell open and she blinked several times, her breathing quickening. "Put that out!" she mouthed, pointing at the torch.

He shook his head. "Too late. Echo of casting lingers in my mana field. They sense it." He pointed back in the direction of the safehouse. "Get out of here. Now!" he whispered urgently.

"No!" she hissed. "No bloody way!"

"Where are you?" demanded a voice from up ahead that made Anders's blood run cold.

"Run!" he cried and grabbed Mallory's hand, their picnic hamper discarded as he dragged her along seemingly-endless turns and chicanes until they were hopelessly lost, their pursuer hot on their heels.

"Give it up, mage!" the templar ordered as they came face-to-face with a wall.

"This way!" Anders panted and pulled Mallory, who was now crying, along another branch which also came to a dead end.

"It's useless!" she sobbed, feeling as though there was no breath left in her lungs as Anders pulled her in another direction, slamming his palm against the wall in frustration and fury when it became clear they had nowhere to go. Before long, another point of torchlight became visible and the ominous clank of templar armour was heard as their pursuer finally caught up with them.

"Well, well. And there was me thinking I'd captured a common garden variety mage, but look who shows up! Anders, of all mages! It must be my naming day!"

"Fuck yourself, Karras!" Anders snarled as the templar drew his sword.

"I don't do men. _You_ do though, don't you, Anders? I don't know what you're doing with this pretty little thing. How about you and me go round the corner, sweetheart, and I show you a bit of swordplay, eh?"

He recoiled at Mallory's stinging slap and brought a hand to his cheek. "Ha! She's got a bit of fire in her, this one!" He raised a gauntleted hand and punched the petite woman squarely in the jaw, sending her crumpling to the ground.

"You'll die for that!" Anders bellowed, a terrible conflagration of justice and righteousness igniting within him and then he was nowhere, weightless and without substance, a harsh cacophony ringing in his ears. Sickened by the realisation of what had happened, in desperation he called upon the Fade, but it did not answer.

Gradually, his senses returned to him and he became aware of Karras, who was leaning over him, face twisted in a sadistic smile as a pale light streamed from his palms.

"You can capture me, you bastard, but I'll make you sorry," Anders slurred, as lightheaded and queasy as if he'd drunk an entire keg of ale.

" _Capture_ you? I have no intention of capturing you," Karras rasped, his breathing unsteady, almost in a sexual way, as he brought the tip of his sword to Anders's throat. "Maker, I've wanted to do this for a _long_ time. I just hope it's not over too quickly."

Anders felt Justice stir within him but the smite had taken the spirit's powers as well as his own. He closed his eyes, some part of him welcoming his end. He'd always known he would not live to be an old man, not only because he was a Warden but because he knew his and Justice's mission would eventually destroy his body, if his mind didn't go first. The burden he carried was at times too great to bear and he was exhausted, used up, and ready to rest. The only thing he would regret was Justice's passing.

Mallory, Hawke… he couldn't think about them now. He couldn't allow himself to.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

A strange sound, a combination of a gurgle and a choke, caught his attention but it was the sword clattering against the ground that snapped him out of his dream. His eyes flew open to such a bizarre sight he felt a bubble of laughter rise up in him: Karras appeared to be dancing, but it was a frantic, wildly un-coordinated dance and it wasn't until Anders noticed the cord around Karras's neck and his captor's hands desperately clawing at it that he allowed himself to hope.

Karras's spite and hatred, combined with his physical strength, meant he was not an easy target and he fought vehemently against his aggressor, at one point almost managing to turn around, but the cord was pulled tauter and the veins in Karras's neck distended, phlegm and spittle exploding from his mouth as his deadly dance slowed.

A quick glance to Anders's side indicated that Mallory was still out cold. Who…?

Karras emitted a final, harsh squawk and his arms fell to his sides, his lifeless eyes bulging and staring right through Anders as an involuntary spasm jolted his body. Then, he crashed to the ground, his head striking the stone with such ferocity that Anders heard his skull crack.

Anders glanced up, confused and terrified to see another Templar uniform, but its owner's face was in shadow.

"Who-who are you?" he demanded in little more than a croak.

"I-I couldn't let him," whimpered the distressed templar, falling to his knees, weeping, in front of Anders. His voice, low and caught on a sob, continued. "I couldn't let him… not after it has taken me so long to find you… Maker, forgive me… help me! Please!"

Anders watched him for a beat until the voice, so familiar, resonated with him and stirred long-dormant memories. Hardly daring to believe, he raised violently-trembling hands to the templar's face, seeing himself for a second before his own sobs joined his saviour's and they fell to the ground together, clinging to each other like limpets to the underside of a boat.

Anders had finally lost his mind.


	91. Tangled Webs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you all right? Did you break your arse again?"

Having seen Fletcher home, Aveline, Grant, Surana and Alistair arrived at the keep shortly before nine bells. After settling the king and commander in one of the keep's guest rooms and sending for Bran and the viscount, Aveline and Grant went to the barracks, where they found Bradley and Fenris still on duty in her office.

"We met your little friends on the road," she immediately reassured Fenris. "Hawke is at home and awaiting your arrival. Not that you'd know it – I think he only mentioned you every _five seconds_ or so. The youngsters have been taken back to Darktown by the night patrol."

Unable to contain his relief, Fenris smiled warmly and bowed to his captain. He'd been quite astonished by how much he'd missed, and fretted about, Fletcher. They'd only been apart for two days and one night, and Fenris's schedule had been full – deliberately so – yet the news that Fletcher was barely half an hour's walk away filled his belly with warmth and excitement. He then remembered that tomorrow was the tenth, their five-month anniversary, and his heart fluttered. He showed no outward sign of this, however, as he and his colleagues took their seats around Aveline's desk.

"I've heard about Meredith," she began, getting straight to the point. "We have special guests here and the viscount's been sent for. When I can get a minute with him, I'll bring it to his attention."

"Can the viscount really do anything, though?" Bradley queried. "The Chantry doesn't answer to him, does it?"

"That may be so, but a murderer is loose on our streets. Whether they're a blood mage or one of the local pissheads, they're a danger to every citizen. _We_ are charged with defending the citizens of Kirkwall, not the Templars. If the murderer was going around killing templars exclusively, then fine, but neither Alessa Douglas nor Ninette de Carac were templars, and Mharen was a _mage_. I doubt they're busting a gut over _her_ case, though. What else has been going on in my absence?" she asked Bradley.

"Mortimer's out."

"Why?" she asked, but did not appear surprised.

"He was on his last chance, anyway. I put him on Fenris's investigation but he was insubordinate and disrespectful. Fenris could cope with that, and dealt with him accordingly, but Mortimer came to me, wanting to make a complaint. I counted – he said the word 'elf' or elves' a total of nine times during his diatribe. He couldn't actually find fault with Fenris at all, besides his race. I sacked him and had him escorted from the keep this afternoon. If there'd been any doubts, Captain, I would have waited for your approval, but I wasn't sure when you'd be back and knew you'd agree anyway."

"I do," she said, nodding. "There's no room in the city guard for bigotry."

Bradley and Fenris exchanged a quick glance and Bradley sighed, meshing his fingers together on the desk. "Unfortunately, it appears he had support. We've had four walk-outs and two no-shows since word got out."

"Who?" she demanded angrily.

"Butcher, Jones, Patterson and Johnson walked right in the middle of their shifts. Stanton, Redbridge and Crawley didn't show up for the night shift, but Stanton's wife called in to the keep saying he was sick. I think it's genuine – he didn't have much to do with Mortimer and his partner said he was looking a bit peaky yesterday. The other two, however, are drinking buddies of Mortimer."

Aveline breathed slowly through her nose, her jaw twitching as she ground her teeth. "Grant," she pushed a few blank pieces of paper towards her sergeant, "make a note. First thing tomorrow, the walkers will be called upon and their armour and guard-issue arms retrieved. And tell them they'd better hope they don't run into me in a dark alley. Also, issue an on-the-spot fine of ten sovereigns – that's what it'll cost us to cover their shifts for the week. Actually, make it fifteen for the inconvenience. If they don't pay up immediately, a week's imprisonment, and the fine still stands. That goes for the no-shows as well, unless they have a very good reason for not doing their shift. And by a very good reason, I mean they're either dead or dying."

"Yes, Captain," replied Grant as he scribbled down her instructions.

"I also want a notice put up first thing in the morning. I want every guard here, outside my office, during each of the three changeovers. Attendance is mandatory. Let's just see their expressions when I tell them they'll have not only elves among them, but dwarves as well."

"Dwarves?" Bradley asked in surprise.

"That's right. The termination of the mining operation means a lot of men will be out of work. I've asked Donnic to let it be known that if any of them fancy trying out for the Guard, and if they're suitable, all will be welcome." She turned to Fenris. "You've started something, Corporal. The viscount mentioned that he was pleased to see an elf in the Guard, so I thought it a good opportunity to raise a couple of initiatives I had in mind.

"First, the Reserve Guard – I believe I mentioned it to you once, Evan. This is why I need to start recruiting. In times of crisis, I want extra troops to call upon. They'll all have to be trained, which will need extra man-hours and money. Considering what happened in Lowtown with the poison gas, the viscount readily agreed. Then I told him that, as Fenris had worked out so well, I was considering recruiting other elves. Do you know what he said? 'Why restrict it to elves?' That surprised me. In a good way. He's not a bad old stick."

"There might be some opposition," Bradley warned.

"Well, they know where the door is, don't they? And if they don't give sufficient notice, the same penalty applies. Fifteen sovereigns. I won't stand for racism, not in my regiment," she finished on a determined note.

"Not that I'm opposed, Captain, but would dwarves _make_ good guards?" Grant asked. "They can't ride horses for a start, and I don't imagine they can run very fast."

"Trust _you_ to think of the horses," she replied with a wry smile. "You are correct in that, but there's plenty of work at the keep or when the viscount and his guests are out and about - sentry or bodyguard duty, for example. I for one would think twice about taking on a burly dwarf wielding a maul, wouldn't you?"

"Certainly would, Captain," Grant answered, satisfied.

" _You're_ very quiet for a pioneer," Bradley teased Fenris, his words having the expected effect on the elf.

"A… what? I…" He laughed awkwardly and cleared his throat, squirming very slightly as his three colleagues grinned at him.

"Get yourself home, Fenris," Aveline ordered, pointing at the door, "before Hawke comes looking for you."

"But get yourself back here nice and early in the morning," added Grant. "We've got to start your horse training."

"Uh… I requested leave for tomorrow," Fenris said apologetically.

Bradley nodded. "That's right, I okay-d it, Captain. He doesn't have any leave entitlement, but he has plenty of banked hours. Hunter will oversee the blood mage investigation while he's gone."

"Anything special planned?" Aveline asked the elf.

"Perhaps," Fenris replied with a small shrug, his cheeks burning. "It is… my and Fletcher's anniversary."

"Anniversary?" she exclaimed. "Hawke said he had something planned for tomorrow but I thought that was because you'd been apart for a bit! How long have you been together? It can't have been a year!"

"Five months," he answered quietly, his eyes cast down. "Since we met, that is. It has been three months and sixteen days since we… well…" He shrugged again, fearing his face would combust.

"A very important date, that!" Bradley chortled. "First kiss?"

Fenris nodded, eyes closed, and fond laughter rang around the office. "Well, if there is nothing more," mumbled the elf, his eyes snapping open and flitting to the door.

"Off you go. And have fun," Aveline said. "Grant, see him to the Hawke residence, and then knock off for the night. And I'll put you on lates tomorrow. Have a lie-in. You're going to be a very busy horse trainer soon."

"Please, Captain, there is no need-" Fenris began to protest, but Aveline shook her head.

"Grant's going your way," she insisted, erring on the side of caution in case Mortimer and his mates had got drunk and gone looking for trouble.

"On the way out, I'll introduce you to Rose," Grant offered, rising to his feet. "She's a lovely little filly, just the right size for you."

"I would like that," answered Fenris, also standing. "Goodnight to you all."

"Night, you two," said Bradley as they departed.

"Evan? How many banked hours does Fenris have?" Aveline asked her deputy.

Bradley shook his head. "I've lost count. If he's not with Hawke, he's here. He's a bloody grafter, I'll tell you that. We could do with a few more like him."

She crooked an arm and rested her cheek on her fist as she thought for a minute. "You know… I think we could make an officer out of him, once his reading and writing's up to scratch. What do you think? Or am I pushing too hard? I wouldn't want anyone to think he's a token. I'd recommend anybody who applies themselves as much as Fenris for officer training as well."

"Well, like you said yourself, anyone who thinks he's a token knows where the door is. I believe he'd make a great officer. You have my support, if that's what you're asking, Captain."

"Good. Donnic also agrees."

Bradley nodded. "Good. Right, then… now that we're alone, I need to give you the bad news."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "I _knew_ there'd be something. Out with it, then."

Shaking his head, Bradley groaned and sank back in the chair. "The thing is… you know we've sort of been holding Bartrand and Angrim here against the magistrate's express instructions?"

"Yes…"

"Well," Bradley leaned forward and stared down at his hands. "Bartrand must have got wind of that, or else he was just trying his luck, but he _wrote_ to the magistrate, telling him he was still imprisoned here, in direct contravention of the rules stating that no prisoner may be held for more than a week without charges being brought about."

"The cheeky bastard! How dare he!"

"That's not the worst of it, Captain. The magistrate sent one of his minions over here this afternoon to tell us His Nibs is spitting feathers, and will be calling at the barracks at an unspecified time tomorrow. I told the magistrate's representative that the prisoners have already been released. I had no choice then but to release them…"

Aveline closed her eyes, unable to verbalise her reaction.

"… _Officially,_ that is."

Her eyes opened and she stared at her lieutenant across the desk. "And… unofficially?"

Bradley returned her stare and did not answer.

After a moment's pause to collect her thoughts, she sprang from her seat and started pacing. "Right. Get them moved. Anywhere but here. And we need to contact the dwarves-"

"I've sent an urgent message to the Council of Surface Dwarves."

She halted, a quick smile fleeting across her lips. "I should have known. Evan, I know you've been on duty since this morning and normally I wouldn't ask, but with the king here-"

"You take care of the king, Captain, and I'll sort this out. Bartrand's been an arse to the jailors downstairs and I'm sure they'll be more than happy to help out. No one else need know."

"Does Fenris know?"

He nodded. "I asked him not to speak of it to anyone for now. He offered to stay behind and assist but he's personally involved and I didn't think it was a good idea."

"You did the right thing," she agreed before leaning against her desk and sighing. "Maker, this is going to be tight. This could mean our jobs if we cock up. Where will you take them?"

"How about the Gallows? I'll tell the Templars that Bartrand knows a few blood mages," he deadpanned.

She laughed humourlessly. "Don't tempt me."

"I'll think of something." He held his hand out to Aveline and she unlocked a drawer in her desk, passing him a large bunch of keys. "Leave it to me, Captain," he assured her with a bow before heading for the door.

"Evan?"

He turned back. "Yes, Captain?"

"It's good to know that I still have men like you around. Well done, Lieutenant."

With a grim smile, he nodded and left the office.

~o~O~o~

"Oh, he's adorable!" Bethany cooed, taking a seat in the parlour. Her brother was seated on the floor, legs akimbo, tickling the belly of the fat, playful nug which lay between his thighs. Occasionally, Fletcher spun the nug around on the wooden floor, causing the creature to writhe on its back and squeal in excitement.

Leandra had greeted her son sincerely, if not effusively, and also took a seat next to Bethany, having brought in a tray of tea and cakes. Mother and son had spoken a few times and a semi-comfortable accord seemed to have formed between them. Tufty, of course, provided the perfect excuse for them to speak without actually discussing anything.

"What do they eat, Fletcher?" Leandra asked. "Does he require a special diet?"

"Oh, no, Mother. Kitchen scraps, leftovers, anything, really. We fed him on the way here. He's quite fond of apples and acorns. I suppose I'd better make sure he doesn't grow _too_ big, else he won't be able to get around properly."

"Was that the door I just heard?" Bethany piped up, and Fletcher gasped and began scrambling to his feet. "Oh, my mistake. Sorry, Brother," she teased.

"Oh, don't!" he whined with an exaggerated pout as his sister cackled gleefully. "Mother, tell Beth to stop being so mean."

"Tell her yourself. You _are_ the head of the family, aren't you, dear?" asked Leandra calmly, and Fletcher was overjoyed when an indulgent smile was sent his way.

"Don't _want_ to be head of the family anymore," he grumbled, affecting a childish voice as Tufty tried to burrow under his leg.

"Ah… now _that_ was the door," Leandra announced as a quiet sequence of taps sounded at the front door. "That was rather like Fenris's knock. Are we expecting him?" she joked.

"Okay… okay… everyone just _stay_ _calm_." Fletcher wriggled to his feet and smoothed down his clothes and hair before sniffing his armpits. "Do I look all right?"

"You look exactly the same as you did when you last saw him," replied Bethany, "which was _yesterday."_

"I'll have you know it was the day _before_ yesterday." He instructed Tufty to stay put before moving to the door. "Ready, Beth?"

"Ready, Brother," she laughed.

Fletcher went into the hall and approached the front door, grinning stupidly as he opened it. There stood his man, bathed in moonlight and looking so handsome Fletcher was sure it should be outlawed.

"Hello, there," he mumbled through a shit-eating smile.

"Hello, there," Fenris replied, affecting a frown as the lower half of his face rebelled and quivered along with his belly.

"Come in, then."

Fenris stepped inside and Fletcher closed the door. "May I take your clothes?" Fletcher offered. "All of them?"

Fenris's frown melted away and he shoved Fletcher aside before he was pulled into a tight hug. "I missed you," Fletcher said, kissing the top of the elf's head. "Are you okay? Everything all right at the barracks?"

Fenris drew back and smiled, the impact of the news about Bartrand considerably softened by his lover's presence. He briefly pondered Fletcher's reaction to the news but decided he would wait until they'd eaten, when Fletcher's mood would be mellower. "I will tell you all about my day later, when we have spent some time together. Is all well with you? I trust you did not encounter any templars today? And why has the mining operation been stopped?"

"Let's talk about the boring stuff later," Fletcher cajoled with a boyish grin. "I'm just happy to bounce up and down and make gurgling noises for now."

"No change _there_ , then."

"Come on," Fletcher said, grabbing the elf's hand. "Mother's waiting in the parlour with tea and cakes. And I have a surprise for you. You're going to be _so_ surprised!"

A slender eyebrow rose and Fenris eyed Fletcher with suspicion. "Is this going to be something… silly, perchance?"

" _Silly_ is relative, dear elf. One man's silly is another man's bread and butter."

"Just as I thought." Fenris sighed as he was dragged to the parlour, though the fluttering of his stomach had not abated. Fletcher released his hand when they reached the parlour and pushed the door open. Fenris remained in the doorway, carefully scrutinising the room until he spotted Leandra, who was stirring the teapot. He finally entered and greeted her with a bow.

"Good evening, uh…"

"Leandra," she prompted with a smile. "And a very good evening to you, Fenris. Do make yourself at home."

"Thank you." He moved to a small armchair opposite Fletcher's mother, a cautious eye on the mage, not knowing what to expect, as he sat down. "Is Bethany at home?" he enquired.

"She is," answered Fletcher with a _something-silly-is-coming_ smile. "She's been looking after a very special friend of ours. Beth?"

The far door was opened and, before Fenris knew what was happening, he was pitched backwards in the chair by a squealing, oinking blur of skin and fur. All Leandra could see was a pair of well-worn slippers poking over the seat of the upturned chair and she hastened to her feet as Fletcher pulled the nug off Fenris, while Bethany, doubled over with laughter, could do nothing useful at all.

"Sorry, Fen! I didn't think he'd do that! He's stronger than I thought!" Fletcher grabbed Tufty and pulled him away from the decidedly cross-looking elf as Leandra helped Fenris to his feet, while the sniggering Bethany righted the chair.

"You have _purchased_ one of those… _things?"_ Fenris demanded irascibly, dusting himself off.

"This isn't one of those _things_! This is Tufty! Don't you remember him?"

"He certainly remembers you," Bethany provided unnecessarily.

Fenris tilted his head, remembering that he was in company, and examined the nug carefully as Fletcher struggled to restrain it. "Tufty? But he is-"

" _Enormous_ ," Fletcher finished, breaking into a sweat as the nug's wriggling began to make his arms ache.

"I'll fetch the lyrium," said Bethany, quickly moving to the neighbouring room. Fenris watched her leave before his eyes darted to the entrance of the parlour and then back to the second door.

"Looking for someone else, Fen?" Fletcher teased.

"Should I be?" challenged the elf.

"I was just wondering if you were looking for Sprinkles, that's all."

"Well? _Is_ he here? Should I expect to be swept off my feet when he appears through the other door? If so, a word of warning would be welcome so I might first brace myself against a piece of furniture which is fixed to the floor."

"Don't worry, you're safe for now," Fletcher explained with a wink. "He's still in the Deep Roads."

Fenris folded his arms and pursed his lips, while Leandra took her seat and resumed pouring the tea.

At that moment Bethany returned, carrying a large hunk of pale blue glass. Noticing Fenris's look of horror, she smiled and placed the rock next to Tufty and Fletcher. "This is a piece of the special lyrium Fletcher found in the Deep Roads," she reassured the elf. "It's not dangerous to either of us. Now, watch."

Tufty ceased struggling and instead turned to the lyrium, his nose twitching. Gingerly, Fletcher released him and the nug glanced between Fenris and the lyrium, torn between the two.

"Go," Fenris ordered, pointing at the blue rock.

Tufty sniffed at the rock before curling up next to it, his tail swishing as he gazed lovingly up at the elf amid delighted laughter from the women.

"Are you _smiling_ , Fenris, or do you have wind?" Fletcher asked.

Immediately, Fenris forced the edges of his mouth down. "No! It is w-I mean… guh! _Fimus!"_

Fletcher gasped and ran out of the room to his study, returning a minute later with a piece of paper, which he studied with growing excitement. "Fimus… fimus… here it is! Yessss! You said a curse word! I win! Hahahaha!"

"I _knew_ you were behind it!" Fenris hissed, striding across the room and snatching the list of curses from Fletcher before waving it under the mage's nose. "This scheme had 'Fletcher Hawke' written all over it! How many bets did you take? How much money do you stand to make from mocking someone you profess to care for?"

The entrance door quietly clicked to as the ladies discreetly excused themselves while Fletcher, stunned and crestfallen, blurted out apologies.

"I-I didn't mean it like that, Fen, it was just a bit of fun! I'm sorry!"

" _Fun?_ Yes, the entire Kirkwall Guard is having _fun_ at my expense, following me, lurking around corners, waiting, always waiting without rest! Do you have any idea how trying an experience this has been for me? And to discover that the man I love is the architect of my humiliation… this is… this is too much. I-I need to sit down."

He slumped onto a nearby settee, a hand plastered to his brow as he mournfully shook his head. Horrified, Fletcher slowly moved to his side and sat down, fearing he'd ruined their reunion. "Shit, Fen, I'm so sorry. I-I'll call off the pool… refund everyone's money. I… oh, Maker. I just thought… I thought you might find it funny… shit…"

A hooded green eye turned in his direction and, recognising the impish gleam, Fletcher gasped again, his mouth forming an elongated circle.

"I had you going there, didn't I?"

"Oh!" Fletcher shrieked. "You-you _charlatan_! I can't _believe_ … oh! Just… _oh!_ "

Fenris sat back on the settee and laughed, pleased with himself, as he launched the screwed-up piece of paper at Fletcher's forehead.

"You'll pay for that!" averred the mage.

"Too easy, my dear."

"I'll show _you_ easy!" Fletcher grabbed Fenris's arms and wrestled him onto his back, settling between the elf's legs before Fenris loosed an arm and pushed hard on Fletcher's hip, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

When they'd stopped laughing, Fenris crawled on top of Fletcher and looked down at him. "Are you all right? Did you break your arse again?"

"Oh! _Another_ one! Wait 'til I tell your friends at the barracks! I can't wait-"

"Where are your witnesses, mage?"

"You… you wouldn't!"

"Arse."

"Oh, my Maker! What's happened to you?"

" _Arse._ Arse, arse, arse, arse, _arse."_

Fletcher attempted to grab Fenris's arms again but was too slow for the nimble elf. "Just you wait!" the mage threatened. "I'm going to ravish you, right here on the floor, and I'll call for Beth and Mother! They'll walk right in on us!"

"I _seriously_ doubt you would do that. _Aaaaarse_. "

"I'll do something if you don't stop saying arse!"

"A-mmph!" Fenris squirmed, his body quaking with laughter, as Fletcher clamped a hand over his mouth and rolled him onto his back.

"Are you going to stop saying arse?"

Fenris relaxed and nodded. Fletcher slowly uncovered Fenris's mouth, eyes narrowed distrustfully.

"Asinus."

"Oh, you little-!"

"Supper's ready!" Bethany called from outside. "When you two have finished pretending to quarrel, that is."

Feeling pressure against his leg, Fenris looked over Fletcher's shoulder as Tufty snuggled in the space between their knees and lay down. "This is how my life is going to be henceforth, isn't it?" he asked with a resigned groan.

"Do you mind?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"You know where the door is," teased the mage.

Fenris laughed, reminded of Aveline's words from earlier. "It is rather a chilly evening. I believe I will stay. For now."

Fletcher grinned and beckoned the elf closer with his index finger, pulling him close for a quick kiss. "I suppose we'd better join the ladies," he mumbled as Fenris's lips brushed against his own. "Don't worry, though, I'll chuck them out at first light. And then you're all mine."

Fenris rolled his eyes and snorted. "What a loving, caring son you are, Fletcher. A credit to the Hawke family, to be sure."

"Why, thank you, Ser Elf! And now if you've quite finished trying to paw me while my _mother_ and _sister_ are in the next room, they've gone to the trouble of making you _supper._ Honestly, do you think about nothing but sex?"

Fenris tutted, pushed Fletcher off him and stood up, careful not to step on Tufty as he moved to the door, leaving Fletcher struggling to gain purchase on the slippery wooden floor. "Come along, Tufty. Ser Mage is too busy being a nitwit to join us."

"Fenris?"

"Yes?"

"Happy Anniversary for tomorrow."

Fenris turned back to the mage, who was still on the floor and wearing an innocent, wide-eyed expression.

"Nice try," Fenris muttered as he and Tufty departed, leaving Fletcher to haul himself up. By the time he'd caught up to the elf, both men were smiling.

~o~O~o~

Points of clarity began to stab through the fog as his mana field spluttered into life, his ears still hurting from the metallic screeching that rang through them as he rolled onto his back, panting. He screwed his eyes closed and then opened them wide, the blurring of his vision less pronounced but still there. As his eyes gradually adjusted, he listened.

To his left there was shuffling as Ruben – yes, it really _was_ Ruben – pushed up into a sitting position, an occasional ragged exhalation bursting forth. To his right he heard soft groaning as Mallory slowly came to. Anders barely had the strength to raise his own head, let alone consider his situation, yet his mind was churning out random, disjointed information and memories at breakneck speed.

He promised he'd find me. He said he would do anything to find me. _Anything_. Even join the Templars? Did he do that for me?

Is he okay?

Ser Thrask.

We used to play Templar and Mage when we were little. He said it'd prepare me to run, hide, if ever they caught me. He knew, even then, but it was never talked about because of Mother and Father.

Thrask had a daughter, Olivia, a mage. They still… they were still father and daughter. Family? They didn't let their differences divide them. Didn't _want_ them to, anyway.

Are Mother and Father still alive? Do they ever think about me?

He said he was my elder brother and that he'd always protect me. And he did…

_He is a templar. You must sever all ties-_

_**Oh, really? I didn't see** _ **you** _**leap to my defence back there. If it wasn't for him we'd both be dead by now.** _

_My powers are inextricably linked to your own. Your churlishness ill befits you. Get him gone. His presence will draw others near, and we are in no position to defend ourselves._

"Anders?"

"Shh, Mal. It's all right." With a monumental effort, he turned onto his side to face her, his jumbled thoughts retreating. Mallory clutched at her head as she pushed to her knees, and Anders spotted blood trickling from her nose. "That's it, sit up," he advised, laying a leaden hand on her leg as she slumped against the wall. "Mal, listen… there's another templar with us. Don't be frightened."

Her eyes opened and she emitted a sharp exclamation as she took in the hunched, armoured figure to Anders's right side. She then looked at the prone form of Karras and frowned, trying in vain to figure out what had happened.

Anders attempted to turn back to Ruben but the effort of hauling his body around was too much and a bitter laugh escaped his mouth. "Well, we're in a right old pickle, aren't we?"

Keeping one eye on the strange templar, Mallory slipped a lyrium potion out of Anders's pack and opened it, bringing it to his mouth. "Here, Anders."

"No," Ruben directed, reaching across and pushing the small phial away from Anders's mouth.

"She needs healing, Ruben." Anders touched Ruben's hand and the templar sighed, wrapping his fingers around Anders's. Mallory watched as the men's eyes met and Ruben squeezed Anders's hand harder. Both men appeared to struggle with their emotions for a moment before Ruben released Anders's hand and looked away.

"There are others in the tunnel," Ruben whispered with a fearful glance at Karras's body. "They will be able to locate us if your mana is replenished. For now, Luka, you must refrain. I am sorry."

"Luka?" Mallory mumbled, and Anders released a sigh, closing his eyes. "What-what's going on? Who are you?"

"There will be time for explanations later, dear lady," said Ruben with an apologetic grimace as he sat on his trembling hands, not wanting her to see how frightened he was. "We must decide what we are going to do."

"But Anders can't do _anything_ without lyrium!" she protested before Ruben shushed her.

"I must go and ensure that none of my brethren finds you. I assume you came here from Lowtown – return there when his mana has sufficiently replenished. I will attempt to lead the others away from here in the hope that you can make your escape."

"I fear it is too late for that, Knight-Lieutenant."

Ruben's stomach dropped upon hearing the voice behind him. He stood and slowly turned around, while Mallory wrapped protective arms around Anders.

Knight-Captain Cullen stood before them, sword drawn, his eyes fixed on Karras's corpse. For a long, fraught moment, no one spoke and then Ruben's words, barely contained, spilled out of his mouth.

"He was going to _murder_ this mage in cold blood, Knight-Captain, and more besides. He would have committed indecent and wicked acts upon him. I heard it with my own ears. Many mages at the Gallows have made similar claims against this man – claims which have been _ignored_ by our commander. I could _not_ stand idly by and allow him to carry out his threat," he explained, his voice trembling in outrage.

Cullen moved forward and prodded Karras's body with the tip of his sword, apparently not distressed by his passing. "He is dead?"

Ruben merely nodded, rendered silent by the burden of sin he felt on his shoulders.

Another weighty silence fell as Cullen glanced first at Ruben, then at Anders. The knight-captain then moved to the mouth of the small chamber and looked left and right before stepping back inside. "I knew the resemblance was too much of a coincidence," he sighed and Mallory took a closer look at Ruben, her heart leaping as his profile was brought into sharp focus by the light of Cullen's torch. "How long have you been in contact with each other?"

"This is the first time we have met in twelve years, Knight-Captain," answered Ruben solemnly. "I swear it in the sight of Andraste and the Maker."

"Cullen," Anders croaked as he tried to push himself up. "Tell them I killed Karras if you like. But don't blame Ruben – he took no pleasure in killing. _Look_ at him."

"I… see his contrition," Cullen quietly replied, having noticed Ruben's red eyes and trembling hands. He removed his gauntlets, tucking them under his arm, and scrubbed his face. His next action, whatever it was, would have far-reaching consequences. His duty dictated that he capture this apostate, but having Anders at the Gallows could prove disastrous. The Gallows mages were, with a few exceptions, settled and co-operative, but divisions were starting to occur in the Templar Order, and Cullen did not doubt that Anders would take full advantage of that – not to mention create divisions of his own among the mages.

If he did _not_ capture Anders, however, he would have his conscience and his vows to the Maker to grapple with. But Cullen was just one man.

"Anders," he finally said, straightening up. "You will be taken to the Gallows. You knew this was inevitable. Prepare yourself and let us not have any unpleasantness."

"No!" Mallory cried and Ruben stepped closer to Cullen, his hands clasped together in supplication.

"Ser, please, if you will just-"

" _You_ will see to that, Ser Ruben," Cullen interrupted, his tone stern. "Now that Karras is… I will take the men to the southern end of the tunnels to continue the search. Be wary that you do not fall prey to bandits as Karras did. If you return to the Gallows late, and without Anders, then I will know why. But you _will_ return."

Without another word, he turned his back on the threesome and moved to the entrance, but was stopped by Ruben's hand on his arm, the lieutenant's voice wavering as he spoke.

"Ser, you are… I can't… thank you. _Thank you_."

"Do _not_ thank me," Cullen ground out as he once again glanced outside. "Return to the Gallows when your investigation is concluded. We will not speak of this again."

Ruben waited a minute until the sound of Cullen's footfalls faded before he turned and walked to Anders's side, reaching for the lyrium potion and passing it back to Mallory. "It should be safe, now," he instructed in a whisper. He then moved away and stood over Karras in silent contemplation, his back to Anders and Mallory.

"Don't feel bad," Anders urged, his vitality returning as the lyrium potion took effect. "You've done nothing wrong. Karras was an animal. Good riddance, I say."

Ruben remained as still as a statue, finding no words in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Carrie, snippet wrangler!
> 
> Fimus = shit, excrement


	92. Anima Mea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And he brings out the puppy eyes! Bam! Faster and more devastating than a templar's smite!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! I hope the festive season was good to you and that you have a wonderful 2013! Thank you all so much for your support over the last year.
> 
> This chapter contains potentially nausea-inducing levels of fluff, as well as a bit of elven love poetry. And sorry for the 'Tevene' (which is really Latin) - Fenris's voice just sounds so hot saying it in my head. Translations provided in footnotes.

It was just like the ghost stories his father had told him when he'd been little: a man, standing at the end of a long, dark hallway without a torch or light source to guide him. Only an intimation of moonlight, cast through his window, showed Fletcher the way, but it extended no further than his bedroom door; the rest of the landing was in darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, however, the spectral, indistinct outlines of the four other doors on the landing were hinted at, only to fade out of existence when he averted his eyes.

He was a grown man, and knew this was silly, but things looked different at night, seemed to take on an unfriendly, unwholesome dimension. _Had_ that shadow in the corner just moved, ever such a tiny bit? _Was_ that merely a tree branch tapping on a window pane somewhere, or something else? And could he really hear soft, inhibited breathing a short distance away, or was he imagining things?

He held his breath and listened, wondering what he was frightened of. As a mage, he knew that 'ghosts' couldn't exist on the mortal plane. There were demons, of course, but he had not summoned his, and others could not reach him unless he was in the Fade. He knew for certain he was not in the Fade, however, and therefore in no danger whatsoever. Why, then, did he feel like a seven-year old, sitting on his father's knee with bated breath, waiting for the scary creature in the story to burst out of a closet and for his father to shout, 'Boo!'?

He slowly released his breath and listened, his heart in his mouth. He was _certain_ he was not alone in the hallway, but didn't want to call on the Fade to ascertain who/what/where his mysterious companion was, because Fenris was at the end of the hall, and Fletcher didn't want to wake him. Or rather, he did, but not until he was in the elf's bed. Or maybe he'd just slip under the covers and hold him, allowing Fenris to wake in his own time?

There was another possibility, however. Fenris might be awake and waiting for him. When Fletcher had bid the elf goodnight and said he'd see him in the morning, Fenris had held his eyes for just a second longer than usual before saying his own goodnight. Fletcher knew what that look meant and hadn't been able to sleep for excitement. The only thing he didn't know was who would be sneaking into whose room?

"Is-" He hesitated, feeling foolish for possibly speaking to a figment of his imagination. "Is that you?" he whispered.

A soft sigh, almost a groan, came from a little way up the landing. "I thought you were your mother!" hissed Fenris from the shadows.

Fletcher immediately closed his eyes and shielded them, unnecessarily, with his hand. "I'm not looking. You'll make me jump. I don't know where you are."

"To your left."

Fletcher heard the quiet padding of slipper-clad feet and slowly opened his eyes, removing his hand as he felt Fenris draw near.

"A mage who is afraid of the dark," Fenris commented with a smidgen of amusement.

"Shut it, elf." Fletcher fumbled for one of Fenris's hands and led the elf into his room, carefully closing the door without making a sound. Once safely inside, both men leaned against the door and laughed.

"An elf who's afraid of my mother."

"Shut it, mage."

"Well, that's no way to speak to your host!" Fletcher teased as Fenris moved to the window and sat on the sill, crossing one leg over the other. Fletcher remained next to the door and gazed at his lover, whose face was illuminated by the moonlight, which lent a delicate beauty to the handsome elf. "Maker, you're lovely," Fletcher uttered softly, his stomach in knots as Fenris sent an inviting smile his way.

He moved closer to the window and prodded Fenris's thigh, indicating that he move along, and took a seat next to him. "Even after all this time you can reduce me to a puddle of goo with a smile, do you know that?"

Fenris's smile widened and he tilted his head, knowing such displays of coquettishness pleased Fletcher. "After all this time? Five months? And a mere three-and-a-half months of _not_ wanting to kill each other?"

"I've never wanted to kill you," Fletcher smiled, moving his hands to cover Fenris's, "except when you pulled that little stunt about the betting pool not long ago."

"I believe we are now even." Fenris shuffled a little closer. "But… enough small talk. What were your intentions, Ser Mage, when you bravely traversed the darkened landing, seeking entrance to my room? No – I am in error. When you bravely _stood outside your bedroom door with your eyes closed."_

Fletcher pushed his chin out, his lips pursed. "Nobody likes a smart-talking elf, you know."

Fenris bowed his head, his smile waning slightly. "It is thanks to you that I have found my sense of humour, my… confidence."

"No." Shaking his head, Fletcher brought his hands up, gently cradling the elf's face. "You don't owe me anything. This is you, the real you. You were just hiding, that's all."

"And then you found me." Fenris raised his head, his eyes meeting Fletcher's. "Until the night we met upon the steps of the alienage, I was lost. I encountered many people before then, but you, Fletcher… you _found_ me in the darkness. You were my light, as you remain to this day. It took me a long time to realise, and appreciate, that. The time you spent with me, the kindness you showed me… it was not something I could easily accept. But you did not give up on me, no matter how many times I lashed out or threw your kindness – your _love_ – back at you."

Both men were silent for a moment and, touched by Fenris's words, Fletcher fought to keep his voice steady when he replied. "I could see there was a diamond inside that piece of coal. I just needed to keep chipping away. And each time I did, just like uncovering a diamond, I discovered a new facet, more brilliant than the last. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with you. I think… I think I can remember exactly when that was."

"Oh?" asked the elf, his tone warm.

Fletcher nodded. "The first thing that really got me thinking was when we met Merrill, and we were standing on the summit of Sundermount, looking out to sea. You said something like, 'the silence is beautiful.' I hadn't known you for long and wasn't sure I liked you very much, but that made me see you in a different light. It was after we'd engaged the Tal-Vashoth at Dead Man's Pass, though, that I really knew. Do you remember when Anders and Beth moved us to safety and left us on our own for a while? You fell asleep on my shoulder. When I awoke and saw you there, I wanted to wrap my arms around you and never let go. That was when I knew it was more than some silly crush."

Fenris glanced out of the window, slowly nodding, the pale moon reflected in his eyes. "Yes. That was the night I also felt… the beginning of something. It was _before_ we encountered the Tal-Vashoth. You examined me, placed your hands on me. I was afraid, and when your examination was concluded, I was relieved. However, that was no fault of yours – you were very gentle. It is just that I had not allowed anyone so close since…"

He sighed and ventured a glance at Fletcher. "The way you looked at me afterwards… I saw something in your eyes that I had not previously noticed, or perhaps I had refused to acknowledge it. You glanced at my mouth and I knew, finally, what you wanted. What you did not know at the time was that I _also_ wanted it. I _wanted_ you to kiss me. For the first time in three years I wanted to experience another's touch. _Your_ touch. I… yearned for it, yet also feared it."

"I thought I was imagining it." Fletcher laughed softly and held Fenris's chin between finger and thumb. "I wouldn't have gone ahead, though. I knew how frightened you were. It was one of those moments, like when two strangers' eyes meet across a crowded room. I would have controlled myself, as difficult as it was. I didn't kiss you, did I?"

"So it was nothing to do with the fact that the Tal-Vashoth arrived at that very moment?" Fenris queried sceptically.

"Well, their timing was rotten, but I would have reined myself in. Somehow."

"Mm," Fenris mumbled in jest, sounding like he didn't believe a word of it, although he really did. Fletcher pulled him close and they sat quietly on the window sill, leaning against each other, before Fletcher rose and held a hand out.

"Come to bed," he invited softly.

Fenris took Fletcher's hand and stood up, but did not move when Fletcher began to lead him to the bed. "You know that I couldn't possibly… not now that your mother and sister are aware we have shared the same bed? In this house?"

Fletcher nodded at the door, and Fenris turned to look. "There's a bolt on the door now, after Ser Fenris broke in and very nearly had his wicked way with me. And tonight, _you_ were on your way to _my_ room, as I recall."

"Yes, but that was because… I was cold," mumbled the elf unconvincingly.

Fletcher folded his arms. "So you were on your way to ask if I'd light a fire in your room? Or for an extra blanket?"

Fenris shrugged, his mouth contorting with the effort of not smiling.

"Uh-huh," Fletcher replied, moving to the door. "Okay, then, I'll see to that now-"

"Wait." Fenris stepped closer to the door, placing his hand on the bolt. "You are afraid of the dark, are you not? I would not see you subjected to such terrors for the sake of my comfort."

"How very gallant of you." Fletcher's hand also moved to the bolt, his thumb stroking along Fenris's knuckles. "Well, shall I light a fire in here? Or will we make our own warmth?"

Fenris's eyes lingered on the door, and he knew very well that Fletcher would _not_ be lighting a fire, but also knew that both men enjoyed this little game. "We… tend to make a lot of noise. Your mother or sister might-"

"I can be quiet if you can," Fletcher promised with a crafty smile.

After a brief pause, the bolt was slid across by Fenris, who grabbed Fletcher's hand and practically dragged him to the side of the bed.

"Well, I'm glad to see my powers of persuasion are still tip-top," laughed the mage. "I really had to play hard ball there, didn't I?"

"Quiet, _Lux Mea,"_ whispered the elf, a tender light in his eyes as he moved his hands to rest against Fletcher's chest.

"What-what does that mean?" asked Fletcher in an excited whisper. "Are you talking dirty to me? I don't have my list!"

Fenris shook his head and gently tugged at the mage's tunic. "Vestes deponeret, Lux Mea."

"V-vestes?" Fletcher asked hoarsely, his insides turned to liquid by Fenris's mysterious instructions. "Clothing? You want me to-?"

Fenris stepped back and nodded once. "Lente, Lux Mea."

Getting the gist, Fletcher slowly pulled his tunic over his head and let it fall to the floor. "Lux Mea? Is that to be my name for tonight?"

"In aeternum."

Smiling, Fletcher closed the gap between them and took off Fenris's tunic, which joined his own on the floor. "Te amo, Fenris. In aeternum*."

"You have been studying, I see," observed the elf, only to be silenced as Fletcher placed a finger against his lips.

"Keep speaking Tevene," the mage requested. "It sounds so nice coming from you. _Homo meus, candidior cycnis, hedera formosior alba*."_

Fenris's head fell back and he laughed in delight. "Where did you-?"

"Did I get it right?" Fletcher asked hopefully. "I bought a Tevene dictionary. That's all I know, though. It took me an hour to work it out. I wanted to say it to you tonight. Did it make sense?"

"It did," Fenris replied proudly, taking a seat on the bed and bidding Fletcher to sit at his side. "I… also have something to say to you." Once the mage was seated, Fenris took one of his hands and smiled again, looking his lover in the eye before quietly clearing his throat.

"Let us live, Lux Mea, let us love, and all the talk of the stern old men, may it be worth but a penny. Suns may set, and suns may rise again, but when our brief light has set, night is one long everlasting sleep**. Let us love on this night, and cast all cares aside, as if it were our last. For your light, Lux Mea, no matter how fleeting, waxes in my heart and will endure beyond our mortal bodies, the ground beneath our feet, and all the heavens."

For once rendered speechless, Fletcher blinked several times, his grip on Fenris's hand slackening.

"That was… _partly_ my own," confessed the elf with a small shrug. "I have also purchased books, on poetry. Thank you for teaching me to read. It has opened new worlds to me, just as you promised. That was my first attempt at poetry. Did you enjoy it?"

Fletcher nodded, tears brimming in his eyes as he realised the double meaning of the poem.

"Do not despair, Lux Mea, My Light," murmured Fenris, bringing his other hand to Fletcher's cheek. "In what little time we have, we will live a thousand lifetimes." He lay back on the bed and Fletcher followed, cradling Fenris's head in the crook of his elbow as he lay between the elf's legs.

"I love you, Fenris. You are beautiful, Anima Mea." He leaned in and gently kissed the elf on the lips, then the cheek, forehead and both eyelids.

"Te amo," Fenris moaned, his breath catching as Fletcher's bare chest pressed against his own. He brought his hands around to skim the mage's back as Fletcher, his warm breath a whispered caress, returned to Fenris's lips and they were immediately lost inside their kiss. A languid blur of feathered touches and warm lips against aching flesh followed, and then they were naked, their bodies a perfect fit for the other's, an exquisite vacuum of tight heat forming between them.

A bottle was reached for, and Fenris passed his mage a pillow to hug before rolling Fletcher onto his belly. He then rained kisses along Fletcher's spine as he massaged his lover, gently stretching him. With great care he eased into Fletcher, tearing himself away from the brink to ensure his mage's comfort. In near-silence, with only the occasional stifled whimper escaping, they danced, one of Fletcher's arms draped behind himself and around Fenris's head as the elf reached around and stroked him. They found a rhythm all of their own, the familiar waltz of two lovers who were completely at ease with – yet still making new discoveries about – each other.

Fletcher knew from Fenris's erratic breathing that the elf was nearing, yet delaying, his release, and whispered that it was fine to let go. Fenris's self-control, however, was phenomenal, and the elf held fast, determined that his mage would be the first. Their melodic waltz quickly became a tango of jerky and frantic movements as their lovemaking transformed into a sublime battle of wills.

"I-I'll d-do it!" threatened the mage between shallow gasps.

"Don't you d- _dare_! Fletch-! Ah! N-n- _nyah!"_

One sneaky flexing of his muscles later, Fletcher felt the elf seize up and tremble behind him, and they found oblivion together, blood rushing back into white knuckles and fingers as their bodies sagged.

A few minutes passed by before Fletcher turned his head, grinning as the elf's breath warmed his ear. "Uh… I hate to disrupt our post-coital bliss and all that, but… did we just make some noise? I mean, quite a _lot?"_

Fenris momentarily held his breath, leaving Fletcher's ear bereft and cold. "Um…"

"It's okay, Mother and Beth sleep on the other side of the house," Fletcher reasoned. "I think we got away with it."

"How do you know that? How can you be so certain?" demanded Fenris with a hint of panic in his voice.

Fletcher slowly extricated himself from Fenris and they rolled onto their backs. "What's the worst that could happen? They're woken up by a strange noise but, once they're awake, the noise will have stopped. They won't know what it was. They'll scratch their heads and go back to sleep."

Fenris sat up and drew his knees against his chest as he stared anxiously at the door. "Do you really think so?"

Fletcher reached up and rubbed Fenris's back. "I know those two. They sleep like the dead, and snore like hogs with bronchitis."

Fenris's body trembled with quiet laughter and, after a moment of thought, he straightened his legs and lay beside Fletcher. "Well, now I know where _you_ get it from." He frowned, then, and remembered that he was supposed to be telling Fletcher off, though his heart was barely in it. "You should not do that… _thing_. Not here."

"Thing?"

"You _know_ what I speak of. That… when you…" His eyes darted to Fletcher's bottom, and the mage flashed a satisfied grin.

"You bloody _love_ it when I do that. I know you. You never sound angry when you tell me not to. You sound _desperate_ for me to do it. Go on, admit it."

"I…" Unable to argue with Fletcher's hypothesis, he grunted. "You should not do it when there are others potentially within earshot. You know what happens when you do. I am unable to… contain myself."

"I'm sorry," Fletcher cooed, sounding anything but contrite. "If you ask me now, I'll never do it again. I'll even give you my word."

Fenris shrugged and examined one of his thumbnails. "Let us not be hasty. I will not have it said that I am unreasonable."

"Ha! Got you!" laughed the mage.

"All I ask is that you refrain when there are _others_ under the same roof," Fenris pleaded, his eyes wide. "I appeal to you. I _beseech_ you. I will beg if I must."

Fletcher slumped, his hands covering his eyes. "And he brings out the puppy eyes! Bam! Faster and more devastating than a templar's smite!"

"You exaggerate," chuckled Fenris, and Fletcher uncovered his eyes before turning onto his side and pulling the elf against him.

"I'll make a deal with you. I'll stop doing my _squeezing_ thing when in company, if you agree to let yourself go on occasion. It is _not_ selfish for you to come first sometimes, you know. I love how generous you are, but I also love to watch you while I can still function and hold my eyes open. As much as you love to watch me."

Fenris sighed and nodded. "Very well, then. Next time?"

"Agreed." Fletcher brushed his hand against Fenris's face and moved it down to rest on the elf's chest. "I'm glad we're not going to argue on the eve of our anniversary. And in front of Tufty, as well."

"Well, quite. I… wait, what? What did you say?"

"Hm?"

"You said 'Not in front of Tufty'."

"Did I?"

"Fletcher!"

"Oh yes, he's under the bed. He likes sleeping underneath things. I think it makes him feel safe. It's all right, though – he has his blue rock, so he's nice and calm."

Fenris gave Fletcher a look of disbelief before moving to the edge of the bed and listening. "Tufty?"

A quiet 'oink' greeted him and Fenris sat back, arms folded. "You _allowed_ him to be here while we… _really_?" He huffed and shook his head.

"Hey! I didn't _allow_ him to do anything," Fletcher protested, keeping his tone light. "This is the first night he's been here, remember? I forgot he was there, honestly. You have a way of driving all conscious thought out of my head." He took one of Fenris's hands. "Let's not fight, Anima Mea."

"I wasn't-" Fenris groaned and shuffled closer to the mage, who was also sitting up. "I am sorry."

"Don't be. I should have warned you, but I genuinely forgot he was there. _I'm_ sorry."

Both men shook their heads and laughed before lying down and making themselves comfortable. "Do you think we're in danger of becoming boring old men?" Fletcher asked as the elf rested his head on his shoulder, just like he had that night at Dead Man's Pass.

Fenris pulled the coverlet up and sighed in contentment as Fletcher wrapped an arm around him. "I hope so. We are already reciting poetry to one another and our quarrels are wretchedly short-lived. I… think I like it."

"Just wait 'til tomorrow, then," Fletcher replied with enthusiasm. "We have a thrilling day of reading and gardening ahead of us – I've dug over that little plot for you, and I have some flower bulbs and seed potatoes ready for you to plant. Oh, and you promised me a dance." Fletcher looked to his side and was delighted to see the return of Fenris's smile. "I suppose I'll have to teach you to dance, as well."

"I look forward to it, Lux Mea," said Fenris, his voice and expression soft. "As I look forward to growing old wi–" Realising his mistake, he squeezed his eyes closed before cursing under his breath. "I… forgive me. I did not mean–Fletcher, I am sorry."

"Shh." Fletcher kissed the tip of Fenris's nose and stroked his hair. "There's hardly any need to grow old when we're already old men, is there?" When no reply came, he held in a sigh and forbade the sadness he felt from showing in his voice. "Remember what you said earlier? In the short time we have together, we will live a thousand lifetimes."

His eyes still closed, Fenris tightly wrapped his arms around his mage – his light – and gently kissed Fletcher's neck. "We will, my dear. I swear it."

"You want something to eat? Drink?" Fletcher offered, and Fenris shook his head. "Get some sleep, then, my lovely swan. We have a long day ahead tomorrow, and I intend to be up early to make the most of it. What would you like for breakfast?"

"That bacon was rather nice," answered Fenris, glad of the mundane turn the conversation had taken.

"Ah. I thought it might be a bit tactless for us to have bacon with _Tufty_ here," Fletcher whispered. "Might be a distant relative or something. How about porridge? Toast?"

"I don't mind," mumbled the elf, his eyelids growing heavy. "As long as you are here to share it with me."

"I'll be here to share it _and_ to finish off your leftovers. I swear it," he joked. "Goodnight, Anima Mea."

"Goodnight, Lux Mea. Te amo."

"Te amo."

Fletcher stayed awake long after Fenris had fallen asleep, not wanting to waste a minute he spent with him. Tomorrow, he would wear his brightest smile and he and Fenris would spend a wonderful day together. One more day on the inexorable journey towards _that_ day, Fletcher's final day. They skirted around it and whenever it was mentioned, the subject was abruptly changed. Time was slipping away like water through their fingers. Fletcher knew it. They both knew it.

Twelve years.

~o~O~o~

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he woke up, but Fenris was not at his side, nor was he lying down. He was standing in Lothering, outside the barn the Hawke and Bradshaw families had shared when he was a boy. The barn where Dalton had hanged himself.

Incensed, he folded his arms and looked around, seeing not a living person, nor a dead one for that matter. "I'm not going inside, so you can just forget it," he called out angrily, to be met with silence.

"Fine. I'll just stay here until my body awakens. I'm not playing your games, and nothing you do will spoil tomorrow. Go on, bring Dalton out. That _was_ the plan, wasn't it?"

The barn door creaked open and out stepped Mrs. Bradshaw – or what appeared to be her, anyway – clutching the hand of her son, who had a florid red scar across his neck.

"You're no fun anymore," complained the demon in Mrs. Bradshaw's body as she brought the boy closer to Fletcher. "That Fenris is sucking all of the life out of you. Just tell him not to take _too_ much. I own you, and I want your body in reasonably good condition when our agreement comes into force. Now, say hello to Dalton. You met so briefly the last time. I thought I'd arrange for the two of you to talk."

"I'll do no such thing," Fletcher asserted, turning his back on the demon only for her and Dalton to re-materialise in front of him.

"But you must," insisted Synia, this time appearing in her true form. "You and this young man left things unfinished, while you're carrying on with an elf on the mortal plane. That's called being unfaithful where I come from," she taunted.

Fletcher gave Synia a hard stare but could not bring himself to look at Dalton, if indeed it _was_ him. "I think you'll find the word – where _you_ come from – is 'faithless'."

The demon tilted her head and laughed. "Still haven't lost that sharp tongue, eh, Fletcher? I'm glad to see Fenris hasn't knocked _that_ out of you yet. He really is a drab little thing, isn't he?"

Refusing to rise to her, Fletcher shook his head and snorted in derision. "It won't work. I'm _happy._ Nothing you do or say can change that. Let's get on with this. What do you want this time?"

Synia pushed Dalton forward and stepped back. "I want you to say sorry to this young man for what you did to him. For what you're doing to him now. For causing him to end his young life in such a… horrible way. We all know it was _your_ fault, Fletcher. You're not going to argue with me on that, are you? It was lucky I found him when I did. I've been looking after him. Go on, apologise to him."

Realising that his hands were clenched into fists, Fletcher relaxed them, feeling heat stir in his blood. "There's no point. He doesn't even remember me. And I'm not going to–"

"How do you know he doesn't remember you? You can't even look at him. Don't you think you owe him _that_ much?" she gloated.

"I'm not going to do this," he insisted, a fine tremor in his voice.

"But you are the only one who _can_ ," she argued. "There is no one else here, is there?"

"That's where you're wrong, demon."

Fletcher startled and clutched his chest as he whipped around. Behind him stood a blond teenage boy, whose appearance caused Fletcher to smile. They shook hands and turned back to face Synia.

"Who are _you_ supposed to be?" she demanded before realising that she had not invited any others into her domain, and her hideous face dropped. "How can you be here? Who _are_ you?"

"This is my friend, Feynriel," Fletcher introduced. "He's a somniari, Synia. Do you _know_ what a somniari is?"

"Allow me," Feynriel offered. "A somniari has dominion over the Fade, as you taught me, Hawke. We can do anything here. _Anything_. And that includes putting an end to demons," he said with a menacing look at Synia, who took a step back, no longer wearing a smug smile.

"I'm not here to kill her, however," he told Fletcher. "That's not my role here. I'm here to help this boy remember." He slowly moved to Dalton's side and held out a hand. "That's right. Don't be afraid."

"Get your hands off my property!" Synia spat, charging forward, only to be grabbed around the throat and slammed, hard, against the side of the barn.

"Silence!" Feynriel commanded as Synia froze in terror. "I might not have come here to kill you, but do not doubt that I _can_. I only have to _think_ it. I would find choking the life out of you much more satisfying, however."

Calmly, he released the demon and again walked to Dalton's side, while Fletcher watched Synia's fear and discomfiture with enormous pleasure.

"Take my hand," Feynriel said to Dalton. "You have nothing to fear. No one here is going to hurt you."

Dalton slowly raised a hand and Feynriel's fingers wrapped around it. "Look at this man," the somniari instructed, pointing at Fletcher. "You remember him, don't you?"

A frown formed on Dalton's brow and he released Feynriel's hand, slowly approaching Fletcher, who was still afraid to look at him.

"Fletcher? Fletcher _Hawke_?" asked the boy in wonder. "But… you look so different! You're so grown-up!"

Swallowing down a hard lump in his throat, Fletcher finally looked at the boy and they stood together, unable to speak for a few minutes, while Feynriel kept a watchful eye on Synia.

"Hello, Dalton," Fletcher finally managed, his voice threatening to crack. "It's… good to see you again."

"Dalton," Feynriel interjected. "I know it's difficult, but we need to know what happened on that night when you took your own life. It's very important that we know the truth. Hawke has blamed himself for several years, but there is one who doubts it's as simple as that."

"One?" Fletcher mumbled. "What do you mean? Who is 'one'?"

"Fletcher," breathed Dalton, clasping his trembling hands together. "I never–I didn't want you to blame yourself. I didn't know what else to do. I was so frightened. Please… I've hurt so many people. You, my parents… I just–I didn't know what to do. Can you ever forgive me?"

Dalton rushed towards Fletcher, who wrapped his arms around the young boy, his chin wobbling as Dalton sobbed against his chest. "It–it's all right," he whispered before dashing away a tear.

"Please, tell us what happened," Feynriel urged, gently manoeuvring Dalton away from Fletcher. "This is very important. Why were you frightened?"

Dalton wiped his eyes and cast a nervous glance at Fletcher, who nodded his encouragement.

"I… yes, I remember now. It–it was her." He pointed at Synia, who quickly looked around as she formulated a means of escape in her mind.

"Stay where you are!" ordered Feynriel, removing her powers with a mere thought. "We are going to hear the truth, and then _you_ are going to be dealt with." He turned back to Dalton. "What did she do?"

"She… she knew I was a mage, even though I hadn't told anyone except Fletcher," he said quietly, head bowed. "I–I didn't _want_ to be a mage. I was afraid of my powers. That night, Fletcher," he went on, looking up, "when you told me you'd made a deal with a demon and what you'd done to Langston Harding… it terrified me to know what we were capable of as mages. I meant everything I said to you, though. I–I did love you."

"I know," Fletcher whispered, wiping away another tear.

"Go on," prompted Feynriel. "I'm sorry that this is painful for you."

"No, it's… all right," answered Dalton, sounding surer of himself. "It's helping, I think." He released a long sigh and looked directly at Fletcher. "She came to me, after we'd… you know, in the barn. I fell asleep. She told me I had to make a deal with her or else. I didn't know she was the one you'd done a deal with. If I had, I would have known that she'd never carry out her threat, that she _couldn't_. I was so young and _stupid_. So… selfish." He covered his face with his hands.

"What was her threat, Dalton?" Fletcher asked with a deadly look at Synia.

"She–she threatened to kill _you_ , Fletcher," he blurted out, his arms falling to his sides. "I couldn't… I couldn't take it! I know what I did was wrong and so terrible, but she tormented me all night! I just had to stop it! I didn't know what would happen… how was I to know I'd end up with her anyway? I couldn't remember anything when I arrived here. I thought she was helping me. I was so wrong… what I did was terrible. I've hurt so many."

Fletcher stepped closer and placed a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "You were young. We all make mistakes. But mistakes can be put right," he said with conviction.

"Indeed," said an authoritative voice which seemed to originate from all around them. A blinding golden light caused them to shield their eyes, and when it waned, a tall warrior in glittering armour stood among them. His long, flaxen hair framed an ageless face, neither young nor old, and he acknowledged each of them – except Synia – with a small nod and a blink of probing blue eyes which conveyed wisdom, knowledge and righteousness. In his right hand he held an enormous basket-hilted sword which shone with an exquisite, ethereal light.

The visitor bowed to Feynriel, who returned the salute.

"You–you know each other?" Fletcher asked hesitantly, his eyes moving between the two.

"We have been watching," explained the warrior in a voice that resonated with Fletcher on some level; it was somehow familiar, yet unlike anything he'd ever heard. "I have waited for the truth to out. Now that I have heard it, I am not surprised. My suspicions proved correct, but I was unable to act. Until now."

He moved closer to Dalton, who drew back, but Fletcher – suspecting he knew the visitor's identity – squeezed the boy's shoulder in reassurance. "It's all right," he whispered.

"Dalton Bradshaw," said the warrior in a formal, respectful tone. "This demon's evil deeds are directly responsible for your untimely demise, even though it was perpetrated by your own hand. Her life is yours to take in return."

"You–you want me to _kill_ her?" exclaimed Dalton in dismay.

The warrior gave a single, sharp nod. "It is only just. Slay her. There will be no recriminations."

Dalton glanced anxiously at Fletcher. "But I've never killed anything in my life! Why do you think I was afraid of being a mage? I don't think I could kill anyone, no matter what they've done!"

The warrior bowed to Dalton and straightened up. "Your purity of heart moves me. But this injustice _must_ be avenged. I trust you will permit me to slay her in your stead?"

"What do _you_ think?" Dalton asked Fletcher. "You'll be free if she's dead, won't you?"

"No." Fletcher turned fully toward Dalton and grasped his shoulders. "Don't let that influence you. Justice is right – you have a pure heart, unsullied by worldly motivations. The mortal life is a blink of an eye. The Fade is eternal and you will have to live with your decision for eternity. If you feel this is wrong, then _don't_ do it."

"But… I'm not going to do anything, am I?" Dalton closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to Justice, opening his eyes and nodding. "You have my permission, ser."

As Justice stalked towards Synia, Dalton took Fletcher's hand. "For you, Fletcher."

"Dalton," Fletcher began, but his next word was drowned out by Synia's shrill protestations.

"We have a deal!" she screeched as Justice advanced. "You can't _do_ this! I saved your sister's life! You're mine, Fletcher! We have a deal!"

"The deal is hereby rescinded," Justice proclaimed dispassionately as he cut down the demon with one stroke of his almighty sword. Without emotion, he turned his back on her twitching body and returned to the three mages. "Your bonds are broken," he told Fletcher and Dalton.

"What happens now?" Fletcher asked, feeling strangely sombre. "What's going to happen to Dalton?"

"He'll come with me," announced Feynriel. "He doesn't know the ways of this realm and will need someone to guide him. It'll be nice for me to have a companion, as well. Is that all right?" he asked Dalton, who looked at Fletcher for an answer.

"You won't get a better offer than that," Fletcher smiled. "Not everyone is shown the ropes by a somniari."

"But will I ever see you again?" the boy asked Fletcher, and Feynriel steered Justice a short distance away, where they turned their backs.

"Maybe," answered Fletcher. "Feynriel will show you lots of things, so you'll be busy. You'll be able to visit your mother in her dreams. You can tell her you're all right. That you're at peace."

Dalton's face crumpled but he valiantly fought to control himself, not wanting to cry again in front of Fletcher.

"If you're ever bored, though, I'd be happy if you visited me occasionally, just to let me know how you're doing."

Dalton quickly nodded and gulped before finally meeting Fletcher's eyes. "You're… you're so handsome," he grinned bashfully, and Fletcher laughed. "Not that you weren't before… I mean, you look… happy. He must be a very nice person."

"He… he is," Fletcher replied wistfully. "You'd like him. Well, it takes a bit to really get to know him, but…"

"He's worth it," Dalton finished, keeping hold of Fletcher's hand. "I hope he treats you properly."

Fletcher nodded, the lump returning to his throat. "Yes, he does. You're going to be fine, you know."

"Fletcher? I'm sorry for making you think–" He halted, his voice breaking.

"It doesn't matter. None of it matters now." Fletcher wrapped his arms around the boy and pulled him close. "Now _you_ have a chance to be happy, Dalton. You're so lucky. Feynriel will show you things other mages – even other Fade spirits – can only dream of. I'm quite jealous, actually."

Dalton thumped Fletcher's chest and sprang back. "Oy, he's my somniari. Hands off!" the boy teased and, although Fletcher smiled, he was relieved to have been reminded of the age difference between them – it would make it easier to say goodbye.

"Feynriel," Fletcher called, and the somniari and Justice walked over to them. "Dalton is ready to leave," he declared, shaking Feynriel's hand and keeping hold of it for a moment. "I'm proud of you, Feynriel. You're becoming a man before my eyes."

Feynriel smiled faintly and dipped his head. "I don't think we'll meet again, Hawke. But I might keep an eye on you – just to make sure you're behaving yourself."

"Remember what I said about humility," Fletcher remonstrated good-naturedly before glancing at Dalton. "Look after him. Please. He's… special to me."

"Promise. We're going to be firm friends." Feynriel released Fletcher's hand and held his own out to Dalton, who took it. "Farewell, Hawke. No more nightmares for either of us."

"Goodbye, Fletcher," said Dalton, tears anew forming in his eyes. "Thank you. Just… thank you for everything. I love you."

Fletcher pressed his lips tightly together and nodded. "Love you, too," he mumbled before closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he was alone with Justice, and they were no longer in Lothering, but in an empty, featureless place.

Fletcher stared at the space left by the departing Dalton and Feynriel and was swept away by a flood of regret, sadness, joy and exhilaration as a deluge of tears spilled from his eyes. He sensed Justice's presence at his side and blotted his face with his sleeves, seeing through watery eyes that the spirit was watching him curiously.

"Sorry," he stammered. "I–I need to get this out of my s-system before I see F-Fenris. You must… you must f-find us mortals very strange."

"No," answered Justice simply. "I envy you. Envy is _not_ a desirable trait in one of my kind."

Fletcher wiped his eyes and drew a steadying breath before taking a few steps closer to the spirit. "But you're unique, Justice. You've experienced mortal emotions. Mortal _love_. Anders told me about Kristoff."

Justice looked ahead, releasing a slow exhalation through his nose. "Yes. I experienced many things through Kristoff."

"Do you ever get lonely?" asked Fletcher.

"I am not alone. I have Anders."

"That's not what I asked."

"Fletcher?" called a familiar, faint voice from across the Veil. "Wake up."

"He calls for you," Justice stated, looking above them. "Do not squander the time you have been given. Go."

"I know you don't need thanks, Justice," Fletcher said, taking another step closer to the spirit. "But maybe… there is something I could give you. Something you've never experienced before."

The spirit stiffened as Fletcher's arms snaked around him and Fletcher held him tightly, running one hand up and down Justice's thick mane of hair. A quiet sigh came from the spirit and he relaxed slightly before hesitantly bringing his arms around Fletcher's back. They stood together in silence for several minutes before Fenris was heard again.

"Fletcher? Wake up. You are having a bad dream. I am here."

"Return to him," Justice directed gruffly, stepping away from the mage. "Your time together is short enough."

"Thanks to you, we have a lot longer, Maker willing," answered Fletcher. "I'll never forget what you've done. _Never._ "

Justice nodded once before turning his back on Fletcher. "Farewell, Hawke. For now."

"Farewell, Justice."

"Shh. It is all right. I am here. You are awake."

Fletcher reached up to rub his eyes but his hands came into contact with fine, soft hair. Keeping his eyes closed, he stroked it, Fenris's smell and warmth returning to him.

"Are you all right?" asked the elf anxiously. "First, you were thrashing around. Then you stilled, an odd smile on your face. Whatever did you dream about?"

Fletcher opened his eyes, finding a pair of worried green ones directly above him. He felt a swell of tears behind his eyes but forced a smile, which quickly turned into a snigger, before it erupted into a full-blown belly laugh.

"What is the _matter_?" Fenris demanded as tears of joy, not sorrow, trickled down Fletcher's cheeks. "Tell me!"

"I'm trying to picture you as an old man," grinned the mage, his laughter subsiding. "You already have the white hair and cantankerous nature. I wonder what will be different about you?"

"Have you finally taken leave of your senses? What is the point of this speculation?"

"Just… just come here." Fletcher rolled the elf onto his side and drew him close against his chest. "It's going to take a long time to explain. But we have plenty of that. We have all the time in the world. Fenris, Anima Mea, we _are_ going to grow old together. Courtesy of Justice. Happy Anniversary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anima Mea = My Soul
> 
> Lux Mea = My Light
> 
> Lente = Slowly
> 
> Te amo = I love you
> 
> In aeternum = always, eternally
> 
> Homo meus, candidior cycnis, hedera formosior alba = My man, whiter than the swan, lovelier than pale ivy. (Excerpt from ‘Ecloga VII’ by Virgil)
> 
> **Excerpt from ‘Catullus V’ by Catullus. The rest of the poem is Fenris's. =)


	93. Reality Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Trusting in the Maker is not enough. The Chantry and the Templars are rotten to the core."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy 2013! Sorry for the delay in updating - I had a fling with Mass Effect but I always come home to Dragon Age. ;-) Regular, weekly-ish updates will now resume. Thanks for your patience!

Arriving safely at the clinic, Mallory lit a few extra torches while Ruben helped Anders to sit on a treatment table before slumping next to him. Not wanting to crowd the reunited brothers, but fiercely curious all the same, Mallory took a seat on one of the small patients' chairs and watched as Ruben removed his gauntlets and clutched Anders's face.

"Let me look at you properly, little brother," said Ruben.

In the relatively bright light of the clinic, a stranger would not have guessed that Ruben was older than Anders. The templar bore a strong resemblance to his brother, but his features were softer and more rounded, his golden hair was lustrous and shiny, and his olive skin was fine, a faint pink glow in his cheeks indicating a man in robust health.

Anders, in comparison, looked worn and battered. He'd always been slim in his youth but was now _skinny_ ; his skin was sallow and dull and barely stretched across prominent cheekbones, giving him a haunted look. He was well dressed but did not appear prosperous. Ruben studied him closely, his growing concern obvious.

"You're so thin, Luka," he exclaimed, using Anders's given name. "Have you been unwell? Are you looking after yourself properly?" Without thinking, he glanced at Mallory for an answer. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to blame anyone, but… he looks ill."

"Well, I would, wouldn't I, being forced to live underground thanks to your lot," Anders replied snidely, immediately regretting his words. Karras's smite had left him drained in more ways than one, and he hadn't felt Justice's presence since Ruben had shown up. He hadn't realised how accustomed he'd become to always having Justice in the background, and felt lonely and afraid without him. Where was he? Why wouldn't he answer? Was something wrong?

"I'm sorry," Anders mumbled, closing his eyes. "It's not your fault. I'm just…" He sighed.

"You need to rest," Ruben advised. "And eat. Do you have food here?" he asked Mallory.

"Yes. I'll fix something up," she replied, moving to a small storage trunk.

"Mal," Anders said, and the small woman looked across at him. "I suppose you've already guessed, but this is my brother, Ruben. Ruben, this is Mallory, my… friend."

Mallory and Ruben exchanged a nod and held each other's eyes for a second. They recognised each other, but for their own reasons opted not to speak. Thankfully Anders had not noticed the meaningful look that passed between them, his mind still fogged by the after-effects of having his mana drained.

"And just look at you!" he joked, forcing joviality into his voice as he clapped Ruben on the shoulders. "You always were the podgy one, but look at the size of you now! Chasing around after all those mages must be hungry work!"

Ruben gave a faint smile, which quickly faded. "I have never harmed a mage, Luka. I did not join the order for that reason."

"Then why did you?" Anders asked.

Ruben sighed and folded his arms. "I left home a few months after you were captured. The relationship between our parents and I, well… at the time I could not forgive them for what they did to you. I managed to earn a little money from doing odd jobs and secured passage on a wagon bound for Vol Dorma. With the aid of other kindly folk, I made my way to Nevarra, a journey lasting several months. My funds soon dwindled, however, and I sought refuge in the chantry. It was there I had the idea of joining the Templar order – not only to repay the Chantry for its kindness but I thought it was the best chance I had of finding you.

"It was not until I had been ordained into the order, however, that I discovered you were in Ferelden, but still I held onto the hope that one day we would be reunited, even when I was posted to Starkhaven. After the disaster there, I transferred to Kirkwall, and began to hear talk of an apostate mage from the Anderfels who had escaped Kinloch Hold several times and was rumoured to be residing here. Hope grew in my heart and I listened for any shred of information, any clue as to your whereabouts. It was mere chance that led me to the tunnels on this night, however. When I heard someone talking to Karras… that voice. I knew it was you."

Ruben fell quiet and shook his head, a pained expression coming over him. "I never imagined I had it in me to kill another," he whispered sadly.

"He gave you no choice," Anders asserted. "And don't get feeling sorry for Karras – he was sick in the head. He deserved to die."

Alarm registered in Ruben's eyes and he turned fully to his brother, pausing to find the right words. "No. You are wrong, Luka. _I_ was wrong. I should have… incapacitated him, tried to reason with him… anything other than-" He rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I don't know what came over me. I just had to stop him. It was instinct alone that caused me to end his life. Perhaps I am not as good a man as I had believed."

"Now hold on a minute!" Anders protested, springing to his feet. "I heard you telling Cullen that Karras had abused several mages at the Gallows and now you think you should have shown him _mercy?_ Do you think Karras endured similar crises of conscience when he was _raping_ those meant to be under his care?"

Ruben held his hands up in a placatory gesture. "I am not saying that, merely that it is not my place to dispense judgement or punishment. Only the Maker can do that."

"Oh, and I can see he's all over that!" Angered, Anders began to pace and gesticulate with his arms. "How many more Karrases are there at the Gallows, Ruben? How many more of them are getting away with the systematic abuse of their _prisoners?"_

"Anders, please," Mallory implored, moving closer to the mage. "His mana hasn't fully regenerated," she explained for Ruben's benefit. "He's not himself."

"There are undesirable elements in all sections of society," Ruben reasoned, his voice deliberately calm and soft. "The majority of the Templar order is comprised of decent, upstanding men and women. Knight-Captain Cullen allowed you your freedom-"

"That was only to save his own neck," Anders accused. "And _he_ didn't seem very surprised when you told him what Karras had been up to. How long did he know about it? How long did _you_ know? Do you have to catch a templar in the act for anything to be done or is it just quietly covered up because the victims are _mages_ and they have no one to defend them?"

Mallory placed a hand on Anders's arm and tried to steer him back to the table, but he shrugged her off. "Answer me, Ruben. You say you've never hurt a mage but how much damage has your kind done by turning a blind eye?"

"Brother, it is not that simple," Ruben began, his voice wavering. "Many of us feel the same way as you but we are powerless-"

"Excuses!" snapped Anders, bunching his trembling hands into fists. "All right, what if you came across a young woman or child being attacked in an alley somewhere? Would you just walk away and leave them because it's not your place?"

"No, of course not!" Ruben protested.

" _Exactly_ ," Anders hissed. "Because if it occurred outside the Gallows it wouldn't be a mage it was happening to, would it? I can't believe this! I find my long-lost brother after twelve years and he's been indoctrinated by the Chantry! Are you really naïve enough to believe that there are truly decent men and women among your order?"

"There are _many_ of them!"

"Oh, really?" Anders tugged off his feathered pauldrons and began to undo his coat. "Did one of your decent friends do _this_ , then?"

As he pulled open his coat, Mallory cried out and Ruben stared, appalled, at the livid red brand on his chest.

" _That_ is the insignia of the Templar Order," Anders proclaimed, voice quaking with fury. "The decent, upstanding and righteous defenders of Thedas! Do you want to know why they did this?" he demanded, standing toe-to-toe with Ruben. "To show that I was the _property_ of the templars. And some of those templars went one step further – they decided that I was their _personal_ property, but I'll spare you the details. I'm sure you can figure it out for yourself."

Anders turned away from his brother and, noticing that Mallory was wiping tears from her eyes, felt the hard edges of his anger soften slightly. "I'm all right," he assured her before turning back to Ruben. "I know you joined the order for the right reasons, but you need to hear the truth. Trusting in the Maker is not enough. The Chantry and the Templars are rotten to the core."

"No, Brother." Ruben grabbed Anders's arms and waited until the mage met his eyes. "We must have faith that there is good in people. Without faith, we have nothing."

Anders shook his head, astonished at the change in the man he once knew. "They've really done a number on you, haven't they?" he asked, his voice quieter but with a steely edge. "You _can't_ save a mage's life and then in the next instant turn your back on the atrocities that are perpetrated by your peers. You _can't_ help me escape and then return to the Gallows to keep other mages imprisoned. You need to decide where you stand, Ruben. Until then…" He shook his head. "You'd better go back before you're missed."

Hearing the dismissal in Anders's tone, Ruben quietly sighed and walked to the steps. "I will visit you again when I am able," he promised.

"You _are_ going back, then?" Anders asked.

"I must. It should appear that all is well. Questions will be asked about Karras and I must support Knight-Captain Cullen as he has supported me."

"You're not going to tell them the truth, are you?" Mallory asked in concern. "About how he died?"

Ruben bowed his head, shame weighing heavily on him. "I… do not know what will happen. It is a sin to lie, but a much greater one to kill. I… really do not know. I-I should leave."

He started to climb the steps, and Mallory quickly moved to Anders's side, prodding his arm. "Don't just let him go like this!" she whispered urgently.

"Ruben," Anders said quietly, and the templar halted on the steps, turning his head slightly. "What of… Mother and Father? Did you stay in touch with them?"

After a brief pause, Ruben blew out a breath. "I correspond with Father on occasion, although I have not written to him for several months. Mother… she… she died three years ago, Luka. I am sorry."

In the silence that followed, Mallory glanced at Anders, who nodded several times, breathing heavily through his nose. "I expected as much," he replied briskly. "She had a bad heart."

"Luka," Ruben implored, pity and grief in his eyes as he looked at his brother. "What has happened to you? It pains me to see you so… hard-hearted. What happened to the young boy who wept when he accidentally crushed an insect underfoot? Who found wonder and delight in the smallest of things? Whose laughter could be heard around every corner in the village? Where is he?"

"He's dead," Anders sniped. "He was beaten out of me by the templars. And… don't call me Luka. That person doesn't exist anymore. My name's Anders."

Ruben shook his head. "You are Luka, Bringer of Light in the Anders tongue. You were given that name at birth and that is how I will address you. I do not believe Luka is dead. We are brothers," he stated firmly. "Whatever differences exist between us, do not let them put us asunder now, after so long. Our family is smaller than it once was. Father is a thousand miles away. _We_ are all we have."

Anders felt his stomach plummet and tried to steel himself against the onslaught of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, but found without Justice's steadying influence he was as vulnerable and naked as a crab without its shell. "Just… go," he uttered, a hard lump in his throat. "We'll… soon. I-I need a bit of time."

"I understand," answered Ruben. "If you cannot find your faith, Luka, then do not despair, as I have enough for us both. There _is_ good in the world and in every person. Do not let those with shadows in their hearts extinguish your light, Brother."

Ruben paused for a moment longer before bowing to Mallory, who nodded in return. He then glanced at Anders, who could not meet his eyes, and slowly went up the steps.

"Good luck," Anders said quietly before the trapdoor was opened and closed.

Anders and Mallory were silent for several long minutes before Mallory ventured to speak. "I'm so sorry about your mother," she commiserated. "Do you… want me to stay?"

Anders sat at the edge of the examining table, his eyes closed, and shook his head. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be by myself for a bit. I'm sorry."

She touched his arm, stroking with her thumb. "I'll be back later, okay?" He nodded, and she placed a quick kiss on his cheek before also departing, but she remained at Lirene's shop in case she was needed.

As Anders lay back – hands pressed over his eyes even though they were closed – he felt a prickling, almost an itching, sensation across his entire body and he shivered. It was similar to the feeling he'd experienced when he'd first merged with Justice.

_Anders. I have returned._

_**Where have you** _ **been?** _**I've been trying to reach you for the last couple of hours! What's going on?** _

_The demon is no more._

Anders's eyes opened and he blinked several times. _**You killed her?**_

_It is vanquished and will no longer trouble or influence Hawke. I sense a tumult of emotions within you, Anders. What has occurred?_

_**Well, you probably wouldn't approve. I've been with Ruben. You'll be pleased to know that I took everything the templars have ever done to me out on him. Oh yes, I'm** _ **really** _**proud of myself. I** _ **don't** _**think.** _

_You should make amends, Anders, for your own sake._

Anders quickly sat up. "What?" he asked aloud. "Make amends? When we were in the tunnels you told me to get rid of him! I've done that! What in the Void-?"

_I was in error. Perhaps it would be-_

" _Error?_ Justice, what is going on? I don't like this! Since when has Justice made errors? Exactly what happened in the Fade?"

_The demon was vanquished. I have explained this._

"And?"

For a minute, Justice did not answer, although Anders could feel his presence. "Will you please tell me what happened? You're scaring me."

_I… experienced something that… I believe it would be harmful to your well-being if you do not pursue a relationship with Ruben._

"What did you experience?" Anders asked, disarmed by the tenderness in the spirit's voice.

_I… experienced… love. Between two mortals. It was different from the love Kristoff felt for Aura, but in many ways it was purer. The young man, Dalton, permitted me to slay the demon so that Hawke could be free, even though he found such an act reprehensible. And Hawke… he was prepared to endure the demon's tyranny to spare the boy's conscience. Rarely do mortals exhibit true altruism but there I witnessed two examples. I did not expect that. I was… moved._

Anders nodded. "And Ruben risked his position – his life – to save mine. _Ours_."

_Yes. To forsake him now would be unjust._

"So it's not just because he's a templar and could be useful to us, then?"

_That possibility should not be ignored._

"I won't do anything to endanger him," Anders insisted. "We owe him our lives, remember?"

_I will not forget that, Anders._

"And what about Mallory? Do you approve of her now?"

Once again Justice paused, and Anders wondered if anything else had happened in the Fade.

_I will not oppose a potential union provided you do not lose sight of our objective. Now that Hawke is unfettered we are in a position of strength. You must spend time with him and bring him around to our way of thinking. It should not be difficult._

"Hawke hasn't had my experiences with the templars. He's soft on them."

_Then it is your task to convince him otherwise. He will respond favourably to us now that his shackles have been removed._

"Is that why you wanted to kill his demon, Justice? So he'd owe us?"

_That is not the reason. Slaying the demon was just. However, it is also just that Hawke aids us as we have aided him._

"And if he doesn't?"

_He must._

Anders massaged his brow, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache. Unwilling to deal with the way he felt and, seeking escape, he reached for a bottle of sleeping draught and downed it in one. He then staggered to the unlit corner of the clinic and barely made it to his cot before a deep, dreamless sleep claimed him.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher hauled himself up onto his elbows, shivering as the blankets slid off his shoulders. He'd slept on his belly and his face was as rumpled and creased as the bedclothes. He and Fenris had talked at length after Fletcher's visit to the Fade, and Synia's subsequent death. Feeling emotional and in need of an outlet other than crying, they'd made love again before succumbing to exhaustion. Now that morning had arrived, Fletcher felt the physical effects of their couplings but his state of mind – the sensation of freedom and knowing that one day his hair would be as white as Fenris's – filled him with lightness and joy, and his aching back and hips seemed but a trifle.

Speaking of Fenris, where was he? Fletcher turned towards the window, noting that the sun was climbing in the sky. It was mid-morning, and Fenris was not there. Surely he wouldn't have ventured downstairs while Fletcher's mother and Bethany were around? The ladies had planned a day out with Quentin, with Fletcher's full support as he wanted the house to himself for the day, and would have left by now.

"Tufty?" Fletcher called, getting no response. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and retrieved his trousers before pulling them on. He then stood up and braced his hands against his back, groaning as he slowly stretched the stiffness away. He rotated his hips a few times and headed for the door, hoping that, wherever Fenris was, he wouldn't notice his discomfort.

Despite that, he whistled to himself as he walked down the stairs, calling for Fenris without reply. However, the smell of burning led him to the kitchen, where he found the elf at the stove, with Tufty at his feet.

"Morning," Fletcher mumbled with a bleary smile, moving behind Fenris and kissing the back of the elf's head as Tufty frolicked around his ankles. "What's that?" he asked with a glance at the cremated offerings in the pan.

"Good morning," Fenris greeted with a quiet sigh. "This _was_ my attempt at an omelette. I followed the instructions in one of your mother's cookery books, which was on the counter, but it did not turn out as I anticipated. There must be a… misprint in the book," he claimed, eyes moving shiftily from side to side.

"Must be," laughed Fletcher. "Well, what you've made there is scrambled eggs. Uh… _well-done_ scrambled eggs."

Fenris looked over his shoulder, smiling faintly. "You are too kind. I believe 'annihilated' eggs would be more apropos." He sighed again, his shoulders sagging. "I… had hoped to prepare a special anniversary breakfast."

"And so you have." Fletcher laid a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "Very nice it looks, too. I'll grab a couple of plates."

"Surely you do not intend to _eat_ it now?" Fenris asked in dismay. Seeing that Fletcher did not appear to be joking, he frowned. "There is no need to eat it merely to spare my feelings. I have no intention of consuming a morsel of it."

"Oh, good! More for me, then." Fletcher grabbed a spoon and, not bothering with a plate, moved to the pan and began to force the charred eggs down with a smile on his face. "Delicious."

Fenris folded his arms and shook his head, an impish smile appearing as he eyed Fletcher's half-naked body. "Either you are gallant or gluttonous, I am not certain which. Perhaps both."

"Mm-hm," mumbled Fletcher, his mouth full.

"You are also strangely alluring, even with stubble, pieces of egg around your mouth and hair like a bramble bush."

Fletcher almost choked on his mouthful and swallowed it before mirroring Fenris's stance and folding his arms, an eyebrow seductively raised. "Are you coming on to me, Ser Elf? And so early in the morning?"

Fenris shrugged. "Well… we _do_ have the house to ourselves."

"Did you see Mother and Beth leave, then?" Fletcher asked, and Fenris shook his head.

"No, I was awoken by a knock at your bedroom door. It was Bethany. She asked if 'anyone' was awake. At first, I did not answer, and attempted unsuccessfully to rouse you."

"What happened?"

Fenris cleared his throat. "She announced that she had made some tea, and would leave _two_ mugs outside the door. I could hear the amusement in her voice as she did so. Your sister is rather… irreverent, isn't she?"

"Ha! That's an understatement. What did you do? Did you answer her?"

"Eventually, yes… it would have been impolite not to. She _had_ just prepared some tea for us, after all. I spoke to her from the other side of the door as I was not dressed. She wished us a pleasant day, and I wished her the same. She then departed with your mother."

"What happened to _my_ tea, then?" Fletcher demanded, having polished off the last of the eggs.

"I drank both of them," Fenris confessed with a grin. "You were dead to the world."

"Did you _really_ try to wake me?" Fletcher questioned as he moved closer to the elf, and Fenris's smile widened. "I know how much you like your tea."

"I was… not fully cognizant. My memory is hazy," mumbled Fenris, squirming and laughing as Fletcher grabbed his hips and nuzzled his neck.

"Ah, I see. You smell nice," Fletcher whispered, moving up, his lips hovering over Fenris's mouth. "Did you take a bath?"

"I did. Bethany kindly left some hot water on the stove." Fenris stepped back from the mage. "I _also_ cleaned my teeth. Morning breath is never pleasant, particularly when combined with burnt foodstuffs."

"Are-are you saying I have bad breath?" Fletcher demanded, feigning hurt.

"Not at all. I merely offered a hypothesis on the nature, and potential causes, of halitosis."

"Yes, and a pretty heavy hint that I stink. Well, I know when I'm not wanted. I'm off to take a bath and clean my teeth. _Maybe_ later I'll allow you the privilege of kissing me. Maybe not." He flounced towards the door, Fenris's quiet laughter following him.

"Happy anniversary, Fletcher," called the elf. "One of many, I hope, now that you are free."

Fletcher halted and turned around, finding that Fenris had moved next to him. "You bet," he said softly, brushing the elf's hair out of his eyes. "And one day, Fen, you'll be free, too. I hope you believe that, because I do. I believe it very strongly."

Fenris placed his hands on Fletcher's arms and looked up at him. "For the first time, I feel truly optimistic about my future… about _our_ future. And that, in itself, is freedom. We must not waste a minute of it."

Fletcher bent down and kissed Fenris's cheek. "I agree."

"Now, bathe," Fenris instructed. "And heal yourself. We have gardening to do and I do not intend to undertake the majority of the work."

"But I'm f-" Fletcher began to protest, before nodding, realising there was no fooling the elf. "All right, then. Care to scrub my back?"

"Perhaps," smiled Fenris. "I will join you when you have completed your spells. In the meantime, I will prepare some tea."

"Don't get burning it," Fletcher teased before he was launched toward the door by a hefty shove from the elf.

~o~O~o~

Two of the men in the viscount's office laughed, while the other two merely smiled – watchful, carefully-calculated smiles at that – as the viscount and king brought their talks to an end.

"You are generous, your Majesty," Viscount Dumar complimented. "An old man like me would have quailed had you insisted on discussing such weighty matters last night."

Alistair grinned and dipped his head. "And your sense of humour does you credit, your Excellency. No, seriously, I'm really grateful you've taken the time to hear my proposals. I can see that you have your own set of problems in Kirkwall, but perhaps we can be of help to each other. With the aid you and the other provinces have promised, we'll be able to start returning the refugees to their rightful homes – thus easing the massive overcrowding in your fine city."

"What of the Blight disease?" asked Bran. "It is my understanding that once land and crops have been infected, they cannot be reclaimed."

"That's correct," answered Surana. "The Blight Thaw is almost over and most of the surviving darkspawn have fled back to the Deep Roads. Thankfully, the majority of infected land is in the south, which was largely unpopulated anyway. The Bannorn was relatively unaffected, as were the Coastlands, Denerim, Dragon's Peak and Amaranthine. They are where we will concentrate on rebuilding. Of course, there are places in all of those areas which will never be habitable again, but there is more useable land than infected land."

"And the rest?" asked Dumar.

Surana sighed and shook his head. "Pretty much all of southern Ferelden has been lost. The Hinterlands, the Southron Hills, Gwaren, Ostagar, Lothering… and we are only now ascertaining the extent of the damage in South Reach and the Brecilian Forest."

"Then if only half of Ferelden remains habitable, there will not be sufficient room for all of the refugees," Bran postulated.

"I believe there will be sufficient room," Alistair corrected. "Given how many Fereldans were lost to the Blight… we can't even begin to calculate the numbers," he finished heavily.

"Know that you do not stand alone in your endeavours, your Majesty," Dumar reassured him sympathetically.

"Thank you. And know that, Maker forfend, Kirkwall should find itself in need of aid, you need only look to your friends across the sea. I am your servant, Excellency."

Alistair stood up, as did the other three men, and the king and viscount shook hands. "And I, yours," Dumar answered.

"Oh! There was one more thing," Alistair began. "I was thinking of paying the knight-commander of Kirkwall's templars a visit. Meredith, isn't it?" he asked Surana, who nodded. "Have you had many dealings with him, your Excellency? What's he like?"

Dumar grimaced and grunted softly. " _She_ is… a law unto herself. I have not had many dealings with her and those I have were somewhat… expedient. If I might ask, your Majesty, what are your reasons for visiting her?"

"Well…" Alistair scratched the back of his head. "After the Archdemon was defeated, we tried something a little different in Ferelden, at the behest of Warden-Commander Surana. We decided to let the mages at Kinloch Hold govern themselves. Templars are still in residence there, but their roles have been modified and they don't have the absolute power over mages they used to. Child mages are still taken to the Tower but contact with their family is encouraged, not banned outright," he added with distaste. "Once a mage has been harrowed, they are free to leave the Tower."

Dumar and Bran exchanged an incredulous glance. "That is quite a change, your Majesty," Dumar said in surprise. "Some might call it dangerous."

"Some did at first, but not anymore," Surana interjected. "It actually works. As harrowed mages are free to come and go, the term 'apostate' is now meaningless in Ferelden. As a result, far fewer feel the need to practise blood magic – in my experience the majority of blood mages turn to the forbidden arts in order to protect themselves whilst fleeing. _And_ those mages who are set free often return to the Tower to expand their knowledge, or to teach. It was a risk, yes, but it's paid off."

"And what is the role of the Templars now?" Dumar queried.

"Their presence has been increased in the major cities and towns," Alistair explained. "That satisfied most of the nay-sayers, well, some of them. I suppose it makes them feel safer."

Dumar nodded. "But they cannot apprehend mages?"

"Only if a mage is seen to be abusing his or her powers, becomes possessed or uses blood magic," Surana provided. "Since the inception of the scheme, there have been no reported possessions, compared with one in the Tower during the same time last year. There has been one report of blood magic, compared with fourteen during the previous year. The Templars still have the Rite of Tranquillity at their disposal, but cannot go ahead without the king and Grand Cleric's permission."

"I gave my permission that time," Alistair added. "That particular mage _was_ dangerous. It's a pity there isn't a Rite of Tranquillity for non-magi psychopaths. The prisons are full of them. Only _one_ mage has gone wrong."

"And what about abuses of power?" Bran questioned.

"Mages will be mages," Surana stated with a grin. "There have been a few isolated incidents of mages getting drunk in a tavern and then shooting lightning at someone who looked at them the wrong way. But that's no different from a non-mage getting drunk and picking a fight – many of which end up as knife fights. None of the mages have killed anyone. The punishment's the same for being drunk and disorderly – a night in the cells."

"Astonishing," mumbled Dumar.

"It's not all perfect," Surana went on. "The mages who leave the Tower are finding it difficult to secure employment without hiding their status, and many of them have experienced abuse and prejudice. Those kinds of attitudes won't disappear overnight, we know that. But almost every mage I've spoken to says it's worth it. We're used to being treated as second-class citizens anyway," he added with a shrug. "I'm also an elf and I've been called every name under the sun. If anything, it's made me stronger."

"Indeed it has, Warden-Commander," Dumar replied, placing emphasis on Surana's title. "Do you intend to present these findings to Knight-Commander Meredith?"

"I do," answered Alistair with confidence. "Knowing Meredith as you do, what do you anticipate her response will be?"

Both statesmen drew a sharp breath through their noses. "Knowing Meredith as I do… have you a set of armour, your Majesty?" asked the viscount.

"Uh-oh," Alistair muttered. "That's means I'm going to need it, right? Right?"

Bran made a _pfft_ sound and folded his arms. "Perhaps a cushion would be more useful, to provide a soft landing when you are thrown out on your ear. With respect, of course, your Majesty."

"That good, huh?" asked Alistair, the brightness in his eyes waning.

"Courage," Dumar smiled, moving to the king's side of the desk and patting his arm. "I will send Guard-Captain Vallen with you. She relishes a good argument. You might need to do no more than stand back and watch. I believe she and her deputy are asleep at the moment but should be rising shortly. Until then, please avail yourselves of Hightown's sights and the keep's hospitality. The captain has assigned a guard contingent to you should you wish to go about town. Bran will accompany you until the captain is ready to receive you."

"I'm most grateful," Alistair said with a bow to the older man, which was returned.

"Please let me know how the meeting proceeds," requested Dumar.

"Riiight," drawled Alistair. "Just inform your guards to look out for the man in dented armour with a cushion shoved down his throat."

"Or somewhere else," Surana remarked in amusement, just loud enough for Alistair to hear.

~o~O~o~

The armour-clad elf walked through the long pavilion, distracting himself from his troubling thoughts by counting the crumbling marble pillars. He'd often speculated that one day the entire structure would come down on someone's head, and would be quite happy for that day to be today, and for the head to be his own.

Danarius had summoned him. There was nothing unusual about that, but lately his master had been behaving oddly. That was also nothing new, as Danarius had been ill for a long time, but for the past few days the old mage had demonstrated eloquence of speech and clarity of thought that Vionet had not seen for a long time. And then there were the shrewd, discerning comments. Or were they guesses? Delusions? Was this Danarius's paranoia coming to the fore or did he actually _know?_

Vionet stood outside the large white doors leading to his master's chamber and paused to gather his thoughts, as he did every day. Today felt different somehow, though. Something was going to happen. He'd felt that since he'd woken earlier that morning, and the feeling had intensified as the day had gone on. His stomach tightened as he wondered whether today would be his last.

He knew exactly how to ease his nerves, however. "Would that be such a terrible thing?" he asked himself under his breath, and immediately the knot in his stomach eased, the pain in his head receded.

"Here, I leave all that is real behind," he whispered to himself in an oft-repeated mantra. "I will retrieve reality on the way out. I am but a shadow."

He pushed the door open and closed it before walking toward his master's chair at the end of the grand hall, almost giving himself away by freezing on the spot when he saw who stood before Danarius.

 _But a shadow_ , he reminded himself, resuming his graceful walk, numbness creeping up his legs. Upon arriving in front of his master, he dropped to one knee, his head bowed. "What is your bidding, Danarius?"

"I bid you to stand," invited the elderly mage, and Vionet immediately obeyed. "You know Delmar?" he asked, pointing out his head apprentice.

Vionet glanced at Delmar and nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, Master."

"He gives you my tonic."

"That is correct, Master," Vionet answered around a dry mouth.

"I have not called for my tonic for several days."

"Yes, Master. I mean… no, Master. My apologies."

Danarius laughed indulgently and beckoned his _Scutum Primus_ closer, patting his knee. Vionet felt the familiar repulsion tickle along his spine but sat in his master's lap, his hands folded neatly together as one of Danarius's arms wrapped around his back.

"And do you know why I have not called for my tonic?" Danarius asked in a kindly voice. "Have you not wondered?"

"It is not my place, Master," replied Vionet, eyes cast down.

"But I simply must share this with you." Danarius sat farther back in the chair and pulled Vionet against his chest. "It occurred to me that my tonic was not making me feel better," he began, and Vionet dared a quick glance at Delmar, who was sweating profusely, "and so I decided to feed it to my dracaena, which has also appeared sickly of late. It is now – after only one week – a blackened, rotting stump. Isn't that the _funniest_ thing?"

"It was not designed for houseplants, Master," Delmar stated, an odd note in his voice. "There are certain ingredients which-"

Danarius held up a hand, cutting Delmar off mid-sentence. "Coincidentally, since I stopped drinking the tonic, I have never felt better," said Danarius in a casual tone which made Vionet's blood run cold. "Perhaps the tonic was so efficacious, my malady has been completely cured? Unless…"

Both slave and apprentice waited for the inevitable, their hearts racing.

"…Unless, of course, the tonic was _designed_ to make me ill. But of course, there are only two people who could have tampered with it. And here you both are. Now, as I feel _so_ much better, I would be prepared to let this matter go. But there is the matter of my dracaena. I liked that plant. It was more than ten years old and there is now a rather unattractive dead plant in a pot instead of a lush, decorative tree. What is to be done? Vionet? What do _you_ think I should do?"

"I would not dare presume to speak for you, Danarius."

"But I am asking you to," purred the blood mage, stroking down Vionet's cheek with his index finger.

"P-perhaps Delmar is correct," he stammered. "There might have been an agent which was toxic to houseplants."

"Then how do you explain the fact I have been feeding that dracaena my tonic for several months? Not all of it, of course, but any dregs that remain. The plant positively flourished. Until a month ago, that is, when it began to wilt and grow pale. Did you change the formula, Delmar?"

"No, Master."

"Are you certain? Think carefully before you answer. Your stock has been confiscated and examined," said Danarius, turning his gaze to Vionet.

"The formula is the same," Delmar claimed, and Danarius leaned over the side of his chair, picking up three small bottles which had been concealed behind a pillar.

"Then you did not add… digitalis, belladonna or mandrake to it?" he asked, reading the labels.

"No, Master," answered the apprentice, maintaining the lie.

"And why do you have need of such poisons?"

"In low enough quantities, such ingredients can be beneficial, Master. If I had-"

"Why are you perspiring, Delmar?"

"I-what? I-I feel warm, Master, that is all."

"I am not perspiring, nor is Vionet."

"Master… I… surely you know that I would never-"

"Stand, Vionet," Danarius ordered.

Vionet glanced at the white doors, reminding himself that this was not real, and that he would not react emotionally to anything that happened here. He slid off his master's lap and stood on leaden legs, awaiting the last command that Delmar would ever hear.

"My apprentice has outlived his usefulness," Danarius announced. "Dearest Vionet, it would please your master if you expunged him. Not too much blood, if you please."

"But-but he _knew!"_ cried the treacherous apprentice as Vionet advanced on him. "He demanded to know how long it would take! He should be put to death as well! I won't go down without a fight!"

He rushed towards Vionet and launched himself at the elf, his body convulsing as Vionet's arm protruded out of his back, the loud splitting of bones reverberating around the large chamber. Vionet rested his head against Delmar's shoulder, closing his eyes for a second. "Forgive me," he whispered before stepping back, allowing the now-dead mage to slide to the floor.

"You have done well," Danarius congratulated him warmly, calling him back to his chair. Vionet again sat on his master's lap, and Danarius touched the elf's jaw, turning Vionet's head to face him. "Did you know?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," replied Vionet, looking his master in the eye, welcoming his imminent death.

"I knew you would not lie to me." Danarius drew Vionet closer to him, tightly clutching his head. "Your honesty has just saved your life. You were afraid to tell me, I know that. You will not make that mistake again, will you?"

"No, Master."

"Good. Now that I am feeling better, I am going to redouble my efforts to find Fenris. You will assist me, and you will kill him."

"Yes, Master."

"Now you will fellate me."

"Yes, Master."

The magister released his grip on Vionet, who climbed off Danarius's lap and rearranged his armour. Before he knelt in front of his master, he looked at the white doors one last time.

He knew today would be different. Because today, when he went to retrieve reality outside the doors, it would no longer be there.


	94. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As your personal physician, I should accompany you for a lie-down. It would be unethical not to do so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Mia for the kind words and the inspiration.

In what was becoming a regular occurrence, Cullen found himself staring at his knight-commander's back as she looked out of her office window, gauntleted hands tightly folded behind her back. At one time, he would have sweated and stammered until he'd have told her anything just to be dismissed. At one time, he was truly frightened of her.

But no longer. Respect was an important component of fear, and he'd all but lost any respect he'd ever had for her. He used to tell himself that she was just a woman and not some monstrous, all-powerful behemoth in order to calm his nerves; now, though, he actually _believed_ it.

"Was there something you wanted of me, Knight-Commander? I have duties to attend to."

She slowly turned around, a fierce glower on her brow. "I _am_ aware of that, Knight-Captain. I am your knight-commander, in case you had forgotten."

"I have not forgotten," he replied evenly, meeting her eyes.

She stared at him for a long moment and, realising that he was not intimidated by her, she decided to put him on the spot. "I assigned Ser Karras to you," she reminded him in an accusatory tone, "and he has been found slain. Yet _another_ of our order has perished. Would you care to explain how you and Karras became separated?"

"If Ser Karras still lived, I would advise you to ask _him_ ," Cullen replied. "He left the Gallows before me and went his own way. I did not see him at all during the investigation until I happened upon his body."

"And you still maintain that he was dead when you found him?"

"I maintain it because it is the truth. If you have something to say, Knight-Commander, I would have you say it, instead of making cryptic hints."

Meredith moved away from the window and stopped beside her desk, standing a few feet away from Cullen. "You presume much, Ser Cullen. If I suspected you of having a hand in Karras's murder, then I would not hesitate to give voice to those suspicions. I am forced to ask myself, however, why _you_ feel the need to second-guess me."

Cullen did not flinch at her proximity and met her probing gaze with his own, steady one. "Your tone indicates an unspoken meaning to your words. Unless, of course, I am mistaken. If that is the case, then I offer my apologies. _If_ I am mistaken."

Meredith's nostrils flared and she took a further step closer to her second. "You would do well to remember your position, Knight-Captain, and to demonstrate a little more deference when addressing your betters."

"I have unflinching deference towards, and respect for, the teachings and doctrines of the Chantry, Knight-Commander," answered Cullen, his chin held high.

"Meaning?" she questioned, and Cullen frowned slightly.

"Meaning… what I say. There is nothing hidden behind _my_ words."

Incredulous at his impertinence, Meredith was rendered speechless for a moment before a knock came at her door. "Not now!" she barked.

"Please, Knight-Commander," said a voice from behind the door, "forgive the interruption, but visitors have arrived for you. The king of Ferelden is among them."

"What?" she muttered before moving to the door and flinging it open. "What is the king doing here?" she demanded of the templar outside the door.

"I did not question him," he answered nervously. "He-he has others with him."

"Whom?" she snapped.

"The warden-commander and the captain of the Kirkwall guard. With respect, it-it's probably best not to keep them waiting, Knight-Commander."

"With respect," she sneered, her eyes returning to Cullen before she again addressed the messenger. "Have them sent in," she commanded, and the templar quickly bowed before disappearing. "You are dismissed," she said to Cullen without looking at him. "For now."

Cullen also departed, not bothering with a bow as his knight-commander had her back to him. Once he'd left she closed the door and stood stiffly at the foot of her desk, anger tightening her chest. She'd been expecting a visit from Vallen for some time, but what did the king want with her? And the warden-commander? Wasn't he a _mage?_

Deciding that this visit was going to be a short one, Meredith took a seat at her desk and arranged some papers so she looked busy. When the second knock came at the door, she had a quill in her hand and was writing.

"Enter," she called.

The door was opened by the templar messenger, who bowed before stepping aside. "Knight-Commander, may I present his majesty King Alistair Theirin and Warden-Commander Llewellyn Surana."

Meredith slowly rose as Alistair – who'd taken Dumar's advice and was wearing a full suit of heavy armour – entered, along with a smirking elven mage. "Where is the guard-captain?" she asked the templar.

"Uh… she's in the courtyard, chatting with the merchants."

"Please ensure she has an escort," Meredith replied, meaning _keep an eye on her._

"At once, Knight-Commander."

"Gentlemen," Meredith said with a small bow as the door was closed. "To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?"

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest and gave a proper Templar bow, while Surana folded his arms and leaned on a wall. "We won't keep you long, Knight-Commander," Alistair assured her, "it's just that we're travelling through Kirkwall and thought it would be courteous to pay the leader of the local Templars a visit."

"How thoughtful of you," said Meredith with a frigid note to her voice. "I have only one chair to offer you. Please take a seat, your Majesty."

Alistair chuckled before rapping his cuirass with his fist. "Alas, plate armour and chairs are not usually compatible," he quipped.

"I'll sit there, then," Surana volunteered before resting his staff on top of a cabinet and plonking himself down on the chair, sweeping his robe aside with a flourish. "Very decent of you," he said to Meredith, who quietly bristled at the mage's audacity.

"You would presume to take the seat offered to your king?" she asked Surana in disbelief.

"Why not? He didn't want it." Surana stretched his legs and made himself comfortable.

"Anyway," Alistair interjected, wondering if it had been a good idea to bring Lewi along, "I was hoping to discuss a few initiatives we've implemented in Ferelden with you. If you have the time, of course."

"I am not certain I do," Meredith replied haughtily. "The demands on my time are quite formidable."

"And I'm not certain how you deal with royalty in Kirkwall," an irate Surana began, rising from the chair, "but in Ferelden, if the monarch makes a request of you – and politely, at that – you _make_ the time to accommodate it."

"Clearly, Ferelden is _quite_ a different place from Kirkwall," hissed Meredith, her cold gaze fixed on Surana. "There, you have mages running around unchecked, and the Templars are reduced to mere bystanders."

"And I bet that _really_ pisses you off," Surana sneered before Alistair grabbed his arm and leaned in close.

" _Not_ helping?" he whispered before clearing his throat and straightening up.

"Watch your tone, mage," Meredith warned.

"That's Warden-Commander to you, _Templar,"_ retorted Surana, assuming a belligerent stance with his hands on his hips. "Remember who stands in front of you. You might be used to dishing out orders and preying on helpless, smitten mages but you and I are mere _subjects_ to this man. Watch _your_ bloody tone."

"Lewi!" Alistair exclaimed, flashing his most charming smile at Meredith, whose mouth remained in a tight line. Alistair wondered for a moment if the woman had ever smiled in her entire life. Or maybe she was constipated? "I think we might have got off on the wrong foot," he said warmly, his cheeks flushing.

"You are a master of understatement, your Majesty," answered Meredith, her own face drained of colour. "I have heard all about your _initiatives._ Perhaps you are unaware just how dire the situation in Kirkwall truly is. Only this week, two members of my order have been lost, one to a confirmed blood mage who is still at large. Kirkwall is a beacon for apostates from all quarters – every day more and more of them arrive. Our task is made no easier by the underground movement which smuggles those criminals out of Kirkwall – aided in doing so by a member of your own order! So do not come in here, your Majesty, assuming you will dictate to me-"

"Who are you talking about?" Alistair asked with a frown. "I seriously doubt a Grey Warden would have the time to aid apostates, let alone get involved with any causes not directly connected with the Wardens."

"Oh, so you _deny_ knowledge of Anders's activities?"

"Anders?" Surana demanded, his face dropping. "He's here? In Kirkwall?"

"Do not insult me, mage," she seethed, leaning forward on the desk. "He has been a thorn in my side for more than a year. There are rumours, sightings, but he is well protected, both by the effluent of refugees that has swept into this city and, I suspect, by the Grey Wardens themselves!"

"How dare you," Surana began, before Alistair pushed him back with his arm.

"That _effluent_ you speak of happens to be my countrymen," said Alistair in a hard tone, "and I will thank you not to slander the name of the Grey Warden order. I can see you're not interested in a civilised conversation so the commander and I will take our leave. I _would_ say it's been a pleasure, but I was raised to be honest."

Alistair turned on his heel and opened the door, quickly departing. Surana followed, but not before grabbing his staff and exchanging a filthy look with Meredith.

When they arrived in the courtyard, Aveline rushed over to them, worried by the king's florid complexion.

"Are you all right, your Majesty?" she asked in concern.

"What. A. _Bitch_ ," Alistair ground out in reply.

"I see you've sussed her out pretty quickly," laughed the captain, finding she was warming to the young king. "I think I might go and see her now, if she's pissed off. It's my ambition to make one of those veins in her forehead pop."

"It's just become mine as well," added Surana, shaking his head. "I can't believe Anders is here," he mumbled to himself. "I thought he was dead."

"Oh? Who's that, then?" asked Aveline, hoping her casual tone sounded genuine.

"I think Nathaniel mentioned him when we were at the expedition site," Surana elaborated before turning to Alistair. "We're going to have to look into this."

"Yes, yes, all right," Alistair groaned. "Let's just get out of here. I could do with a stiff drink."

"I'll see you back to the keep, then," Aveline offered.

"I thought you needed to speak to Meredith?" asked Surana.

"Well, I _was_ going to tell her to keep her beak out of guard business, but I think I'll write her a snotty letter instead. I'll be more eloquent that way, and I can give a copy to the viscount. And I won't have to look at her pinched old hatchet face. Maker, she makes _me_ look like a dolly bird. Let's go."

"Yes, _let's,"_ Alistair echoed, already several steps ahead. Aveline walked behind the two wardens, planning a trip to the Hawke residence once she'd dropped her charges off at the keep.

~o~O~o~

"Haven't you finished that _yet?"_ Fletcher complained, hands on hips as he looked down at Fenris, who was scrabbling about in the dirt. He then glanced at his own neatly-dug row of potatoes and shook his head at Fenris's attempt – the elf hadn't even started to dig yet, but instead was levelling off the soil, having forked in some rotted compost.

"You told me that the soil needs to be prepared," answered the elf in amusement, "and that is what I am doing. Preparing."

"Yes, but at this rate my potatoes will be on my plate before you've got yours in the ground!" the mage whined impatiently, his stomach growling. "Let's pick this up later, or tomorrow, or whenever. I'm losing the will to live."

A sly smile curved one side of Fenris's mouth as he looked up at Fletcher through his fringe. "Hungry?" he deduced.

"Not… necessarily," said the mage shiftily with a shrug. "I'm just worried about _you_. You didn't eat any breakfast and we've worked well past the noon break. I wouldn't want you to collapse from hunger or anything."

"How touching," muttered Fenris, completely unconvinced by Fletcher's earnest appeal. He made a small hole in the soil and popped a seed potato in before covering it with more soil. "There. Am I a farmer yet?"

"No! You need to make little trenches and mounds!" Fletcher crouched next to Fenris and piled more soil on top of the potato, shaping it into a small hill. "You can't risk any part of the potato or stem being exposed to the sun. That's how you get green spuds. I think lack of food has cut off the blood supply to your brain," he said solemnly, shaking his head. "We must take you inside and get some food down your neck as a matter of urgency."

"But of course," said Fenris, rising to his feet before clutching his head and swaying in an exaggerated manner. "Oh… feel… dizzy. Brain… starved of blood. You had better… carry me."

Always willing to oblige, Fletcher scooped the elf up as he stood, frowning at Fenris's protestations and wriggling. "You _told_ me to carry you!" he puffed as he staggered toward the house. "Bloody hell, Fenris, when did you get so fat?"

"Far be it from me to cast aspersions on _your_ girth, but perhaps the fact that your own weight has steadily crept up since we left the Deep Roads might have affected your fitness a tad?" Fenris questioned, eliciting a scowl from the red-faced mage as they entered the kitchen through the back door.

"Didn't… seem to… bother you last night," he gasped before setting Fenris down, "when I was _on top_ of you, did it? You weren't calling me fat then, were you? No… you were making funny noises like ooh! Ah! and so on. And you've never complained about my _girth_ before, either."

"Doubtlessly due to the fact I cannot _breathe_ when you are on top," claimed the elf before both men started to laugh. "Now, you should prepare lunch before you worry yourself to death over my brain."

Fletcher moved to the sink and began washing his hands. "Yes, _I'll_ prepare lunch. How about a nice sandwich? _They_ can't be burned, unlike eggs."

Fenris moved next to him and bumped him aside with his hip before washing his own hands. "You do that. I shall recline in the parlour, lest I expire from a dearth of food and blood. Please prepare our comestibles with all due speed."

"Eh?" Fletcher asked, gawking at the elf.

Fenris leaned closer to Fletcher, his green eyes sparkling. "It means 'get on with it'." He then turned and sauntered to the door.

"Fen?" Fletcher called, and the elf turned around. "You know, you're getting cocky," the mage stated.

"Is that a fact?" asked Fenris, arching a brow.

Fletcher nodded. "It is. I think I like it."

Fenris dipped his head before heading for the parlour, a bright smile on his face.

Fletcher brought lunch – cold pork and pickle sandwiches with a flagon of cider to share – to the parlour and they made themselves comfortable before gorging themselves until they were stuffed, as well as a little tipsy. They gave Tufty their leftovers but the nug understandably turned his snout up at the pork.

"When will your mother and sister be home?" Fenris asked as he lounged next to Fletcher on the settee and rubbed his full belly.

"This evening. Quentin's escorting them to a fête just outside town, and then he's taking them for dinner when they return. I expect Mother will come back laden with trinkets."

Fenris nodded, his expression serious. "Are you comfortable with this man? Do you trust him with your family?"

"Yes, I quite like him," Fletcher replied. "And he wouldn't get near Mother if I didn't trust him. He seems like a gentleman. Why do you ask?" he queried, detecting something else in Fenris's questions.

"No particular reason. Although… if you completely trust him, then why has Bethany accompanied them? If you do not mind my asking."

"Of course I don't mind," said Fletcher with a frown. "You're an honorary Hawke now, remember? You have a right to ask. This is _your_ family, too."

Fenris smiled and waited for Fletcher to continue.

"Well, despite appearances to the contrary, I take my position as head of the Hawke family very seriously," he elaborated with a grin. "I suppose I'm being old-fashioned, but I won't have Mother out and about with her suitor without a chaperone. Although Beth has probably sodded off somewhere, knowing her," he guessed, rolling his eyes.

"And yet we are here, _without_ a chaperone," Fenris remarked reasonably.

"You've got me there," grinned Fletcher. "My motto as head of the family is 'Do as I say, not as I do'. Besides, it's different where women are involved."

"You believe them to be weak-minded, then?"

"Absolutely not," answered Fletcher, emphatically shaking his head. "Beth? Weak-minded? Not on your nelly. And Mother? As stubborn as chocolate stains on a robe."

"An analogy close to your heart, no doubt."

Fletcher nodded in agreement and they shared a laugh. "No, it's not the women who need to be chaperoned… it's the men. They're not _all_ honourable. And, although Quentin seems a pleasant enough chap, I don't know him completely. Until they're married – _if_ that's what he has in mind for her – they'll be chaperoned."

Fenris grunted his approval. "For what it is worth, I agree."

"It's worth a lot, Fen."

"That pleases me," Fenris answered, snuggling closer to the mage, and Fletcher slung an arm around his shoulders. "If I might ask, have you and Quentin discussed my markings in any more detail?"

"We have, on the few occasions I've seen him. It's all very dry, boring, theoretical mage stuff at the moment. Rest assured, as soon as we come up with anything relevant or interesting, you'll be the first to know. Well, the third. He did say that he'll be able to spend a bit more time in Kirkwall as he's finished sorting out his deceased wife's estate. And I know he's fascinated by your markings, so we'll definitely pick it up again."

"Perhaps I should meet him?"

Fletcher frowned and took a deep breath. "You can if you like, but…"

"But?"

"Well, I don't like the thought of you being prodded and poked and examined, like a test subject. To me, you're a person, but to him you'd be _research_. I mean, that's fine – that's what he does, researches things – but… let's keep that idea in reserve, in case our hypothesising turns up nothing."

"Fair enough."

"Although," Fletcher began, giving the elf a knowing look, "if you wanted to meet him to check him out, we _could_ invite the two of you here for dinner one evening."

"But would he not see my markings?"

Fletcher shrugged. "Cover them up. They have these things called _clothes_. Marvellous invention, you know. They cover up all kinds of stuff."

"Ask a silly question," Fenris drawled, taking a sip of cider.

"That _was_ a silly question for you, Ser Elf. You know, I'm not entirely convinced your brain has recovered yet," Fletcher said seriously. "I think you'd better go for a lie down."

"Me or _we_?" asked Fenris, his mouth twitching with the beginnings of a smile.

"Well, as your personal physician, I _should_ accompany you," said Fletcher, taking Fenris's mug and setting it down. "It would be unethical not to do so."

"Since when do I have a pershonal… I mean _personal…_ ph… phfft…" He halted, suddenly unable to form a coherent word, before spluttering out a laugh.

"Since right now," Fletcher sniggered, pinching one of the elf's reddened cheeks. "Now get up those stairs before I drag you up. Doctor's orders." He stood up and pulled Fenris up by the hands before supporting him around the waist. "I don't know… you can't plant potatoes and you can't hold your cider."

"I can lie down, though," Fenris boasted, waving a chastening finger at the mage. "I'm _very_ good at that."

"Yes, you are," Fletcher mumbled, nuzzling the elf's ear, and they haltingly made their way up the stairs, watched by a curious Tufty.

The nug remained at the foot of the stairs, looking up, until Fletcher's bedroom door slammed. Quickly losing interest in whatever his masters were up to, he headed back to the parlour to finish off his leftovers.

~o~O~o~

After knocking several times at the main doors of the mansion, Sergeant Hunter and Corporal Briggs stepped back, looking up at the first-floor windows.

"Looks like no one's in, then," Briggs commented.

"Doesn't that strike you as odd?" questioned Hunter. "A huge estate like this? Where are the servants? The staff?"

"Somebody must tend to these grounds." Briggs pointed out the well-kept gardens which encompassed the manor, and the crops to the eastern side of the estate.

"Well, I don't see anyone. Maybe they're working further out?" Hunter speculated. "Whoever's responsible, the residents of this estate are obviously self-sufficient. Even the wealthiest and oldest noble families of Kirkwall don't have this much land. Fenris said he was well-off."

Briggs moved closer to Hunter and lowered his voice. "Why _does_ Fenris want this person investigated anyway? And why's it off the books?"

Hunter glanced around. "We need to interview all known mage associates of Hawke anyway, so if anyone asks questions, that's how we cover ourselves. The mage who lives here is an apostate who's unknown to the templars, and is also personally involved with Hawke and his mother. Fenris just wants to know a bit more about him – I suppose I'd do the same in his position, and Fenris has a good nose for people. Legally we're on shaky ground, though, so that's why we're keeping it quiet. It's also why I brought you along."

"Don't worry, I won't say a word," promised Briggs.

"Good. Let's take a look around."

They walked to the side of the house and took a short path to the rear, finding a courtyard surrounded by stables which were in a state of advanced disrepair. Many of them were boarded up but a few were not. There were no horses, nor any signs of recent activity. Placing a finger to his lips, Hunter nodded at one set of stables, which Briggs walked towards, while Hunter approached another.

Finding nothing of note besides a few discarded crates, Hunter stepped back into the courtyard and looked at the rear of the house, noting that, like at the front, all of the drapes were closed.

"Sergeant," Briggs quietly called. "In here."

Hunter followed the direction of Briggs's voice and found his colleague crouched inside another stable, where he was brushing pieces of hay aside. "Trapdoor, Sarge," Briggs whispered. "It's padlocked. There's a funny smell in here, like piss."

Hunter stepped inside, his nose wrinkling slightly. "Horses?" he speculated.

"Did the other stables smell?" asked Briggs, and Hunter shook his head.

"I think it's coming from down there," Briggs guessed, pointing at the wooden trapdoor. He got on all fours and placed his nose next to the ground, taking a sniff. "Ooh, yeah," he winced, quickly drawing back. "Definitely down there."

Hunter walked to the stable door and took another look around, seeing no one about. "Keep watch," he instructed, and Briggs stepped outside the stable while Hunter got to work on the lock.

After a few minutes, Hunter successfully sprang the lock and opened the trapdoor, forced to cover his nose with his sleeve as the acrid smell of ammonia hit him. "I'm going down," he informed Briggs.

"All right, be careful," replied Briggs.

Hunter reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief, which he firmly pressed over his mouth and nose before slowly descending a rickety wooden ladder. Upon reaching the bottom, he looked around, barely able to discern a large, semi-circular structure in the poor light. He walked towards it, holding out his free hand, and determined that it was made of brick. As he felt along it, he came upon a hole, approximately one foot in diameter. He placed his hand inside, discovering that it was, in fact, a small tunnel.

He made his way back to the ladder where the air was less noxious, and uncovered his mouth. "I think it's a large kiln of some kind," he called up, examining the hand he'd placed inside the tunnel, finding it was coated with a black, greasy film.

"What, he's a mage potter?" Briggs joked.

Hunter sniffed his hand and clapped his handkerchief over his mouth as he retched into it.

"Sarge? You okay?"

"Fine," Hunter rasped before coughing several times. "I doubt he's a potter, unless he's making a sculpture out of rotten meat. There's some kind of grease in here – it's on the floor as well – and that's what it smells like."

"What do you think?" Briggs asked from above.

Hunter sighed. "We're going to need a lot more than that to justify a magistrate's warrant, not to mention our presence here. Hold on – there's another door in here. I'll try to pick the lock."

"All right, then, but be quick," Briggs answered. "I'm starting to feel like I'm being watched up here."

"Won't be long," Hunter assured him. "I just need a minute or two – I can't see what I'm doing."

"I'll see if I can fashion a torch, Sergeant. There's plenty of kindling around here. Back in a bit."

"Good idea," Hunter called up as he approached another locked door next to the kiln, which appeared to lead into the actual house. It was also padlocked, but the skilled rogue made quick work of it.

Above ground, Briggs had found a broomstick and was busy tying bunches of hay around one end of it when Hunter emerged, pale-faced.

"Sarge? What is it?" Briggs asked in concern as Hunter approached him, before gasping and pointing at the rogue's feet. "What's _that?_ Is it-"

"I don't know what the hell's going on here," he replied angrily with a glance at his bloodied boots, "but something's not right."

"What was down there?"

Hunter shook his head. "I don't know, I couldn't see anything. I trod in something soft and then _another_ smell hit me. Like… an abattoir."

"Could it be legit?" Briggs asked. "Maybe it _is_ an abattoir?"

"It's not much of one, then. A proper abattoir would have a furnace and wouldn't be run out of dilapidated stables, would it? Is that torch ready?"

Briggs nodded. "It'll do for a quick burn. Let me go – you've spent enough time down there."

Hunter considered that briefly before shaking his head. "No. If we cop out for this, I'm the senior officer and I'll take responsibility. You're up for promotion soon – no point both of us getting into trouble." He reached for the makeshift torch but Briggs snatched it back.

"You brought me here as a witness. I can't be that if I don't see anything, can I? And do you really think I'll drop you in it if anyone questions us?"

"No, I didn't mean that," Hunter began as Briggs made for the trapdoor. "Your Brenda's just had a nipper and you could do with the extra money. Anyway, she'll scalp you if you go home with mucky boots."

"I won't get them dirty because I have the torch," argued Briggs. "I'm going. Just keep a look out."

"Your insubordination has been duly noted," Hunter joked as Briggs climbed down the ladder.

"I'm almost a sergeant so technically I'm not being insubordinate," Briggs commented cheekily from below.

"Yes, and I'm a _staff_ sergeant, so watch your lip."

"Ah."

"Yes, _ah,"_ Hunter chuckled. "Hurry up. I'm eager to get back."

"You and me both." Breathing through his mouth, Briggs reached the bottom of the ladder and took out his tinder and flint, producing a spark after a few attempts. Holding the torch aloft, he looked up at the wall and gasped. "Shit."

"What is it?" Hunter demanded from above.

"There are loads of tools hanging on the wall," he shouted up. "Bloody hell, it looks like something out of a torture chamber. Axes, saws, hammers, a crowbar…"

"What about the room at the back?"

"I'm on my way. You weren't wrong about the grease on the floor. I'm surprised you didn't slip." Briggs cautiously made his way to the door, not needing to enter the small room to see what it contained. "There's a chute in here, high up on the wall. The floor's covered in blood and…" He gagged at the sight of something in the corner and rushed out of the room, leaning on the door jamb while he caught his breath. "Sergeant! I think we have something! I don't think horses wear gloves… shit, I think the hand's still inside it."

He waited for a reply and, when none came, his stomach fluttered. "Sergeant?" he called again. Resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, he placed the torch on the ground, his eyes instantly registering that no daylight was entering from above. "What the bleeding hell?"

He drew his sword and, by the light of the torch, negotiated his way to the foot of the ladder and looked up at the closed trapdoor. Taking a deep breath, he placed his foot on the bottom rung and pushed his sword against the trapdoor, hoping to push it open, but it didn't budge.

"Sergeant!" he yelled. "The trapdoor's closed! Are you there?" He waited again, his blood rushing through his ears. "Darren! What's going on? If this is a joke, it's not funny! Let me out!"

He quickly climbed the ladder and pushed against the trapdoor, feeling it give a little. Then, a dragging sound came from above and a heavy weight pushed down on the trapdoor.

"Who's there?" he demanded, panic evident in his voice as he banged on the door with his fist. "Darren! Are you all right?"

"Wait your turn," threatened a smooth, low voice from the other side of the trapdoor, and one set of footsteps was heard above, slowly growing fainter.


	95. Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am hopeful that, once we have visited Anders, we might… finish our lunch?"
> 
> "But we've eaten," Fletcher began before his eyes met Fenris's. "Ah. Luuunch." He glanced around and leaned in closer. "I didn't finish my elf sausage, did I?"
> 
> Fenris raised a hand to his mouth and quietly snickered. "Shut up."
> 
> "I didn't get any stuffing, either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Carrie for the timely filler chapter reassurances!

"Are you in there, Hawke?" Aveline demanded as she thumped on the bedroom door.

"What…? For fuck's sake!" Fletcher wailed from behind the door. "How did _you_ get in here? What do you want?"

"The door was open," she explained. "Well, the front one wasn't, so I came around the back. I _did_ call you a few times. Your nug very helpfully led me up here."

A furious grunt was heard, as was a creaking bed, before the door was flung open and Fletcher stood before her, naked as the day he was born, his rapidly-waning erection pointing at her like an accusing finger. "His name happens to be Tufty!"

"Hawke!" she exclaimed, shielding her eyes. "Maker!"

"Oh, like you haven't seen my cock before! Why don't I commission a portrait of it? That way you can hang it in your office so you never forget what it looks like!"

"Fletcher!" barked Fenris from inside the room.

"Well how would _she_ like it if we walked in on her and Donnic?" He turned to Aveline. "This had better be bloody good!"

"Maybe you should get dressed first," she suggested, hearing the bed creak again, as well as a softly-growled Tevinter curse.

"I'll get dressed when I'm ready. Spit it out!"

She sighed, her eyes fixed on the floor as Fletcher had made no attempt to cover himself up. "The Wardens know Anders is in Kirkwall."

"So?"

 _"So?_ Don't you care?" she asked incredulously.

"Maybe if I hadn't been in bed with Fenris, having _sex_ , I might actually give a shit!"

_"Fletcher!_ Fasta vass!" 

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" the mage replied over his shoulder before facing Aveline again. "Can't anyone sort out their own sodding problems around here? Can't we have just _one_ day to ourselves?"

"I thought you'd want to know," Aveline said with a quiet huff. "If the Wardens start investigating, they'll eventually connect you to Anders. It might be easier to speak to Surana now, find out what he's about or what he intends to do if and when he finds Anders. For what it's worth, I'm sorry I disturbed you both. And, no, I wouldn't like it if you walked in on me and..." She cleared her throat. "But I look after my friends, Hawke, and so do you."

Fletcher groaned. "Maker… all right! Just give me a few minutes, okay?"

"Fine. I'll be downstairs," she replied as the door was slammed in her face. "By the way, if you don't want anyone disturbing you again I'd advise you to lock your doors. I'd have thought as an apostate you'd know that."

"Yes, _I_ would have thought that as well," she heard Fenris mutter through what sounded like gritted teeth.

"What?" Fletcher spluttered. "You're blaming me? I didn't hear _you_ reminding me to lock the door when we came in! Oh no, you were too busy making puns about my girth!"

"And _you_ were too busy thinking about food!" accused the elf. "As usual!"

"I made you a sandwich!"

"It was _dry!"_

"Oh! I had no idea you could be so cruel!"

"I _said_ I'll be downstairs when you two have finished!" Aveline loudly reminded the frustrated pair as she descended the stairs.

"Although," Fenris began quietly from the bedroom, "the dryness of the sandwich _was_ offset by the cider."

All fell silent for a moment before quiet sniggering was heard, along with a _whump_ as a pillow was thrown or used as a weapon, and the sniggering grew into a strange, gravelly sound Aveline had never heard before. Was Fenris actually _laughing_?

"Still here!" she called up the stairs.

"Bollocks," Fletcher called back.

~o~O~o~

Once they'd arrived at the keep, Aveline sent one of her guards ahead to see if the king and Surana were willing to receive Messere Hawke. The messenger returned from the king's suite promptly with the news that both wardens were awaiting Fletcher at his convenience.

"Would you like me accompany you?" Fenris asked the mage, his eyes lingering on the entrance to the barracks.

"Not if you have something to do here. It's fine, really," said Fletcher, smiling at Fenris's rueful expression.

"I… merely wished to liaise with Sergeant Hunter. I would be interested to know whether he has any useful leads or information. He should be here, taking his lunch break."

"Off you go, then," Fletcher prompted.

"Are you sure? You are not nervous?"

"Only of what their reaction to the news will be, or rather what they'll do. I'll be fine. They're not exactly the Arishok, are they? I won't be walking in there wondering if I'll be wearing my bowels as a hat when I leave."

Fenris glanced at the top of Fletcher's head and frowned. "I am not certain such a look would suit you, although, in all fairness, you would be too deceased to care."

"I don't know," Fletcher said thoughtfully, examining the sleeves of his black tunic. "I reckon red or pink would go quite well with this, actually."

"You could be right," Fenris answered with an indulgent smile. "Though… let us never put it to the test, hm?"

A long-suffering groan was heard from behind them before Aveline prodded Fletcher's shoulder. "When you two have quite finished, the _king_ is waiting?" She pointed toward the barracks and looked at Fenris. "Go and see Darren but don't keep him for too long. You _are_ off-duty."

"You don't need to remind us of that," Fletcher huffed, hands on hips. "He was also off-duty when you interrupted us in the middle of-"

"All right!" she protested, holding her hands up. "Fenris, I'll go with you. I've heard Lieutenant Bradley's returned and I need to speak to him. Hawke, meet us at the barracks when you've finished."

She walked away and Fenris began to follow, but first turned back to Fletcher and mouthed _good luck._

Fletcher responded with a grin and a wink and watched the twosome until they'd entered the barracks. Then, his stomach fluttering, he walked to the upper level of the keep where the king and warden-commander were staying in a guest suite.

The king's bodyguards were expecting him and, after a brief wait, he was shown into the suite. Within, Alistair and Surana were seated at a table, poring over several important-looking documents, and Fletcher bowed to them before taking a few hesitant steps inside as the door was closed.

"Messere Hawke, please come in," Alistair invited, gesturing to an armchair as the two wardens stood and moved to the sitting area.

"Thank you, your Majesty," replied Fletcher, and the three men took a seat. "I, uh, suppose I'm really here to see the warden-commander, but as a warden yourself, sire, I assume you'll also be interested."

"In that case, I'll just sit here and eavesdrop," quipped Alistair as Surana sat forward, intrigued.

"What is it?" asked the elf. "You appear troubled. Is this connected with the expedition? The mining operation?"

Fletcher blew out a sigh and shook his head. "Actually, no. I'm here to talk about… Anders."

A small frown appeared on Surana's brow and he sat back, crossing one leg over the other. "That's funny, I mentioned him not long ago to… ah, I see," he mumbled, nodding in realisation. "Captain Vallen is quite the actress. She gave no sign whatsoever that she knew who I was talking about. So he _is_ in Kirkwall, then."

"The captain meant no deception, Warden-Commander," Fletcher reassured him. "She just wasn't sure how to act. She came to me immediately and, as a show of good faith, I'm here now to discuss the situation with you. I'm guessing that the commander of the grey and the king have considerably more resources than I do, and that you would have eventually ascertained that I know Anders. This saves you the bother of a potentially lengthy and time-consuming investigation."

Surana and Alistair exchanged a quick glance and a smile. "That's very gracious of you, Messere Hawke," Surana began.

"Fletcher, please."

"Fletcher," Surana repeated. "Please call me Lewi."

Fletcher smiled and nodded. "Lewi."

"Now, Fletcher, do you actually know Anders or just know _of_ him?" queried Surana.

"He's a good friend of mine."

"Ah. In that case, I'm guessing you aren't just going to take us to him," Surana guessed shrewdly, and Fletcher shrugged.

Surana rose and went to the table, where he poured three goblets of wine and returned to the seating area, handing a goblet to Fletcher and Alistair before taking his seat again. "How long have you known Anders?" he asked Fletcher.

Fletcher glanced first at his goblet and then at Surana, unsure how much to tell him.

"It's not drugged, you know," Alistair joked before taking a sip, as did Surana.

"Oh, I didn't mean-" Fletcher blurted out before smiling as Alistair and Surana laughed.

"I understand your reticence," said Surana. "Anders is your friend and you're trying to protect him. The king and I already know that you're a man of honour. Back in Lothering, you let us spend the night in your barn, provided breakfast for us and asked for not a copper in return. You were honest with us about the mining expedition. Allow me to be equally honest with you."

"Go ahead," Fletcher replied, finally taking a sip of wine.

"Anders is considered a deserter," Surana said bluntly. "As I recall, your brother was in the military – he was preparing to head out to Ostagar when we arrived in Lothering."

Fletcher nodded and waited for the elf to continue.

"Then you'll know that the punishment for desertion is severe, if not final," Surana went on. "The thing is… well, the king and I have been discussing this. We don't actually know of anyone that's deserted the wardens, and we don't know what, if any, punishment should be meted out. Most of the Ferelden wardens were lost at Ostagar, as was my predecessor. To be candid, Alistair and I don't have a clue what to do. It was nothing but luck that got us through the Blight. We pretty much blundered our way through the whole thing."

"I… didn't expect you to say that," mumbled Fletcher, taken aback.

"It's true," added Alistair with a wry twist of his mouth. "I wrote to Weisshaupt at the start of the Blight, asking for assistance, and I'm _still_ waiting for a reply. They weren't interested in two no-hopers like us."

"You're hardly a no-hoper, your Majesty."

"Thanks," Alistair chuckled. "No, even Duncan told me that Weisshaupt isn't interested in the 'little people'. The truth is that we don't know what to do with Anders. We know what the military does with deserters, but not what the _wardens_ do. I've always been of the opinion that, while desertion is wrong, there _may_ be extenuating circumstances. The military deals with desertion by execution, no questions asked. That's not my way."

"I agree," Surana chimed in. "That doesn't mean Anders will be sent away with a slap on the wrist, however. He left Vigil's Keep in the middle of a battle during which several good people died," he related, his posture stiffening as he spoke. "He needs to answer for that, at least."

"Didn't you say you thought he was dead?" Fletcher questioned. "Uh… that's what Aveline told me."

"I thought he was until that Meredith woman mentioned him." Surana took a large sip from his goblet before setting it down. "I wasn't at the keep at the time – I was in Amaranthine with Nathaniel. Vigil's Keep was besieged by darkspawn and when we returned, several wardens and staff were dead or missing. We accounted for all of them except Anders. He was eventually declared dead. _Now_ it seems that he buggered off in the middle of the battle," he deduced angrily. "He'd been acting strangely for a few days beforehand anyway. I had a feeling he was going to piss off somewhere – he never could stick at anything."

"We don't know that for certain, Lewi," Alistair said. "The only way we'll know for sure is by speaking with him."

"Assuming he'll tell us the truth," Surana scoffed before facing Fletcher. "He always was self-centred, but even I hadn't thought him capable of abandoning his friends – who saved him from hanging, by the way – in the middle of a fight for their lives."

"That doesn't sound like Anders," Fletcher mumbled. "The Anders I know would give the shirt off his back to help someone in need. I know for a fact that he's gone hungry if it meant he could buy the ingredients to heal someone with. He's the least self-centred person I know."

"Are you sure you have the same person?" asked Alistair.

"He's around… six-two, slim, reddish-blond hair, really hates the Templars?" Surana asked Fletcher, who nodded.

"Sounds like the same man to me, then," Alistair concluded. "Maybe he's changed? Maybe he wants to atone?"

"What do you intend to do with him?" Fletcher interposed. "You sound pretty angry, Lewi, which I can understand, but the Anders you describe is nothing like the Anders I know. He's a good man. A little… troubled, maybe, but his heart's in the right place. You're sitting there, telling me you don't know what to do with him, but – respectfully – it sounds to me like you know what you'd _like_ to do to him. Well, I'm telling you that he isn't that person anymore. He's changed. If you intend to harm him, you'll get no help from me. I'm sorry."

Surana groaned and once again sat forward. "Yes, I'm angry. I need to know _why_ he did what he did. He was our only healer and I left him behind at the keep because I thought he'd be safer there. I _expected_ him to help the wounded, not to disappear." He sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. "I didn't always get on with Anders, but I thought… he let us down. It _hurts._ I really thought he was one of us, that he'd found somewhere to settle down. I _need_ some answers. Surely you can understand that?"

Fletcher once again stared at his goblet and didn't answer.

"How about a meeting?" Alistair suggested. "On neutral ground, with as many of your friends present as you like, Fletcher. Commander Surana does deserve to know what really happened, don't you agree?"

"I'll have to speak to Anders," answered Fletcher. "I'm not going to lead him into some trap. And I want your word that he won't be harmed or taken away. I also believe that you're men of honour, and I'll accept your word if you give it."

A lengthy pause ensued before Surana held his hand out to Fletcher. "You have my word. I can't guarantee it'll be a pleasant reunion – if he agrees to it – but he won't be harmed, nor will he be apprehended. There's no point me having wardens who don't _want_ to be wardens."

"Thank you." Fletcher shook Surana's hand. "How long do you plan on staying here?"

"We can stay for another day or two before the commander needs to return to Edgbaston," Alistair replied. "Will that be enough time?"

Fletcher nodded. "I'll speak to Anders today."

"Thank you for bringing this to our attention," Alistair said, rising to his feet, and the other two men followed. "We'll await your – his – decision."

"One more thing," said Fletcher. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't have me followed. I've placed myself and Anders in a very vulnerable position by coming here. We don't need to dodge another order besides the Templars."

"You have _my_ word that you will not be followed," Alistair assured him with a solemn nod. "We appreciate the trust you've shown in us. We'll extend the same courtesy to you."

Fletcher bowed to the king before he was shown out by Surana. The elf closed the door and leaned against it, releasing a heavy sigh.

"Well, _that_ was unexpected. I suppose it's best we do this before Nathaniel returns from the Deep Roads."

"Why's that?" Alistair queried, and Surana folded his arms.

"Nathaniel and Anders never gelled, and quarrelled constantly – they almost came to blows a couple of times and had to be pulled apart. Nathaniel never quite believed that Anders was dead, and said that if he ever showed his face in Amaranthine again, he'd 'fuck him up'."

"Well, I'm sure it was just bravado, hurt feelings," guessed Alistair. "You said yourself that Anders's actions had hurt you."

Surana nodded, his expression grim. "They did. But the difference between Nathaniel and me is that I can put my feelings aside if I really have to. Nathaniel can't. No… _his_ feelings mature over time, like fine wine."

"Oh, _that's_ reassuring," Alistair muttered before finishing off the contents of his goblet and sighing. "Speaking of which… any left in that bottle?"

~o~O~o~

"Has anyone ever told you you're irrepressible?" Nathaniel asked Varric as they progressed through one of the myriad tunnels in the section of the Deep Roads previously charted by Fletcher and the others. "Or is it insufferable? I always get those two mixed up."

"Nope," chirped the dwarf. "Can't say they have. Irresistible, irreplaceable, irreverent, sure, to name but a few."

"Quite the wordsmith, I see," commented the black-haired warden, his face poker-straight. "How about irritating, then? Or irredeemable, perhaps?"

"Ser, I'll forgive the slur on my _ritating_ abilities but I'll have you know that I'm as _deemable_ as the next man," argued the dwarf.

Nathaniel blinked and his head appeared to shudder for a second. "I take back what I said about you being a wordsmith."

"Now, now, there's no need to be uncharitable. I merely said you remind me of a certain elf I know."

"Yes, so I recall," Nathaniel sniffed. "A _broody_ one, apparently."

"He's nothing like Fenris," Donnic teased from behind them. _"Fenris_ has been known to smile on occasion."

"Oh, I smile," Nathaniel commented dryly, "when the situation merits it, or if the company is engaging. Alas, I fear my facial muscles will have to forego any exercise for the duration of this trip."

They were a week into their foray through the Deep Roads, and during that time the threesome had become firm friends. Nathaniel didn't seem as panicked about the lyrium being mined as Surana and the king had, but remained strongly motivated to reach the dig site as quickly as possible. Although he gave no outward sign, Nathaniel was gratified that Varric and Donnic – as well as the dwarves – seemed to have accepted him, although it did mean he'd had to fend off much ribbing from the Gruesome Twosome, as he'd named them.

"You know, you're all right for a _miserable sod,"_ Varric mumbled, his latest attempt at coaxing a smile out of the taciturn warden having failed. "Hey," he whispered to Donnic. "We really have to get those two together. They could have brood-offs! We could hold tournaments! Think of the money we'd make! You in?"

"I _am_ still here, you know," Nathaniel coolly reminded them.

Donnic ignored the warden and hissed through his teeth. "I don't know… I think it'd be pretty one-sided. Fenris could brood for _Thedas_ when he's a mind for it _._ Nathaniel wouldn't stand a chance."

"You could be right, my friend," Varric replied with a melodramatic sigh. "I guess _Chuckles_ here just can't cut it."

A sharp snort came from Nathaniel and he shook his head. "Do you _really_ think-"

"My money's on Fenris," Donnic interrupted. "Fifty silver says he broods Nathaniel into next week."

"Fifty?" a disappointed Varric asked.

"Oh, all right, then – a sovereign."

"Now you're talking!" The dwarf clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Okay, we need to make this a fair fight. My sovereign's on Chuckles. _Don't_ let me down," he warned the warden.

Nathaniel halted and stared at both men. "Would someone care to tell me what is going on, here?"

"Haven't you been listening?" asked Varric with mock impatience. "You and Broody are going to participate in a _brood-off._ It's all been arranged. Don't worry, you'll get a cut of any takings – provided you win, of course. Make sure you win," he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"What in the Void is a brood-off when it's at home?" demanded Nathaniel as he watched the sniggering twosome walk away.

~o~O~o~

When Fletcher arrived at the barracks, Fenris was waiting for him and listened as the mage filled him in.

"You did well," complimented the elf. "I am relieved that the king promised not to have you tailed – that was a concern of mine. What do you intend to do now?"

"I'd better go and see Anders. Want to come?"

"Indeed I do," Fenris agreed. "Sergeant Hunter has not yet arrived for his lunch – no doubt he is engrossed in the investigation. I do have some tidings to impart, however. Lieutenant Bradley successfully delivered Bartrand into the custody of the dwarves. He has just returned."

Fletcher grinned. "That _is_ good news. Shame we can't tell Varric yet, although it means I can start off my conversation with Anders on a positive note. Did Bradley have any trouble?"

"No. Bartrand made some empty threats about returning one day and 'taking what was rightfully his', particularly when the dwarves released Angrim – they had no quarrel with him. Bradley informed Bartrand that, should he ever return, he would encounter a welcoming committee comprised of the entire city guard. And that welcoming committee would rearrange Bartrand's features so comprehensively that he would appear handsome."

"Nice," Fletcher laughed. "I like Bradley's style."

"Bartrand was then informed by the dwarves that, as a criminal, he has forfeited the right to profit from the expedition and that his entire estate is now Varric's. He was _not_ pleased."

"Serves him right! Ha, Varric's already claimed Bartrand's estate – he's going to use the money to pay off the workers, and he'll make sure Reijyr's family is taken care of, as well."

"Then all is well," stated the elf. "Let us be off. I am hopeful that, once we have visited Anders, we might… finish our lunch?"

"But we've eaten," Fletcher began before his eyes met Fenris's. "Ah. _Luuunch."_ He glanced around and leaned in closer. "I didn't finish my elf sausage, did I?"

Fenris raised a hand to his mouth and quietly snickered. "Shut up," he chided, his eyes also darting around.

"I didn't get any stuffing, either."

Fenris placed his hands on his hips, no longer smiling, although there was no accompanying frown. "Now you are just being coarse."

"Is that a problem?"

Fenris shrugged and held the mage's gaze for a moment before, by tacit agreement, they made a hasty dash for the keep's exit.

~o~O~o~

"Who's that?" Anders sharply demanded as the trapdoor to the clinic was opened.

"It's… me and Fen," replied Fletcher with a confused glance at the elf. "Are you entertaining?"

Anders sighed and there was a pause before he answered. "No… you'd better come down."

"We intended to," Fletcher called down, wondering what was going on _this_ time. When he and Fenris reached the cellar, an uneasy-looking Anders was waiting for them.

"Hawke, Fenris," he greeted them. "Everything all right?"

Fletcher nodded and folded his arms as he watched Anders, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Oh, fine. Apart from the fact there's a _templar_ standing next to you, everything's peachy."

Anders sighed again and nudged the man at his side, who stepped forward into the light provided by a torch on the wall. "This is… well, he's…"

"Corporal Fenris?" Ruben exclaimed.

Fenris bowed and straightened up. "Ser Ruben. It is good to see you again."

"You two _know_ each other?" asked Anders. "How?"

"This is the guardsman who assisted in the investigation into Ser Emeric's death," Ruben explained. "How do _you_ two know each other?"

Anders waved a hand toward Fletcher and Fenris before turning away from them. "He's with Hawke. The one I told you about?"

An uncomfortable silence fell, and Ruben, detecting a hint of mana output from Fletcher, cleared his throat. "Perhaps I should leave. I should return before I am missed."

"No, you don't have to go anywhere," Anders argued before turning to Fletcher. "What did you want?"

"I wasn't aware I needed a reason to be here," answered Fletcher, his voice tight, and he looked down as Fenris touched his arm.

"Ser Ruben, I would be interested to hear how your investigation has progressed," said the elf. "If, of course, you are permitted to speak of it."

"I haven't been told not to discuss it with anyone. Shall we go upstairs?" the templar suggested.

"Please. After you." Fenris gestured at the steps, and Ruben paused, first looking at Anders.

"I will visit again tomorrow, if I am able. Keep yourself safe," he advised.

"Um, yes," Anders mumbled, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "Just… be careful, all right?"

"I will." With that, Ruben and Fenris departed, leaving the mages alone.

"Look, I know what you're going to say," Anders began.

"So you're telling templars about me now?" demanded Fletcher. "Don't you think enough of them know about me? What's going on?"

"He's all right, Hawke," Anders urged. "He's not going to tell anyone about you."

"How do you know that for certain? And what was he doing here?" Fletcher had noticed the resemblance between the two men but, although he was pretty sure who the templar was, he found he didn't need to _act_ annoyed about Anders mentioning his name – he _was_ annoyed.

"Just listen to me for a minute." Anders glanced up at the trapdoor and he groaned, his shoulders slumping. "Do you remember when I told you about my brother? The one I hadn't seen for twelve years?"

Hoping his acting was up to scratch, Fletcher did a double-take at the trapdoor before staring at Anders, his mouth half-open. "What, you mean… _he's_ your brother? A templar? You're joking!"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Anders folded his own arms and each man stared at the other for a few moments before Anders sighed. "Look, come and sit down and I'll tell you all about it. I need to go in a bit, though, as I'm meeting Mallory. I don't have any appointments this afternoon, which leads me to something else – when are _you_ going to be able to help out in here? I thought we were going to split this down the middle, but I seem to be the only one who's ever here."

"I've been busy," Fletcher said defensively. "We'll talk about this, but not right now. I'm afraid you'll have to cancel your plans with Mallory – something's come up."

"What? No! I'm not cancelling anything! I never get to go anywhere, while you're gallivanting around town with Fenris and meeting all your friends! It's not fair, Hawke!"

"Gallivanting?" Fletcher scoffed. "Don't you mean running around doing errands for people who don't have the wits to do it themselves? Everywhere I go, somebody wants something from me! Fenris and I were supposed to be spending the day together – our _first_ whole day together since leaving the Deep Roads – and we couldn't even have that! No, here I am, sorting out _your_ problems! So don't accuse me-"

"What do you mean, _my_ problems?" Anders asked, and at that moment the trapdoor was opened.

"Is all well down there?" Fenris called.

"Has the templar gone yet?" Fletcher asked.

"Yes. He has just departed."

"Come down, then."

Fenris slowly made his way down the steps, fixing Anders with a wary look, though he was careful not to show any hostility for Fletcher's sake.

"Leave a note for Mallory," Fletcher briskly told Anders. "We're going to my house."

"What for?" demanded Anders as Fenris shook his head in disapproval.

"Okay, just listen a minute," Fletcher said, realising this would be a lot for Anders to take in. "The king of Ferelden is in Kirkwall, along with… the warden-commander."

"What?" Anders gasped, clutching one of Fletcher's arms.

"Let me finish, please." Fletcher waited for Anders to collect himself before continuing. "They went to see Meredith – just a routine visit – with Aveline. Meredith was a bitch to them and accused Surana of harbouring _you._ Well, of course, Aveline's ears pricked up but she didn't say anything. She came straight to me, and I went to Surana."

"You-you've _talked_ to him?"

"I already know him," Fletcher went on. "Well, sort of. I first met him a couple of years ago in Lothering and again when Varric and I went to Edgbaston. He… wants to see you, Anders."

"What did you tell him?" Anders cried angrily, and Fenris took a step forward, stopped by Fletcher's outstretched arm. "Does he know where I am? Maker, I thought we were friends! You _know_ I've been trying to avoid the wardens! What are you playing at?"

"Just shut up a minute!" barked Fletcher, and Anders gawked at him, panting slightly. "I've been to see him at the keep and sorted things out for you, while I was _supposed_ to be spending the day with Fenris, so show a little fucking gratitude, will you?"

"Please," Fenris implored, his markings reacting to the mana emanating from both mages. "Control yourselves."

Acknowledging Fenris's concerns with a quick nod, Fletcher took a few steadying breaths. "Surana has given me his word that you will not be harmed, and he has no intention of arresting you or taking you back to Ferelden. He _does_ want to know why you just disappeared in the middle of a battle. He told me some things that I found hard to believe. Today is an important day for me and Fenris, and I've spent most of the morning persuading Surana not to come after you. Talk to him. I'm _not_ asking."

Anders moved to a chair and slumped down on it, shaking his head, and Fletcher felt a stirring of guilt when Anders raised trembling hands to cover his face.

"I just thought… I thought I could put all of that out of my mind," Anders uttered, his voice low and unsteady. "I know I did wrong, but I had good reasons… well, I thought I did. Shit, I should have known this day would come, but… I'm not ready for it. I don't know if I can face them all again."

Fletcher exchanged a glance with Fenris before placing a chair next to Anders and sitting by him. "It's only Surana and the king, and from what I can tell, the king seems to be keeping his distance from the whole thing. You'll only need to speak to Surana, although the king might be there," he reassured the other mage, his voice softer.

"What-what about Nathaniel?" Anders asked, uncovering his face.

"He's in the Deep Roads with Varric. I'm sorry, Anders, I should have told you all this, but we haven't seen much of each other, have we? And… I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was pissed off with Aveline, really, but she was looking out for you. We all are."

"It's all right, Hawke," Anders sighed miserably, clutching his hands tightly together in his lap, and Fletcher squeezed Anders's arm before releasing it.

"Go to my house with Fenris," said Fletcher, "and I'll fetch them both. It's neutral territory, and Fenris has the power to arrest even kings if they get out of line."

"I doubt that," Anders contended with a half-hearted smile as he looked up at the elf. "But how will I get to your house? I can't just stroll through Lowtown, can I?"

"Take the underground tunnels – one of them leads directly to my cellar. Fenris has a spare key. I'll return to the keep and we'll all meet up. The king said we could meet at a venue of my choosing, and I can't bring them down here – it'd attract all sorts of attention."

"But wouldn't it attract attention if the king was seen going into your house?" Anders questioned, and Fletcher shrugged.

"I've no problem with people knowing the king's been to my house. And it'd be one in the eye for your nobles, wouldn't it, Fen?" he asked the elf, who gave a quick smile and approached the steps.

"I will ascertain if the way is clear," he said as he walked up. "We will need to enter the tunnels via the Hanged Man."

"Thanks, Fen," Fletcher called before standing up and offering a hand to Anders, who took it and stood up. "We're with you," he reassured his friend. "And Surana strikes me as a man of his word. Unless you know differently?"

Anders released Fletcher's hand and shook his head. "He can be a cold-hearted bastard but no, he's never lied to me, or broken his word. I'm just…" He sighed. "Let's get this out of the way. I'm sorry you and Fenris had your day interrupted, Hawke."

"This needs to be sorted out," Fletcher replied gravely. "Besides, there's plenty of the day left. Well, are you ready for this?"

"Not at all," Anders sighed.


	96. Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you continue on your current path, you will meet an inauspicious end, and I will not have Fletcher placed in danger to save you from yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter, everyone!
> 
> LadyRedDarkness on Deviantart has produced a cracking piece of artwork for PAAA, which can be found at:
> 
> http://ladyreddarkness.deviantart.com/art/Commission-17-359823824
> 
> Please leave a comment for her if you like it!

Anders and Fenris walked, side by side, through the tunnels by the light of Fenris's torch. Ten minutes had passed by without either man uttering a word, but Anders's agitated body language spoke volumes. Eventually, he came to a halt and stared at Fenris, who stopped a few paces ahead before turning back.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" the mage demanded.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"Well, because it's rude?"

Fenris snorted and shook his head. "Think me ill-mannered if you wish – your opinion is of little consequence to me. I was attempting to ascertain your mental state, and whether or not you will pose any danger to Fletcher, the king or your former commander once we meet with them."

"Didn't know you cared so much," Anders sniped.

Fenris turned his back on Anders and continued up the tunnel, leaving Anders with no choice but to follow as he had the only light source. "You may endanger yourself in whatever way you see fit," Fenris went on. "However, when Fletcher is involved – yet again, I might add – in your problems, then yes, I _do_ care."

"I didn't ask him to get involved in this!" Anders protested, his ire rising as the elf continued to saunter ahead.

"And yet he is," answered Fenris simply. "He cares for you. See that you do not take advantage of his kindness."

"Oh, _that's_ rich!" retorted the mage, quickening his pace and moving to Fenris's side. "So you're telling me that _you_ didn't take advantage of him when you first met him? Do you know how many sleepless nights you caused him? Do you know _exactly_ what he's done for you? How many times he's rushed to _your_ rescue? I can compile a list if you like, but you might have to wait a couple of hours for it. It's a bloody long one."

"I am under no illusions in that regard," Fenris replied thoughtfully. "I owe Fletcher a debt that I will never be able to repay, but I intend to spend the rest of my life trying." He halted again and turned to Anders, who also stopped. "Thanks to him, I have turned my life around. As a result of that, I have endeavoured to understand him and his situation. I now accept him, and everything he is, or was, without question. I also understand that Fletcher does not exist exclusively to solve my problems. You, however, have made no similar progress."

"What? What are you going on about?"

"You do not empathise with others. You do not see beyond your own narrow view of the world, nor do you make any attempt to do so. When Fletcher informed you that he had spoken with Surana, your first reaction was one of hostility and distrust. Until you are able to take responsibility for your own failings, you will continue to be a parasite as – yes – I once was. You have a chance to better yourself now that you have been reunited with your brother. Do not squander it."

"Who do you think you are?" Anders barked, incensed by the elf's arrogance. "And how do _you_ know about my brother?"

Fenris folded his arms, seemingly unconcerned by Anders's anger. "I noticed the resemblance as soon as I met him. When he spoke, I heard your voice. After I had worked alongside him I noticed that you share many mannerisms. My hypothesis was confirmed when he stood beside you in the clinic, for no other templar would have survived the encounter. This is an opportunity, Anders, for you to see another's point of view. Such knowledge will surely improve your lot, not to mention your self-esteem."

Anders's nostrils flared and Fenris felt his arms tingle as mana radiated off the mage. "Well, how very nice for you, being all-knowing and wise!" Anders snapped petulantly. "You know, I think I preferred the old Fenris, the one who was always harping on the mages and having temper tantrums!"

"Undoubtedly," drawled the elf. "You preferred that because my behaviour set me apart from everyone else, as well as Fletcher, allowing you to become closer to him, but you were deluding yourself. It was fortunate that I was able to see that, and take steps to remedy it. You are also isolated, as I once was, but you do not need to be. My life is richer now that I have opened myself up to the beliefs and opinions of others. Even your spirit is able to do that. You have much to learn from his example."

"You want to be careful, bringing Justice into this conversation," Anders threatened, pointing at the elf's face.

"Well, does he disagree with me? If so, surely he would have manifested himself?"

Anders gawked at the elf, the realisation that Justice had not rallied to his defence striking him like a blow. "What are you trying to do?" he demanded, his nerves on a knife-edge. "And what would Hawke say if he knew you were talking to me like this?"

"He would likely disapprove," answered Fenris with a shrug. "But I am saying these words for _his_ benefit, not yours. If you continue on your current path, you will meet an inauspicious end, and I will _not_ have Fletcher placed in danger to save you from yourself."

Their eyes locked and Anders, breathing heavily, raised an arm and pointed ahead. "Just show me to Hawke's house," he ordered, his voice trembling. "I didn't ask for your opinion and I certainly don't want it."

"Very well," Fenris replied. "I have said my piece. Do what you will. But know that Fletcher will not always be available to rescue you. I will see to that. I will _always_ protect him."

With that, Fenris walked on, leaving Anders too stunned to speak further. He blinked several times and thought of his imminent meeting with Surana, his heart dropping to his stomach. He then slowly followed Fenris, never feeling more alone.

~o~O~o~

A small crowd had gathered outside the Hawke residence with the news that the king was on his way to the Hightown Estates. As Alistair and his small entourage of companions and guards neared, they were surrounded by well-wishers and soon it became difficult to move.

"Why don't we take care of this?" Fletcher whispered to Surana, who grinned devilishly. Both mages took out their staves and moved in front of the king, holding their weapons aloft. "Make way!" Fletcher bellowed, deliberately deepening his voice, and the crowd hushed. "Slayers of Archdemons and ogres walk at the king's side! I know _I_ wouldn't want to piss them off!"

A few awed coos rose from the crowd, but it was clear that Fletcher's words held sway, and slowly the members of the crowd started to back off, oblivious to the fact that, beneath his grim expression, Fletcher was trying very hard not to laugh.

They eventually reached the door to Fletcher's house, a few brave souls daring to follow them, but with one final glare from the householder, they quickly scattered. Once inside, Fletcher and Surana shared a laugh while Alistair's guards checked the building's security.

"Those people were terrified of you!" remarked the warden-commander in amusement, while Alistair looked on in admiration. "How did you do that?"

"Well, there's a rumour going around that I destroyed an ogre in the Deep Roads by breathing fire at it," Fletcher elaborated.

"What?" Alistair exclaimed, his mouth hanging open. "Can mages really _do_ that?"

"There's a tiny grain of truth in it," replied Fletcher. "Fire _was_ involved. There are other rumours as well, my favourite being that I discovered an army of golems down there and used mind control on them. They're now under my dominion and living in the cellar. And, because there's wine down there, they're all drunk and spoiling for a brawl. I wish that one were true, actually."

"Who's responsible for these rumours?" Surana asked.

Fletcher grinned. "A well-meaning friend of mine. I'm not denying the rumours, though – there was a spate of burglaries around here a few weeks ago, but nobody dared have a go at my house. None of my neighbours' houses were targeted, either. Of course, because I'm an apostate and a refugee, my neighbours won't have anything to do with me, but I don't mind having no friends around here if it means my family's safe. They're only nobles, anyway. No offence," he added hastily.

"None taken," Surana laughed. "I've always found most nobles a priggish lot."

"Same here," Alistair piped up. "I, uh, don't suppose you could magic up a cup a tea, could you?" he asked charmingly. "Shouldn't be much trouble for a fire-breathing commander of golems. And before you say anything, I choose to _believe_ the rumours. More fun that way."

"Oh! Of course! Yes, a cup of tea. Please sit down," Fletcher invited, directing them to the parlour. "Fenris and Anders should be here shortly."

A throat was quietly cleared from behind them, and Fletcher turned to see Fenris standing in the doorway. The elf doffed a low bow to the king, who nodded in return.

"I have taken the liberty of preparing some tea," Fenris began as he hovered at the threshold of the room. "I have also secured Tufty in your bedroom, Fletcher. He has food, water and his blue rock, and is content."

"Come in, Fen," Fletcher encouraged, and the elf stepped inside before shaking Alistair and Surana's outstretched hands. "This is Corporal Fenris of the city guard, the very first elf in the regiment," he said proudly, laying a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "He's also my partner."

"Oh, you're in business together?" Alistair queried, and Surana rolled his eyes.

" _No,_ Alistair. They're _partners_ partners. You know, like Zev?"

"Ohhhh," Alistair answered, turning slightly pink. _"_ Huh. _You're_ not going to promise to teach me some Antivan wrestling techniques in the woods and then mean something completely different, are you?"

"Long story," Surana provided, noticing Fletcher and Fenris's confusion. "Well, Corporal Fenris, is Anders with you?"

Fenris thumbed behind himself towards the rear of the property. "He is taking a stroll in the garden. He would not settle, and wished for solitude. He is… nervous."

Surana's expression sobered and he exhaled slowly. "I suppose I'd better get this over with. Which way is the garden?"

Fletcher pointed the way. "Just through there. A friendly warning – the Templars patrol around here, so if you have a disagreement, keep it to fisticuffs, eh?"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," said Surana quietly. "Besides, there's a corporal here. I don't want to be locked up." He gave Fenris a wry half-smile before leaving the parlour.

"Best we leave them to it," Alistair suggested. "Now, how about that tea?"

~o~O~o~

Anders was seated on a bench in a secluded corner of the garden when he saw the elf in his peripheral vision. It was definitely an elf, one with fair hair at that, and unless Fenris had taken to wearing robes…

His stomach flipped over. What was he going to say? What would happen?

"Hello, Lewi," he mumbled, looking ahead as his visitor took a seat next to him.

The other man didn't speak at first and also looked ahead. For the next few minutes, no conversation took place and Anders could feel something building inside of him. What was it? Anger? Guilt? Fear? He knew he needed to say something before he burst, but words failed him. Was Surana trying to intimidate him or didn't the warden-commander trust himself to speak without losing his temper?

"You look terrible," Surana commented after what seemed like a long time. "Not very good at this fugitive lark, are you?"

Anders glanced at the elf, who did not look back at him. Lewi hadn't changed one bit. Now Anders thought about it, his former commander looked a bit like Fenris, only with blond hair, hazel eyes and pale skin. And no markings. And without the hate and the glowing blue hands. Only, Fenris _didn't_ hate anything these days, did he? How ironic. Fenris now looked down his nose at Anders. But then again, who _didn't_ look down their nose at him?

"Anders?"

Jolted from his thoughts, Anders blinked, seeing a look of concern on Surana's face. Or was it alarm?

"Are… you all right?" asked the elf.

"Me? Fine," Anders replied breezily.

"You were talking to yourself."

"Was I? Oh, take no notice. I do that sometimes."

After a pause, Surana turned fully to face him, his head tilted to one side. "Look, I know you're nervous," he said calmly and deliberately. "I just want to talk to you. I promised your friend that nothing was going to happen to you, and I intend to keep my word. I just need some answers. I need to know why you abandoned us."

"I… don't know," Anders blurted, wringing his hands together. "I've gone over this so many times in my head. I knew you'd catch up with me one day and I hoped to have some clever, believable answer for you, but the truth is, I don't. I don't remember what happened."

"I'm sorry, but that's not good enough," Surana replied, a hard edge to his voice that cut into Anders like a blade. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that."

"Do you think I'm proud of what I did?" Anders asked. "I _know_ I left in the middle of the battle. I _know_ that people probably died because I wasn't there. I know… I remember Varel," he whispered. "He died in my arms. I tried to save him but it was too late for him. And then… nothing. I don't remember anything after that. I woke up two days later in a field in the middle of nowhere."

"Wait… how do you know it was two days if you don't remember anything?" demanded Surana.

Anders stroked along his jaw. "Because of my stubble. I had about two days' growth."

"So you're saying you had some kind of breakdown? Or what?"

"I don't know, all right?"

"Why didn't you come back?"

"I didn't know where I was!" Anders replied, his voice rising in volume. "I just… I couldn't face going back. I knew I'd done wrong and I had to get away. I didn't know what the bloody hell was going on!"

Surana braced his hands against the bench and pushed himself up, taking a few steps forward before stopping, his back to Anders. "You found your way here though, didn't you?"

"I just kept walking," Anders replied, his voice quiet and low. "I eventually found myself at Highever, and I did a bit of… labouring work at the docks until I had enough to sail here."

"Labouring?" questioned the commander, turning back to face him. "From what I remember you were always trying to get out of any dirty work we had at the Keep."

"Look, I earned some money, okay? It doesn't matter _how._ I ended up here and a very kind lady took me in. She's Fereldan and helps refugees and, to a lesser degree, apostates. Once she knew I was a healer I was put to work with the refugees and that was that."

Surana retook his seat next to Anders. "You're aiding apostates?"

"I _was._ My clinic in Darktown was destroyed by the templars. I have a new one now, but I have no contact with my old network. Hawke and I were going to… well, he doesn't seem to have the time lately. But that's not your concern." He looked at Surana, his body language closed and defensive. "If you think I'm living the life of Riley over here, you're wrong. I might be away from the Tower but I still have no say in what happens in my life. I'm not _free_. Most days are a struggle to keep my head above water and now the templars here are after me. I spend most of the day in a cellar on my own."

"Don't you have any friends? Does anybody visit you?" asked Surana, genuinely concerned. "What about Hawke? He seems very protective of you. He refused to provide any information about you until I gave my word you wouldn't be harmed."

Anders shrugged, his melancholy weighing heavily on his shoulders. "Hawke's good to me but he _has_ a life, lots of friends and things to do. We used to be close, but… oh, I don't know. There's a woman, but I think she's only with me because she feels sorry for me. I probably don't treat her as well as I should. I don't _know_ how to be a friend, a lover, to someone – the templars and the bloody Tower saw to that."

"I'm sorry, Anders, but plenty of mages get their lives together once they've left the Tower," Surana refuted, sounding irritated. "I've done all right for myself, haven't I? Even at the Keep you blamed the templars for everything. It's been two years since you left. At some point you have to take responsibility for yourself and stop blaming everyone else."

"What is this, Lecture Anders Day?" snapped the healer, quickly rising from the bench. "Hah! You're the second person to say that to me today."

Surana also rose and squared up to Anders, looking up at the taller human. "And don't you think that means something? Are you going to take any notice, or are you going to continue playing the victim? You sound like you're unhappy with your life but are you doing anything about it? Because if you don't, another two years down the line you'll still be unhappy, and still blaming the templars for it."

"I know we've known each other for a long time, Lewi, but that doesn't give you the right-"

"Oh, wake up, Anders! Somebody needs to tell you the truth, because you refuse to see it! You're just going to keep repeating the same pattern for the rest of your life – you ran from the Tower, you ran from the Wardens, and eventually you'll run from this life in Kirkwall and leave your new friends in the lurch!" He pointed back at the house. "Fletcher and Fenris have done a lot for you."

"Ha! Fenris can't stand me!" Anders complained.

"Really? Didn't he escort you here so the templars wouldn't see you?"

"He only did that for Hawke's sake! He told me so!"

Surana groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Does it matter? The fact is you have people looking out for you. Maybe you should be a bit more appreciative of that? Has it ever occurred to you that you might feel better if you started giving, rather than taking all the time?"

"I ran a free clinic!" Anders argued hotly. "What do you call that if it's not giving?"

"And what were your reasons for doing it?" Surana questioned. "Was it for the same reason you did stupid things at the keep? For attention? Because I find it very hard to believe you did it out of the goodness of your heart."

"W-what?" Anders stammered, again feeling as though he'd been struck.

Surana stepped forward, causing Anders to backpedal. "I _know_ you, Anders. This man Fletcher described? The one who went hungry so he could heal someone? Oh yes, I believe you'd do that, but there's always an ulterior motive with you, isn't there? Did you do it so you'd be hailed as a hero, a champion of the suffering? That sounds more like the self-serving Anders I know. Anything for attention."

"No more," Anders proclaimed in a voice that was not his own, and the veins beneath his skin crackled with blue fire.

Surana held his position and folded his arms, completely unruffled. "Okay. That explains a _lot."_

"Commander," Justice greeted stiffly. "It is good to see you again."

Surana nodded once. "Justice. Someone _else_ I thought was dead. I knew you two were up to something. Are _you_ the reason he fled Amaranthine?"

"He was unsafe. The Keep was lost. Anders could not save them. He… ceased to function. I removed him from the source of his distress. We travelled until his strength gave out, and all was dark for a time. When we emerged, Anders had found renewed purpose."

"So you're saying that everyone at the Keep was dead when you left? We found survivors upon our return. How do you explain that?"

"There were indeed survivors ensconced in the basement, but I deemed the way too perilous. Had I not, Anders and I would have perished. Would you have wished for that?"

Surana blew out a sigh and returned to the bench, but Justice remained standing. "No, I wouldn't. But we thought you were both dead when we returned. Couldn't you have got word to us? Why didn't you return to the Keep?"

"I wished to return but Anders forbade it," Justice explained. "I could have insisted, but Anders was… fragile. He was ashamed of his failure and did not wish to return, so I did not force the issue. He sought… a 'fresh start'. I complied."

Surana once again stood and walked over to Justice, stopping next to him. "So Anders _did_ have a breakdown," he guessed quietly.

"A colloquialism, but an apposite one," the spirit agreed.

"Justice… how did Anders earn the coin to book passage to Kirkwall?" asked the elf, suspecting that Anders had not been truthful with him.

"He permitted his body to be used by three sailors in exchange for monies," Justice answered bluntly and with distaste. "I did _not_ approve of that."

Surana took a deep breath and massaged his forehead. "Right. I see. So… when did you two, well, join up?"

"Immediately prior to the siege of the Keep. We had discussed it, and I believed that lending my strength to Anders's would fortify and protect him." He glanced down and shook his head. "An erroneous decision."

"Did something go wrong?"

"I was unprepared for the tumult of emotions within Anders. At first, I was overwhelmed."

Surana nodded. "Hardly the same as inhabiting a corpse which only carries echoes of its former life."

"Quite so," Justice replied solemnly. "Being joined with a mortal is… not easy. Nor is it without cost."

"What do you mean?" Surana asked.

"You once spoke of the mage, Wynne, who was joined with Compassion. Each time Wynne called upon the spirit's powers, its life expectancy was diminished."

"Are you saying that could happen to you?" Surana asked in dismay.

"It has already come to pass," declared Justice. "Each day, I feel part of me… dissipate. That part of me does not return to the Fade, but is lost forever."

"But how can that be? You're a Fade spirit – you're immortal!"

Justice shook his head. "Anders and I believed that once joined, we would go on until Anders's mortal body expired. But that is not so. I will perish long before Anders. The consequences to him when that happens will be… unpleasant at best."

"Are you saying he'll die as well?"

"He will not."

After a long pause to absorb Justice's words, Surana spoke again. "Does Anders know about this? How long do you think you have?"

"Anders does not know, though I suspect he senses that, at times, I am lacking in the vigour I once enjoyed. As for how long… that is impossible to say. However, Anders and I have a goal, and it will be done before the end."

"And what goal is that?" Surana asked curiously.

"I will return Anders to you," said Justice, evading the question. "I extend my gratitude to you, Commander. You prolonged my life by procuring host bodies for me when Kristoff's was no longer viable."

"They were just bandits or criminals we'd been forced to kill," shrugged the elf.

"An unsavoury task, nonetheless." Justice held out one of Anders's hands, and Surana shook it. "I regret the necessity of flight from the Keep. Perhaps we will meet again one day, in this realm or in the Fade."

"I look forward to that, Justice."

Surana was still lost in his thoughts when he felt Anders's hand pull away from his.

"Have a nice chat, did you?" Anders asked acerbically.

The elf shook his head and once again returned the bench. "Come and sit down," he invited wearily.

"I'm fine where I am. You've made your opinion quite clear, so don't act all pally now."

Surana leaned forward and placed his hands over his mouth and nose before letting them slide down to his lap. "It seems I misjudged you," he confessed. "I can see things haven't been easy for you. I stand by what I said earlier, though. You don't do yourself any favours."

"Apology accepted, I'm sure," Anders snapped before turning his back on the elf. "Have you finished yet?"

"Yes, I'm done," Surana sighed. "I know you don't want to hear this, but _try_ to see what you have – you've got friends in there. Maybe you should consider what you can do for them, rather than the other way round. That's the only way to self-respect and inner peace, Anders. I hope you find them some day."

"Noted."

Surana moved closer to Anders but stopped a few feet away. "I also want you to know that you'll always have a home at Vigil's Keep. You _and_ Justice. Just… warn me first, eh, so I can prepare Nathaniel?"

Anders, his back still to Surana, nodded, and the elf noticed him wipe a tear from his eye. "Lewi," Anders whispered as the commander started to walk away.

"Yes?"

"I never wanted things to end up like this," he breathed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said the warden. "I'm not sorry for anything, and nor should you be. Life's full of experiences, some good, some bad. We all make mistakes – I've made some beauties in my time. The trick is to learn from them and move on, and to _never_ regret anything. Every time you feel regret, you have to tamp it down and ask yourself how you can do better next time. And you need to _believe_ that you can."

Anders looked back slightly and watched as Surana moved beside him. "I know you think I'm a bastard, Anders, but I simply believe in myself and I expect the same from my friends, because I never want them to be dragged down by self-pity or regret. Whenever they are, I come down on them hard because I want the best for them."

Anders gave a humourless laugh and finally met Surana's eyes. "I wish you could bottle some of that self-belief and sell it to me."

Surana smiled thinly and shook his head. "Remember how conceited you used to be? You'd strut around the Keep like the cock of the walk. You didn't need any of my self-belief then."

"That… wasn't really me," Anders admitted glumly.

"No! You're having me on."

Anders frowned at Surana, who glanced back at him, his expression calm. Anders then turned away and took a long moment to reply. "I just felt like such a fraud. You'd assembled this team of highly-skilled people and you were all so bloody serious."

"Those were serious times, Anders."

"I know, but I didn't really feel part of it," he admitted, turning back to face the elf. "I didn't feel like I could be myself. That wasn't your fault, though. After being told you're worthless for the best part of your life, it kind of sticks. And yes, I did blame the templars for that at the time because _they_ were to blame."

"It's been a few years since you left the Tower," Surana pointed out. "Maybe it's about time you stopped."

"But there are mages here, right now, who are being treated exactly the same way!" Anders argued.

"Precisely, so focus your anger on _that_ instead of turning it inward. You can either let the templars continue to erode the person you are, or you can take the hatred they showed you and direct it back at _them."_

"Lewi?" Anders mumbled in surprise.

"Justice told me that you two have a goal, and I'm guessing it's not inviting the templars round for tea and crumpets. I remember some of the conversations you and Justice used to have at the Keep." He laid a hand on Anders's arm and firmly squeezed it. "Just don't do anything stupid, okay? Maker's sake, be careful."

"I-I will," Anders stammered before pressing his lips tightly together and nodding.

"I'd help you if I could – I hate those bastards as much as you do," admitted the elf, "but I can't involve myself in political causes, you know that. I _can_ be a thorn in the knight-commander's side, though."

"No, Lewi – I wouldn't want you-"

"Are you joking? I'm an apostate Meredith can't lock up and who has the ear of the king. Rubbing _that_ in her face was so enjoyable I'm thinking of making a hobby of it."

Anders hung his head and chuckled, receiving a pat on the shoulder from Surana. "I suppose I'd better go – the king's got a lot to do today," the elf informed Anders. "Listen, you know where I am. I'll be in Edgbaston while we're investigating the lyrium, and I anticipate being there for at least the next few months. If you need anything, just ask. Look after yourself."

"You too," Anders replied in a hush as the elf walked away. "I don't think you're a bastard," he quickly added, and Surana stopped by the entrance to the garden. "I respect you. I always have. Maybe… I need to work on myself a bit?"

"Yes, you do," Surana affirmed before nodding at the house. "You coming? I heard some tea was being made, if Alistair hasn't drunk it all."

"Right. And you can forget there being any biscuits left with Fletcher around."

~o~O~o~

Fletcher, Fenris and Alistair were seated in the parlour, an empty teapot and a crumb-filled plate on the occasional table, when Lewi and Anders joined them. Fletcher unconsciously leaned forward, eager to learn the outcome of the meeting, but slowly sat back when Fenris lightly touched his arm.

"Looks like you were right, Anders," Surana said, pointing at the tea tray. "You could have left some for us, you know."

"Plenty more where that came from," said Fletcher, who rose and picked up the tray. "Will you both be staying for tea?" he asked leadingly.

"Just a quick one for me, thank you," answered Surana, "if we have time, your Majesty?"

Alistair nodded as the commander took a seat. "Of course. You know, Lewi, you really need to listen to some of Fenris's stories. He escaped from the Tevinter Imperium and has done very well for himself. He really likes tea, as well. He's my kind of elf."

"You were a slave?" Surana asked animatedly, and Fenris lightly cleared his throat before nodding in confirmation and glancing up at Anders, who stood at the periphery of the group.

"Would you like to sit down?" Fenris offered, pointing out the empty space on the settee where Fletcher had been sitting.

"Yes, come on, Anders, join us," echoed Surana. "You can spin a good yarn yourself."

"Thank you," Anders replied before sitting next to Fenris.

"Back in a bit," said Fletcher, giving Fenris a grateful smile on his way out.

~o~O~o~

The time came for the king and commander to leave, and cordial goodbyes were exchanged before the two wardens departed for the Keep along with Alistair's bodyguards.

"Well, let's see you back to the Hanged Man," Fletcher said to Anders, "unless you'd like to stay for dinner? I've put a roast in the oven for when Mother and Beth return. It won't be ready for a few hours yet, though."

Anders held up his hands. "No, that's all right. I've taken up enough of your anniversary as it is. I, um… well, thanks. Both of you."

"Looks like it went better than you thought," Fletcher said, tilting his head and smiling while Fenris looked on impassively.

Anders released a shaky sigh and nodded. "He… gave me a lot to think about. And he wasn't the only one," he added with a quick glance at Fenris. "Anyway, I'd better head back. I need to make it up to Mallory for standing her up. I'll get your key back to you, Fenris, okay?"

The elf nodded once and watched as Anders shook hands with Fletcher before heading to the cellar. Once Anders was out of sight, Fenris turned to Fletcher, who had his arms folded and an eyebrow cocked.

"So, what did you say to him?"

Fenris shrugged, one of his own eyebrows rising to match his lover's. "Only what he needed to hear."

"In other words, 'I'm not going to tell you'."

Fenris's eyebrow remained in place as he looked at Fletcher, saying nothing.

"Fine. _Be_ mysterious," teased the mage. "Well, it's a bit late for us to finish _breakfast_ now – Mother and Beth could return home anytime."

Noticing Fletcher's disappointment, Fenris cracked a smile. "There will be other times."

"True. Fancy a quick snuggle on the settee?"

"Always," replied Fenris, a small frown wrinkling his brow," although… no, it does not matter."

"All right, out with it," Fletcher ordered. "I knew there was something wrong. You haven't been yourself since we returned from the Keep at lunchtime. What's going on?"

"I have not been myself? What do you mean? Did I not engage in conversation with the king? Was I… too quiet? Was I discourteous?"

"No, you were perfectly charming. I could see something in your eyes, that's all," Fletcher said gently. "You can fool everyone else but not me. Tell me."

Fenris let out a soft grunt and his frown deepened. "I am merely… concerned that Sergeant Hunter did not return for lunch. He is almost as prolific an eater as you are. It is unlike him."

"Maybe he grabbed something outside? Besides, he's a grown man. Why are you so worried?"

Fenris shook his head, unsuccessfully banishing the knot in the pit of his stomach. "He enjoys the stew served at the barracks, and often has seconds. He introduced me to it. It is rather palatable."

"So _that's_ where this has come from." Fletcher patted Fenris's belly but retracted his hand when the elf failed to offer a witty comeback. "Come on, then. Let's go to the barracks and set your mind at rest."

"I would appreciate that, Fletcher."

Both men moved to the front door of the house. Before they left, Fletcher looked at the elf thoughtfully. "Do you have anything at the barracks that'll cover up your markings? I daresay Quentin will be staying for dinner as well."

"Yes… I will find something," Fenris mumbled in response.

"He'll _be_ there," Fletcher assured him.

Fenris nodded and forced an unconvincing smile, his stomach burning. If Hunter had not returned to the barracks, then Fenris would have a lot of explaining to do, both to Aveline _and_ Fletcher.

As they stepped out into the square, however, he realised that if Hunter _was_ absent, then Fletcher and Aveline would be the least of his worries.


	97. Into the Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is something I must tell you, and you will not be pleased to learn of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PAAA is not dead! Apologies to those of you who've been following the story and were wondering about the four-month absence. The reason for this is because I've been working on an original story which has had to take priority. 
> 
> This is a shortish chapter (in comparison to most preceding chapters) to gauge if there's still any interest in PAAA. If so, I'll start updating again. 
> 
> As always, my sincere thanks for all your kudos and comments, and thanks to Carrie for the kick up the bum.

Fletcher stood beside Fenris as the elf studied a large ledger beneath the duty roster at the barracks, a small frown worrying the elf's face.

"He has not yet returned, nor has Corporal Briggs," Fenris determined, sounding concerned.

"How do you know that?" Fletcher asked, and Fenris pointed to the book.

"Each of us must sign out when leaving the barracks, and sign in upon our return, no matter how many times we depart."

"Oh, yes… there's your signature," Fletcher pointed out. "Is there a reason you're not using joined-up writing yet?" he teased.

"I know you have taught me that, and I _have_ been practising. However, I feel it would be… pretentious to apply those lessons to a simple signature. Yes, I know," he added when Fletcher shook his head and pursed his lips. "Sergeant Hunter and Corporal Briggs both signed out this morning, and have not returned, not even for lunch."

"Is it possible they've been held up?" Fletcher asked. "Maybe they forgot to sign in? Maybe they went straight home after their shift ended?"

Fenris shook his head. "You do not understand. We must all return here to write our reports at the end of our shift, even if nothing of note has occurred. Then we must sign out. No one forgets. It is the way things are done."

"Okay. How long ago did their shift end?"

"More than an hour ago," Fenris replied gravely.

"Maybe Aveline would know?" Fletcher suggested, turning towards her office. "Should we ask her?"

"No-" Fenris grabbed Fletcher's arm to stop him before quickly releasing it, a quiet groan rumbling through him.

"All right, what's the matter?" Fletcher demanded, leading Fenris to a corner away from the other guards.

Fenris stood still and stared at the wall before closing his eyes and shaking his head. "I fear I have placed them in danger. They…" He shook his head again and looked up at Fletcher, fear registering in his eyes. "There is something I must tell you, and you will _not_ be pleased to learn of it."

"Me? What does this have to do with me?"

"I am sorry," Fenris said wearily, his shoulders sagging.

"Come on," Fletcher prompted. "Let's go somewhere quiet. Whatever it is, I'm sure it's not as bad as you think it is."

A fleeting look of anguish came to Fenris's eyes before he led Fletcher to an unoccupied interrogation room and closed the door.

"Just spit it out," Fletcher encouraged kindly, laying a hand on the elf's arm. "We've dealt with some real crap to get where we are, and I'm sure we'll get through this, whatever it is. Now, I need to know what I have to do with all this. Just tell me."

Fenris gently pulled away from Fletcher's grasp and moved to the far wall, where he leaned against the window sill, looking out. He let out a heavy sigh before straightening himself up. "You are aware that the city guard is conducting a discreet investigation of all your known mage associates."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Fletcher answered calmly.

There was a pause before Fenris continued. "All of them have been questioned and their whereabouts at the time of Emeric's death confirmed. None of them are under suspicion. We have made our findings available to the Templars, should they wish to review them, without revealing any of the mages' whereabouts, of course."

"So they're all in the clear? Well… that's good, isn't it?"

"There was…" Fenris turned around and faced Fletcher, his hands tightly clasped together. "There was one mage I did not question. Instead, I asked Sergeant Hunter and Corporal Briggs to complete a… private investigation of their dwellings, off the record."

"Anders," Fletcher guessed incorrectly.

Fenris shook his head and looked at the floor. "No. Irrespective of my personal feelings toward him, I do not believe he would be so audacious as to murder a Templar in broad daylight. Besides, Anders is not a blood mage, and Emeric was slain by blood magic."

"Come on, surely you don't mean Merrill," Fletcher began.

Fenris meshed his hands tighter together. "Your mother's suitor," he mumbled.

"Quentin? What-"

"I know I had no right," Fenris began, again turning towards the window.

Fletcher moved to Fenris's side and leaned against the wall. "What did you do?" he asked, careful to keep his tone free of accusation. He was not angry but curious, and wanted to ensure he gave the elf no reason to think otherwise.

"I asked my colleagues to undertake reconnaissance on Quentin's estate," Fenris elaborated, still looking out of the window. "It was… more than was required for the Templar investigation. Captain Vallen does not know."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because… because he is growing close to your mother and sister. I merely…" He slowly turned and looked at Fletcher. "I wanted to find out more about him."

"You could have asked me," Fletcher said reasonably.

"But how much do you really know about him?" Fenris posed. "You know that he is a widower, independently wealthy and a mage with eclectic interests. Is there more?"

Fletcher shrugged. "I know he makes Mother happy. When he's around, that is."

Fenris tilted his head a little. "You do not seem… angry."

Fletcher moved closer to Fenris, joining him at the window, where they both looked out. "I've given Quentin permission to court Mother, not to marry her. I'll need to know a lot more about him than I do now for that to ever happen. He's absent quite a lot and I asked him once if he was a blood mage, and he said no – but he touched his nose at the same time. That's a sure sign someone's nervous or lying."

Fenris's mouth opened slightly and he frowned. "You believe him to be a blood mage?"

"I don't know anything for certain, but I'm not sure he is who he says he is. That doesn't mean he's evil or has dishonourable designs on Mother, but it's enough for me to keep an eye out. Most mages _are_ secretive by nature – we have to be from a young age. I kept things from you when we first met, and I regret that now, because it very nearly finished us."

"No. It didn't. I was hurt and angered at the time, but there was never a chance of that happening," Fenris said softly, and Fletcher smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind Fenris's ear.

"All I'm saying is that Quentin might not have been completely open with us all, but that doesn't mean his reasons are malevolent. Until he _is_ completely honest, though, they'll be chaperoned. I insisted Beth went along with them today."

"Then I wrongly assumed that you had grown to trust him," Fenris sighed. "I should not have interfered."

"Why not? I would have done exactly the same," replied Fletcher, and Fenris looked at him in surprise. "Don't forget, though, that Quentin _has_ been out with Mother and Beth all day. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for Hunter and Briggs's tardiness."

"I must inform the captain," said Fenris.

"You mean inform her that they're late or that you sent them to Quentin's house?"

"All of it," he replied heavily, shaking his head.

Fletcher laid a hand on Fenris's arm. "Let's not be hasty. You don't know for sure that they _did_ visit Quentin's estate. There could be any number of reasons they haven't returned yet, although I do agree you should let Aveline know they're late. They might have fallen foul of bandits."

Fenris nodded. "Let us see the captain, then. She is in her office – I heard her shouting at someone as we passed by."

"You want me to come with you?" Fletcher offered. "I won't say anything – I'll just be there," he added with a half-smile.

"If you wish… I mean, I would appreciate that." Fenris looked up at Fletcher and sighed. "Thank you for understanding. I was certain you would react strongly. I should have known better."

"Of course I understand. I love you." Fletcher kissed the top of Fenris's head and rubbed his arms. "They're your family, too."

Fenris nodded and pulled away, his brow creasing as he fought to rein in his emotions. "Thank you," he rasped. "Now I must waste no more time."

They found Aveline at her desk, pushing papers around and looking bored. "Fenris, Hawke," she said as they entered. "Please tell me this is something exciting. I'm going mad stuck behind this desk. I haven't been out on patrol for over a week. Is this about Anders? Have the Templars been giving him a hard time? The Wardens? Anything?"

Fenris took a few hesitant steps towards her desk and stood stiffly before her. "No, Captain. I must report that Sergeant Hunter and Corporal Briggs have not returned from their patrol."

"Oh? Their shift finished over an hour ago. Wait – have you brought Corporal Briggs in on your investigation, Fenris? I wasn't aware of that."

"I…" Fenris mumbled, and Aveline rose to her feet while Fletcher lurked in the doorway.

"What's going on?" she demanded, almost appearing grateful for the distraction from her paperwork.

"I have done something I should not," Fenris confessed, his eyes on her desk. "I asked them to investigate an apostate mage's dwelling."

She folded her arms. "For what reason? You were only supposed to question the mages. They… they didn't _enter_ the mage's property, did they?"

"I do not know, Captain. My reasons for sending them were to ascertain whether the mage was involved in any suspicious activities."

Aveline's jaw tightened. "You had no right to do that, Corporal. That's the Templars' job, not ours. _We_ do not investigate private dwellings unless we have evidence a crime has been committed. So what _was_ your reason?"

Fletcher shifted his weight from side to side, sorely tempted to remind Aveline that Fenris's instincts about Gascard Dupuis had been correct, but he restrained himself, not wanting Fenris to feel more humiliated than he already did.

Fenris lightly cleared his throat and took a step closer to Aveline, straightening up and looking her in the eye. "This particular mage is personally involved with Hawke's family. The mage in question has given me no reason to suspect him, nor has Hawke influenced me in any way. This was my decision and I take full responsibility for any consequences."

"Yes, I should think so," she muttered before glaring at Fletcher. "Are you _sure_ you had nothing to do with this, Hawke?" she accused.

"I didn't, but I fully support him," Fletcher replied, his words tumbling out of his mouth before his brain had fully engaged. "Now, far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, Captain, but two of your guards are missing and Fenris feels like shit. Maybe the recriminations should come later?"

"Yes, _thank_ you, Hawke," she said sarcastically. "When I need an advisor, I'll let you know." She then moved around her desk and stood in front of Fenris. "Where did you send them?" she demanded of the elf.

"An estate on the outskirts of Hightown," he answered. "Sergeant Hunter was to speak to the owner while Corporal Briggs-"

"Had a nose around?" she finished, sounding none too pleased.

"Yes," Fenris confirmed heavily.

"And this was when?"

"This morning."

"And they haven't returned to the barracks at all?"

"I have checked the roster. They signed out at eight bells and have not signed back in."

"Then I suppose we'd better pay this person a visit and look around ourselves," she decided. "All in the course of a _proper legal investigation_ into missing persons _."_

"Actually, Aveline, Quentin's been out all day with my mother and sister," Fletcher chipped in. "They should be home soon, if they're not already there."

"Hold on, if he's out with Leandra and Bethany, then why was Fenris investigating him?" Aveline asked both men. "If you think he's up to no good, Hawke, why does he have access to your family?"

"Hawke did not know about this," Fenris informed her, hanging his head. "I have no reason to suspect Quentin of anything. I… have abused my position, Captain," he began in a hushed tone.

"Yes, you have," she replied angrily. "Here's what's going to happen. Hawke, you'll go home right now and play nice with this… Quentin. Damage limitation. Fenris, you and I will go to this mage's estate, see if anyone's home and check the roads. Has Sergeant Grant taught you to ride a horse yet?"

"No, Captain. There has not been time."

"Brilliant. That's just bloody brilliant," she snapped. "Right. Go and find him, and he'll accompany us and give you your first lesson on the way. Well, what are you waiting for?"

Fenris stiffened before offering a low bow and hastening from the office. "We'll deal with the recriminations later, as Hawke advised," she called after him, giving Fletcher a filthy look. "And there _will_ be recriminations."

"Aveline, please don't be too hard on him," Fletcher began.

"Out!" she ordered, pointing to the door. "And stay out of this investigation from now on," she warned. "Now go and butter that mage up. Maker, Captain Jeven did a good job of tarnishing the city guard's name, and I've worked my arse off to restore that name! If it turns out Hunter and Briggs unlawfully entered his property, they'll be up in front of the magistrate, and I'll _not_ have that!"

"Understood, Captain," Fletcher said quietly before leaving the office, finding Fenris was already gone.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher was greeted effusively upon his return home – his mother and sister had returned to the house with Quentin, and Tufty, who'd been let out of Fletcher's room, joined in. After a minute, Fletcher gave up progressing any further than the hallway and stood still, waiting for his nug to settle down.

"Oh, Fletcher!" Bethany sang, running towards him and throwing her arms around him. "We've had a wonderful day!"

"Blimey, Sis, anyone would think you hadn't seen me for a year!" Fletcher exclaimed before returning her hug. He then held her at arms' length and affected a frown. "That's a fancy scarf you're wearing," he said with a glance at the swathe of fine cream silk around his sister's neck.

"Isn't it pretty?" she asked.

"Hm, and expensive, by the looks of it." Fletcher folded his arms and Bethany rolled her eyes.

"You're not going to be grumpy, are you?"

"I'm head of the household," he declared imperiously. "It's my job."

Unconvinced by Fletcher's stern father act, Bethany thumped his shoulder and hooked her arm through his. "Soooo… how was your and Fenris's special day?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

"Eventful," Fletcher replied on a sour note.

"Ah." She laid her head on his shoulder and looked up at him. "But you did get time for a _snuggle,_ didn't you?"

Fletcher shrugged, a weak smile breaking through his forbidding façade. "Two," he mumbled. "Well, one-and-a-half thanks to Aveline."

"Never mind," she consoled. "Where _is_ Fenris, anyway? I had hoped to see both of you, as did Mother."

"Guard business," Fletcher replied disconsolately, and Bethany nodded, suspecting that something was amiss.

"Is Fenris all right?" she asked in concern.

"Yes," he sighed. "Just some serious stuff going on at the barracks."

"Tell me later?" she whispered, and Fletcher gave a half-hearted nod. "Come on – you have to see what Quentin bought for Mother. It's adorable!"

"All right, then," he agreed, crouching down to pet Tufty before leading Bethany to the drawing room, where Leandra and Quentin were taking tea. Upon the siblings' arrival, Leandra stood and embraced her son, while Quentin also rose and doffed a respectful bow.

"Darling," Leandra cooed. "How was your day with Fenris?"

"Oh, fine, Mother," he replied breezily, kissing her cheek. "Fenris apologises for not attending dinner, but he was needed at the barracks."

"Oh, I do hope he's not working too hard," she commented, and Fletcher released her before offering his hand to Quentin.

"Good evening Quentin," he greeted cordially. "I trust the ladies have run you ragged with shopping and detours to exclusive boutiques and tea rooms?"

Quentin laughed and firmly gripped Fletcher's hand. "If only my day had been so uneventful. I do believe that I have acquired shop blindness."

"Don't exaggerate, dear," Leandra chided, and Fletcher's eyes moved between the pair, noting the informality that seemed to have developed between them.

"Mother, your gift!" Bethany urged.

"Oh yes, Fletcher, you simply must see this." Leandra took her son's hand and led him through to the next room. On the dining table was an intricate cage, gilded in gold leaf, which housed a beautiful red, blue and yellow parrot.

"A popinjay," Fletcher enthused, tapping the cage and smiling when the bird edged closer. "I've never seen one in real life, only in books."

"Isn't it magnificent?" Leandra asked, delighted that Fletcher approved.

Fletcher cast her a sideways glance and pushed down his smile. "Rather an extravagant gift, isn't it?"

"Fletcher Hawke, don't give me that 'master of the house' rubbish," she teased, prodding his chest with her finger. "You just grinned like a young boy who'd found a silver before you remembered you were supposed to be all austere and aloof." She wrapped her arms around his middle and hugged him tightly. "You're not like that. You're _you,_ and I love you dearly for that. Oh, my darling boy, I'm so happy. Give me one of those dazzling smiles of yours."

"He really makes you that happy?"

"He really makes me that happy." She moved her hands to cradle his face. "And so do you, my handsome lad with the lovely brown eyes and cheeky smile," she said fondly, and Fletcher started to chuckle. "And my beautiful, sassy Bethany. You are both such a joy to me."

"And Quentin?" he asked.

She hung her head a little, a faint blush staining her cheeks. "Well, we shall see. But he makes me happy too, dear."

"Then I'm happy, Mother," he replied.

"Are you certain?" she asked hopefully, glancing at the door to ensure that no one was listening. "Because I think that perhaps…" She paused and turned her attention to the bird in the cage.

Fletcher felt his heart sink, not quite knowing why. His father had died eleven years ago and Fletcher always knew that this day would come, but patently he wasn't as ready for it as he'd thought. On the surface, Quentin appeared to be a gentleman and a fine match for his mother, but Fenris's actions had clouded that in Fletcher's mind.

Maybe Fenris was merely being cautious and protective of his adopted family, but Fletcher knew that the elf had a damn good nose on him, and he'd be a fool to ignore that. But Quentin had not put a foot wrong so far. He was kind, attentive, and treated Leandra with respect and high esteem.

Why, then, did Fletcher feel so uneasy?

"Come on," he said, crooking his arm and forcing a smile. "We're being bad hosts."


	98. Prevarication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maker's blood, Fenris! You should have come to me! I might even have supported you if you'd only trusted me in the first place!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to CCBug for just being a great friend and support.

**North of Hightown**

It was well after suppertime when Aveline and her two guards arrived on the outskirts of Quentin's estate. Fenris was riding pillion with Sergeant Grant, his riding lesson postponed for the time being as Grant's horse was a large one, and Fenris's legs barely reached the stirrups.

The night was quiet - a little too quiet, in Aveline's estimation - and, out in the middle of nowhere, the darkness was almost complete. Low cloud cover meant that the moon and stars were obscured. On occasion a creature from the nearby woodland darted through the undergrowth, startling the riders, but thankfully their steeds held firm.

Conversation had been minimal to begin with, Grant and Fenris knowing better than to engage their irate captain in idle chatter, but as the small party entered the grounds, a tacit silence was observed until they reached the main doors.

After pulling the bell cord and rapping on the door several times, there was no answer, nor any sign that anyone was home.

"Let's take a quick look around," Aveline directed, and the threesome split up for a short time, taking their torches with them. After a fruitless search of the foreground of the house, they convened next to the horses.

"This is useless, Captain," Sergeant Grant whispered. "We're not going to find anything out here tonight."

Aveline mounted her horse and waited until Grant had mounted his, pulling Fenris up to sit behind him. "Bugger it," she muttered. "I didn't think it'd be so bloody dark out here. Fenris?" she asked, and a large pair of green eyes glittered in the torchlight as they emerged from behind Grant.

"Yes, Captain?"

"How well do you know this Quentin person? Does he have any family?" she asked, looking back at the house, which was only visible due to a few rooms which were dimly illuminated from behind closed drapes.

Fenris cleared his throat. "Alas, I know little of the man."

"Tell me the little," she ordered, sounding irritated.

"Um, well, he is a widower, having lost his wife a short time ago."

"How short?"

"I am not certain. Perhaps a matter of months."

Aveline sighed. "Children?"

"I do not know, Captain," Fenris replied in a hushed tone. "I am sorry. Apart from the fact he is a mage, and is acquainted with the Hawkes, I know nothing more."

"Acquainted with the Hawkes," she said tightly. "The very reason we're here in the first place."

"Captain," Grant said in appeasement. "It's not Fenris's fault they've gone missing. All manner of things could have happened."

"That remains to be seen. Come on, let's head back. We'll return tomorrow with a larger contingent. As if I can spare them," she grumbled.

Fenris clung to Grant's back, offering no argument, his heart in his boots. It _was_ his fault his colleagues were missing. Had he not sent them to investigate the premises - illegally - they would be safely back at the barracks, playing cards and eating the stew Sergeant Hunter loved so much.

And now, because of Fenris's poor judgement, they could be lying on the roadside, killed by bandits. Or…

He glanced back at the house, wondering if Hunter and Briggs had made it there at all. Perhaps they were waylaid on their way to the property? Perhaps they hadn't set out at all? Were they lost?

Fenris shook his head. Hunter was one of the regiment's finest scouts, an expert in tracking and survival. The very notion that he was lost was laughable. If only Fenris _could_ laugh about this.

There was another possibility, though, the only one that was plausible to the elf. They _had_ set out and they _had_ reached the property. The only question remaining was: had they departed or not?

"What exactly is the relationship between this man and Leandra?" Aveline asked from up ahead. "Are they actually courting?"

"Yes, Captain," Fenris replied. "I believe so."

"With or without a chaperone?"

Fenris grunted under his breath. "With. Mistress Bethany has been accompanying them so far, although Fletcher tells me she often leaves them unattended. He does not approve, but indulges his sister nonetheless."

"Quentin hasn't proposed yet?"

"Not to my knowledge, Captain."

"Do you think Hawke would agree to a marriage between them?"

Fenris didn't answer immediately, and Aveline slowed her horse, bringing herself alongside Grant's horse. "Well?" she prompted.

"No. I do not believe he would give his blessing to a union. He fervently hopes that such a request will not be made of him, as he has no valid reason to refuse."

"Then why _would_ he refuse?"

Fenris closed his eyes, already knowing what Aveline's reaction to his revelation would be.

"He suspects that Quentin is a blood mage."

She stared at him, her mouth half-open. "And you didn't think I needed to know this when I asked you just now, quite clearly, what you knew about him?"

"With… utmost respect, madam, I told you all that I know," he mumbled, his eyes cast down. "This is mere conjecture, and is so far unproven."

"So is this why you took it upon yourself to conduct your own, off-the-books investigation?" she demanded.

"Yes, Captain."

"Maker's blood, Fenris! You should have come to me! I might even have supported you if you'd only trusted me in the first place!"

Aveline's words struck him like a blow, but he kept his voice steady; any show of emotion would be an insult to his captain and the men he'd possibly sent to their deaths. "I trust you implicitly, Captain. It is just… I had to be certain. It was my own judgement, my own intuition, that I did not trust."

"Yes, and you were right not to!" she blustered. "Now, thanks to you, two of my best men are missing or worse!"

Fenris exhaled, his shoulders sagging and his eyes moving to the ground. Aveline felt a pang of guilt for a second, but her indignation and frustration were at their height. "Bloody hell!" she hissed, spurring her horse forward.

When she was out of earshot, Grant turned back a little, knowing Fenris well enough to guess that he would be crushed by guilt and anxiety. "Don't feel bad," he said quietly. "Captain's just blowing off steam. She'll calm down."

"It is not the captain's ire I fear the most."

"Whatever happened to them, Corporal, you weren't directly responsible. They're grown men and can take care of themselves. If they _were_ attacked, well… you weren't the one who did it, were you? We won't know anything until tomorrow, anyway. Try not to think about it too much," he finished, knowing his sentiments were useless.

Fenris nodded but was silent, as he remained for the duration of their journey back to Hightown.

**The Hawke residence**

Fletcher gave a broad but insincere smile, his jaw aching, as Quentin recounted a seemingly interminable anecdote. They were seated around the dining table, having enjoyed a fine meal courtesy of Leandra, and the ladies seemed enraptured by their witty, charming guest.

Fletcher, however, was thinking of other things, and wished the evening would move along more quickly. And by more quickly, he meant _immediately_.

He glanced at the timepiece on the armoire and frowned. It was almost ten bells and Quentin showed no signs of departing. It would be rude to turf him out at this time of night, Fletcher mused. Wouldn't it?

A loud burst of laughter from his mother and sister brought him back to the present and, his smile still fixed in place, Fletcher rose from the table, making an exaggerated show of yawning and stretching.

"Well, Mother, I'm stuffed. Think I'll go for a quick stroll before I turn in."

"Heavens above!" Quentin exclaimed, looking at the clock. "Look at the time! I have outstayed my welcome."

"Absolutely not!" Leandra protested, patting his hand. "Your company has been delightful, as always."

"You flatter me, my dear, but I should be making tracks, lest I keep your entire family up until dawn breaks!"

He started to rise but Leandra touched his arm, and he sat back down. "I won't hear of it," she replied. "You cannot go trekking across the countryside at this hour. You'll stay here tonight, as our guest. Beth, would you make up one of the guest rooms?"

"I'd be happy to." Bethany stood up, but Quentin cleared his throat, his eyes meeting Fletcher's.

"Is this arrangement agreeable to you? I do not wish to impose."

"Of course," Fletcher replied smoothly with a small bow, feeling his gut tighten. "Our home is yours."

"You do me an honour," said Quentin, rising and returning Fletcher's bow. "Would you care for some company during your stroll?"

"That's very kind of you, but I have some business to take care of. It's not terribly exciting, and I wouldn't want you falling asleep before you reach your bed," he replied with a disarming smile. "Perhaps another time?"

"I look forward to it. If it is not too impertinent of me, perhaps we could take brandy in the parlour upon your return?"

"I'd like that very much, and it's not impertinent of you at all. I won't be gone long." He and Quentin bowed to each other again, and Fletcher went to the vestibule for his fur jacket, wondering if he'd be struck by lightning as soon as he left the house, considering he'd spent most of the evening lying through his teeth.

He closed the door behind him, the frigid night air stinging his cheeks. "Shit," he said under his breath. "Now what do I do?"

He was not at all happy about leaving Quentin alone with his mother and sister, not at night when there was no one else about. He had no real reason for this except Fenris's concerns, which had so far been furiously dismissed by Aveline. Fletcher, however, was not prepared to dismiss those concerns so easily: he'd long suspected that Quentin was a blood mage. Not all blood mages were insane or twisted - Fletcher had once been in a demon's thrall himself - but there was something about Quentin that did not sit right with him. He was just too good to be true.

If Fenris turned out to be wrong about Quentin, then Fletcher would welcome him into his family with open arms. He wanted nothing more than for his mother to find happiness again, but he had to be sure. Like it or not, Fletcher was the head of the Hawke family and it was his job to keep his dear ones safe.

The trouble was, he knew Fenris would return to the Hawke house when his business at the barracks was concluded, and Fletcher did not want a potential blood mage, no matter how outwardly respectable, to meet his elf. Not yet. Not until he was sure.

He heard the familiar clank of armour as the nightly guard patrol strolled across the square, and an idea hit him. "Evening," he hailed the twosome, crossing over to meet them.

"Evening, Hawke," one of the guards greeted him. "Bloody cold night."

"Certainly is. How long have you two been out and about?"

"Four hours," moaned the other guard. "I can't feel my feet. I prefer patrolling Lowtown. There's more going on there and at least we can sneak into the Hanged Man for a quick pint."

"Well, we've just had a late supper," said Fletcher, thumbing in the direction of his house. "You're welcome to warm your feet for a bit and there's plenty of food left. _And_ wine," he added, sweetening the pot.

The first guard blew out a breath. "Well, we shouldn't really, but…"

"... _But_ we'd be delighted to take you up on your offer," the second guard finished. "Wouldn't we?" he asked his colleague, firmly nudging his arm. "It's dead around here."

The first guard nodded. "All right, then, just for a bit. You're a good sort, Hawke. Just don't tell the captain, eh?"

"Don't be daft. As if I'd do that. Come on," Fletcher invited, leading the guards to the house and opening the door.

"Mother!" he called out. "Found a couple of waifs and strays here in need of warming up!"

Leandra appeared in the vestibule, Bethany at her side. "Oh, good evening, officers," she greeted politely. "You must be frozen. Do come in for a spell."

The guards bowed and sincerely thanked her as she led them into the house, leaving Bethany, who crossed her arms, her eyebrows raised.

"What are you up to, Fletcher?" she asked.

"What do you mean? We've invited guards in for a warm before. What's wrong with that? It's bloody perishing out there!"

She stepped closer to her brother, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why don't you want Quentin to stay?"

"What are you talking about? Didn't I say he was welcome?"

"You did, and very convincing you were, too, but I know you, Brother. You've been uneasy all night, and when Mother suggested Quentin stay in a guest room, I saw the look in your eyes."

His face dropped. "Did they notice?" he asked anxiously.

"I _knew_ it," she replied. "No, I don't think they did, luckily for you. Now what's going on? You were happy to let Quentin escort us today, what's so different now? Why the guards? Is this to show him that you can snap your fingers and guards will show up?"

Fletcher rolled his eyes. "I invited them in in to _warm_ themselves," he reiterated, irritated that she was on to him. "They're Fenris's friends, remember? And now, if you've finished interrogating me, I need to go."

"Do you think Quentin is going to sneak into Mother's room or something?" she demanded. "Is that what you're worried about?"

"Whether he would or wouldn't is beside the point. He won't get the chance."

"I see," she muttered, nodding. "So what's the difference between that and you and Fenris sneaking into each other's rooms?"

"There's every difference!" he exclaimed before quickly lowering his voice. "She's a woman."

"Fletcher Hawke, don't you dare!" she began, hands on hips. "She _has_ been married before, you know, and he's hardly likely to get her up the duff at her age, is he?"

"Don't give me that attitude, Sister!" Fletcher retorted, pointing inside the house. "Go back in and stop questioning me! I'm the head of this family in case you'd forgotten!"

"Well, there's no need to be such an arse about it!"

"Go inside _now_ ," he ordered, "and don't let those guards leave until I return."

"And just how am I supposed to-"

"Do as I say!" he hissed over his shoulder as he walked away from the house, jumping when the door was slammed behind him.

OoOoO

Fletcher reached the barracks as quickly as he could and made for the register, noting with relief that Fenris and Aveline had returned, and had not yet signed out. The large 'Do Not Disturb' sign, nailed to Aveline's door, however, did nothing to settle his anxiety. The captain's voice could be heard from outside, and although Fletcher couldn't work out what was being said - and didn't want to risk eavesdropping by the door - Aveline's muffled voice wasn't a happy one.

He found a bench to sit on and waited until Fenris emerged from the office with another guard at his side, who closed the door behind them. Upon spotting Fletcher, Fenris's companion turned to the elf, laying a hand on Fenris's shoulder.

"For what it's worth, Corporal - uh, I mean Fenris - I'm sorry. Just give us some time. I'm sure everything will be sorted out."

Fenris nodded and his friend departed. Fletcher walked up to the elf, wondering at his dejected demeanour.

"Did you find anything?" he asked cautiously.

"No… it was too dark. The captain's deputy and a small contingent will visit the property at first light."

Fletcher frowned. "What, aren't you going? You're supposed to be in charge of this investigation, aren't you?"

"No longer," Fenris replied so quietly that Fletcher had to strain to hear. "I have been removed from the investigation. My position within the city guard has also been held in abeyance until further notice."

"What does that mean?"

Fenris looked up at the mage, shame and regret in his eyes. "It means I have been suspended. I must take my leave of the barracks and not return until I receive word from the captain. I consider myself fortunate not to have been summarily dismissed."

"Oh, Fen, I'm sorry." Fletcher wrapped his arm around the elf's shoulders, feeling devastated but also wondering how the hell he was going to sneak Fenris into the mansion without Quentin seeing him. "You're not allowed to sleep here, either?"

"Correct."

"Then let's go home," he said softly. Fenris nodded and mumbled his thanks. "There's just one thing," Fletcher began. "Quentin's there and Mother's invited him to stay the night. I'll sneak you in through the tradesmen's entrance and you can go straight up to my room. I'll join you as soon as I can. I'm sorry. I didn't plan on him staying."

Fenris thought about that for a moment before shaking his head. "I will not hide. I think it's about time I met this… Quentin."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. Remember what we talked about? Your markings? He'll see them and he might-"

"Let him see them," Fenris said with determination. "I want to get a measure of the man. I am no longer part of this investigation but there is no harm in… 'bumping' into him, is there?"

Fletcher brought a hand to his chin. "I understand your reasons, but I'm not sure I want you exposed to a possible blood mage, and someone who'd view you as something to be studied." He led Fenris away from the captain's office and glanced around. "And besides, what if Aveline finds out?" he asked quietly.

"Finds out what? She knows Quentin is, or was, at your house, and she is also aware that I spend a great deal of time there. Where else am I meant to sleep tonight?"

Fletcher sighed, knowing that a meeting between the two of them was inevitable, given Quentin's growing relationships with his mother and sister. "He might ask questions. You don't have to answer them, you know. Don't worry about being polite if he gets too close to the bone. The worst that'll happen is that he'll be offended and Beth and Mother will be pissed off with me. I can live with that. Beth's _already_ pissed off with me." He paused. "Are you sure about this?"

Fenris nodded slowly and started walking out of the barracks, Fletcher following. "I will remain polite. I will give him no reason to suspect that anything is amiss." He turned back to Fletcher. "I will be the epitome of charm, without revealing the nature of my markings. It may be necessary for me to prevaricate."

"There's no 'may' about it," Fletcher replied as they entered the Keep, "and I'm absolutely fine with that. Just remember - it's _our_ home, not his. You don't need to worry about being nice if Mother and Beth aren't there."

"It almost sounds as if you want me to provoke him," said Fenris.

"No, I'm not saying that, only that it won't hurt for you - for both of us - to show strength. Quentin will know that I have access to the city guard, and that one of those very guards is part of my family, and is not to be trifled with."

Fenris smiled faintly, always touched by the thought of being considered an honorary Hawke. "And my suspension?"

"A small detail that Quentin doesn't need to know about."

They reached the main doors of the Keep, where Fenris halted, again turning to Fletcher. "We could be wrong about him," he murmured, his confidence shaken after Aveline's reprimand.

Fletcher nodded thoughtfully. "I'd like nothing more than to be wrong about him. Until we're certain, there's no harm in letting him know how well protected and connected our family is. All whilst being the epitome of charm, of course."

Fenris grunted his agreement. "Any genuine suitor would be pleased by that. Fletcher, tell me… do you believe that Quentin has designs on marrying your mother?"

They both stepped back as a nobleman entered the Keep, and they exited, waiting until they were away from anyone else before Fletcher spoke again. "I don't know what Quentin's designs are, Fen, but I'm pretty certain Mother has designs on marrying _him._ She's very taken with him."

"So, if he requests her hand…"

Fletcher closed his eyes and groaned. "Then I'm in trouble."

"Just as I thought," Fenris said sympathetically. "Come. Let us waste no more time."

**The Deep Roads, somewhere between Kirkwall and Cumberland**

"They're mining the trench," Nathaniel noted to himself. "This is… not good."

"Not good as in what?" asked Donnic. "Is an archdemon going to pop its head out of a hole or something? And, if so, what do we do?"

"Normal procedure upon meeting an archdemon is to scream and spontaneously combust," Nathaniel commented dryly. "There's no immediate danger, but this was the very region where the most changes to the indigenous lyrium were observed. It wasn't supposed to be tampered with."

"Little late for that, Chuckles," said Varric.

"Indeed."

They were standing at the lip of the chasm where Fletcher and his party had originally encountered the darkspawn during the expedition. Now, though, the entire chamber was lit up by wall-mounted torches, and a series of ropes and pulleys descended all the way down.

"There was water here before," Varric pointed out, and Donnic nodded.

"Yes, I remember. It was frozen when we came through, and we could see dead darkspawn beneath the ice. Where's it gone?"

Torbal, the mine's foreman, moved to Donnic's side and pointed downwards, directing their attention to an old, but very sound, pump system, which was now being operated by two dwarves to bring air into the chamber.

"Must have taken bloody ages to set that up and get the water out," Varric guessed.

"Six days," answered Torbal. "Would have been sooner but for burnin' those freaks."

Nathaniel sighed. "Impressive. I almost wish this wasn't necessary." He turned to Torbal. "If you would, Master Dwarf."

Torbal leaned over the edge of the pit and placed thumb and finger between his lips, emitting an ear-piercing whistle. "Listen up, you stone-humping reprobates!" he yelled. "Get your asses up here on the double! There's talkin' to be done!"

"There gonna be eats, too?" a voice called from the depths.

"Yeah, sure," Torbal replied, standing back and shaking his head. "You sure you can't study someplace else?" he asked Nathaniel. "These men stand to make a good livin' from this venture. They've got families to take care of."

Nathaniel nodded, his expression sombre. "I regret the loss of their income, but it is vital that this site be preserved. Messere Tethras, I believe you have given this matter some thought?"

"None of your boys'll starve," Varric assured the rotund dwarf. "I've got Bartrand's share of the profits from the expedition, and it'll be split between the workers. Bartrand won't be needing it where he is, and it's the least I can do. It'll keep them going for a while."

Torbal grunted and shook Varric's hand. "Appreciate it. Just wish we had another job to go to. Work's gettin' scarce for craftsmen and stonemasons around these parts. Some were talkin' about headin' back to Orzammar when the mining operation was done."

"There might be some opportunities at the Keep," Donnic piped up.

"Why? Does it need rebuildin'?"

"No, but Captain Vallen thinks it's about time the Kirkwall Guard stopped being a human-only institution. There's already an elf among our ranks, and he's doing very well."

"You mean Fenton?" boomed the dwarf. "Yeah, I remember him! Scrawny little thing, but he had Bartrand shittin' in his pants! And that time when he stood up and talked to everyone, an' they were heckling him, then he starts glowin'... ha! Damn near shat a bronto myself! An' he was friendly with me! The others… they didn't heckle again. No, sir."

"He didn't tell me about that," Donnic chuckled as some of the dwarves began to emerge from the trench, pulled up by a few other workers who milled about at the top. "It proves my point exactly, though. Race doesn't matter, it's the man or woman who counts. The captain wants a more diverse regiment and she mentioned the possibility of recruiting dwarves, if they'd be interested in such a thing."

"You mean for guardin' shit?"

"Yes, among other things," Donnic quipped.

"We'll ask 'em," said Torbal before returning to the lip of the pit. "I told you to get a move on!" he shouted, his voice reverberating around the cavern.

The foursome waited until all of the workers were at the top, and Torbal let out another whistle to get their attention.

"We got a Grey Warden here, an' he's got bad news," Torbal began. "Before he talks, I wanna make it clear that there will be _no_ reprisals. Just listen to 'im."

"What do you mean, 'bad news'?" one of the workers demanded. "If them Wardens want a cut, tell 'em to kiss my hairy ass!"

A clamour erupted among the dwarves, most of whom were shaking their fists or brandishing axes. Nathaniel waited patiently while Torbal waddled over to the group, yelling at them to shut up. After a few minutes, the noise died down enough for Nathaniel to say his piece.

"Gentlemen," he began. "Excuse me. _Ladies_ and gentlemen," he corrected himself upon spotting a couple of scowling dwarven females, their pigtails and lack of beards the only things setting them apart from the men. "The mining operation must be closed down forthwith. For reasons I cannot go into…"

Forty-four shouted protests assailed Nathaniel's ears all at once, and he held his hands up to no avail. Varric sidled next to him, beckoning him closer. "Tell them about the money," he advised. "That's the only language they understand. These dwarves are from the west, remember?"

Nathaniel nodded and straightened up. "Yes, of course." He cleared his throat. "You will be compensated," he said loudly, leaning down again when Varric nudged him. "You will be _handsomely_ compensated," he went on, and some of the dwarves paused to listen. "Varric here is in possession of Bartrand's share of the profits from the original expedition. This will be divided equally among you."

"How much are we talkin' about?" asked one of the dwarves.

"Should see you through for six months," Varric announced. "That's enough to get you home, if that's your plan, and keep your families comfortable until you find work again."

A thoughtful hush fell among the dwarves, who were no longer so concerned about their livelihoods now that they were being given free money. "What about the lyrium that's already been mined?" asked another. "You here to confiscate that, Warden?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "Do with it what you will. It is of no use to the Wardens now, but I must ask - I must _insist_ \- that all mining operations cease henceforth."

"That means 'down tools'," Torbal clarified.

A further worker held his hand up. "I didn't plan on going home. My family's here. I was told I had a job for life here, or at least 'til the Chantry found out. Is that what this is about?"

"I am not affiliated with the Chantry," said Nathaniel. "To the best of my knowledge, they are unaware of this venture. All I can tell you is that this site is of importance to the Grey Wardens, and it must not be tampered with."

"And what am I supposed to do when the money runs out? You said we were set up for life here, Varric!"

"Varric is blameless in this," Nathaniel interjected. "I believe you've all been very well taken care of, and the Grey Wardens do not owe you a living. Messere Hendyr here might have some opportunities for the right people, but apart from that, you have six months, give or take, to find alternative employment. Not many are so lucky."

A few tools were thrown to the ground, and some of the workers grumbled to themselves, but they made no further objections, nor did they ask any more questions.

"That went better than I expected," Nathaniel commented, turning back to his companions. "Thanks for the help," he said to Varric. "I've been mixing with those soft surfacers for too long. I'd forgotten how to speak the _real_ dwarven language."

"Money talks, my friend," said Varric, clapping the warden on the arm. "Now we need to figure out what to do with the mined lyrium. How much?" he asked Torbal, who'd rejoined them.

"Couple of hundredweight. You found a buyer yet?"

"A buyer…" Varric nodded, looking thoughtful. "I'm on it."

"I'll take that as a 'no', then," guessed Torbal, walking away and shaking his head.

**The Gallows**

Mallory stood outside the main gates of the Gallows, looking out across the water, as she waited for the boat to be made ready. She came here often - without Anders's knowledge - and felt the usual joy, sorrow and guilt that each visit to the fortress elicited. She sighed, knowing she'd have to lie to Anders again. How much longer could she keep this up? How much longer could she live with herself?

Hearing the shuffle of armour from behind, she tensed. She knew exactly who it was, and braced herself for the inevitable vitriol that would spout from the templar's mouth.

"You haven't given us anything for quite a while, have you?" asked the templar, the snake-like timbre of his voice sending a chill down her spine.

"Well, since your people destroyed the clinic, there hasn't been a mage underground to speak of," she replied evenly, unconsciously stepping away from him.

"Don't give me that! There are always apostates arriving in this city, swept in like the effluent in the sewers," he hissed, taking a step closer to her. "Kirkwall is a big place. They have to go _somewhere_. And you're not telling us where."

"Maybe that's because I _don't know_ ," she said, struggling to keep her emotions in check.

"Then you'd better find out, and quick. You owe us, and you know what'll happen if you don't start getting results."

She whipped around, glaring defiantly at the bald, blue-eyed templar. "You can't do that! We had an arrangement!"

"An arrangement _you_ have reneged on," he breathed, completely closing the gap between them, but she held her ground. "The knight-commander grows understandably frustrated with the situation."

"Does your knight-commander even know about this? Does she know that you're blackmailing me? Perhaps I'd better take this to the Grand Cleric?"

"You do that," he began, bringing his nose inches from hers, "and your daughter will get the brand quicker than I can smile," he threatened, showing a row of broken, yellow teeth as he grinned.

"Is there a problem here?" another voice called from behind them, and they turned around, seeing another templar striding towards them.

"No, no problem at all, Ser Ruben," the templar next to Mallory replied, stepping back. "Just having a friendly chat."

"You've left your post unattended," Ruben pointed out.

"Yes, of course. Maker watch over you," he said to Mallory with a low bow. "Remember what I said," he reminded her before heading back into the compound.

Ruben waited until his colleague had departed before turning to Mallory. "Are you all right? What did he say to you?"

She faced away from him, tightly clasping her trembling hands together. "Oh, n-nothing. Just a friendly chat, like he said."

"It didn't look too friendly from I where I was."

"Oh?" she asked nonchalantly, turning her gaze to the boat, which was almost ready.

"I knew I recognised you when I met you at the clinic," Ruben said, moving to stand at her side. "You visit here frequently. For what purpose?"

She bowed her head slightly, remaining silent.

"Does Luka know?"

"Please… please, don't tell him, ser," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I would… I would never hurt Anders, please believe me."

"You going to the mainland, miss?" the ferryman called over, and she nodded, slowly turning to Ruben.

"Please," she implored, a single tear slipping down her cheek as she looked up at him, her eyes wide.

He watched her for a moment, seeming to weigh up her plea. "This is clearly a matter between you and your conscience," he stated stiffly.

She nodded. "We all wrestle with our consciences," she said, seemingly to herself.

He watched her for a little longer before bowing to her. "Have a safe journey back." He walked away, disappearing behind the gates.

"You coming, miss?" the ferryman prompted.

"Yes, I-I'm sorry," she mumbled, hitching up her skirts as she clambered aboard, assisted by the ferryman. She sat at the head of the boat, turning away from the ferryman and wrapping her arms around herself, trying in vain to stem the sobs that pushed against her chest.

"We'll have you back in no time, miss," said the ferryman as the boat got underway.


	99. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve heard of similar spells, that is, spells that can block someone’s memory, but this spell is just cruel and unnecessary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to be good with updates! :D Thank you to all who left kudos or comments for the last chapter!
> 
> This chapter gives a little back story on one or two of the more minor characters, but it is necessary and not just filler. :-)

** The Hawke Residence **

“This is your last chance to change your mind,” Fletcher said to Fenris as they stood at the door to the mansion.

“A fact you have reminded me of no less than nine times on our way here.”

“You’re exaggerating. It couldn’t have been more than six.”

“I am not nervous,” stated Fenris. “This is merely an introduction, a… ‘pleasant chat’.”

“Yeah, well, I’m starting to wonder whether this was a good idea or not.”

Fenris turned fully to Fletcher and held his arms. “We are to show strength, remember? There is little point delaying this. Let us have this done and then we can retire. Am I to stay in the usual guest room?”

“You mean the one with the latch that doesn’t make a sound when you sneak out?” Fletcher whispered.

Fenris turned back to the door, wearing a half-smirk. “Precisely. Make sure you leave your door ajar.”

“You’re trying to cheer me up.”

“The door?”

Fletcher sighed and produced his key, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He and Fenris entered the vestibule where Fletcher hung up his fur jacket, but Fenris kept all of his guard attire on, despite the fact he no longer had the right to wear it.

“Mother, we’re home,” Fletcher called out.

“We’re in here, darling!” Leandra answered, and the couple followed her voice to the dining room, where the ladies were laying the table for tomorrow’s meal, having cleared away.

Greetings were made, and Fletcher looked around, puzzled. “Oh, Quentin’s in the parlour, waiting for you, dear,” Leandra told him. “He’s taken one of your books in there and poured you both some brandy. I’m sure he’d love to meet Fenris.”

Fletcher nodded blankly, suddenly feeling quite angry that Quentin had made himself at home in the parlour, even though Fletcher himself had invited him to do so. Brandy in the parlour, after dinner… that was the sort of thing he should be doing with his own father, and something he and Malcolm had never had the chance to do.

Feeling Bethany’s presence at his side, he closed his eyes, sighed, and awaited the inevitable while Leandra chatted to Fenris.

“The guards had to go back on duty,” Beth began, holding her hands out, “and look! We still have all our limbs! Amazing!”

“I’m not in the mood to fight, sis,” Fletcher replied disconsolately.

“Okay,” she mumbled, glancing over her shoulder. “What is it, Brother? Why are you so on edge?”

“What does he want to see me about? Why’s he being all ‘fatherly’?”

Bethany sighed. “It doesn’t take a genius, does it?”

Fletcher’s heart sank and he turned to his sister. “Is he going to ask me?”

“What are you going to say if he does?”

He stared at the floor and shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

“Fletcher,” she whispered harshly, “I thought you wanted Mother to be happy. He makes her happy! What is wrong wi-” She paused, taking a steadying breath. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He looked up at her, the fear in his eyes disarming her. “Fletcher… what?”

“Come now, Beth, let the men do their talking,” teased Leandra, sending Fenris to join them. “We should see to Tufty before he realises Fenris is here. Poor thing’s been shut away while we had dinner.”

“Yes, Mother,” Beth replied, her eyes lingering on her brother for a moment.

“Well, Fen, let’s put on our acting hats,” said Fletcher as the elf joined him. “This way.”

They arrived at the parlour, Quentin rising from an easy chair as they entered. “Ah, Fletcher,” he greeted, his eyes moving to Fenris. “And another of your guard friends. I… had hoped to speak with you in private, regarding a personal matter, but I am always pleased to make new acquaintances.”

“Actually, this isn’t just any guard,” Fletcher explained. “This is Fenris, a close friend of the family. I thought you two should meet, Quentin, as you are also a friend of the Hawke family.”

“And glad I am to hear it,” said Quentin with an easy laugh, reaching for Fenris’s hand. “Delighted to meet you.”

Fenris doffed a nod. “Likewise. Fletcher has told me much about you. I have wanted to meet you for some time.”

“Oh? How interesting! Do sit down.”

Fenris glanced at Fletcher, who gave his permission with a nod, and the elf took a seat while Fletcher tried very hard not to ask Quentin who the hell he thought he was, inviting people to sit down in _his_ home. Then he imagined Beth’s response to that and remembered he was supposed to be the _epitome of charm_.

“You’re Dalish?” Quentin asked the elf.

“Dalish? No.”

“Oh, your tattoos-”

“Ah. These are not Vallaslin, but the result of a night of drunken stupidity, I fear,” the elf lied smoothly as Fletcher sat beside him.

“You regret them, then?” Quentin asked.

“Indeed I do. Tell me, what is your trade? Fletcher tells me you are a skilled herbalist.”

Quentin laughed again. “I am not certain ‘skilled’ is accurate, but I get by. May I examine those tattoos of yours? They are very intricate. I’ve always been fascinated by such things.”

“How about that brandy?” Fletcher interjected, rising and moving to the fireplace, where he filled three glasses, his head pounding.

“Of course, forgive me,” Quentin said to Fenris, moving to Fletcher’s side and assisting with the glasses. “I find just about everything fascinating, as Fletcher will no doubt attest to. I did not mean to be so forward on such a short acquaintance.”

“No harm done,” Fenris replied as the men returned to their seats.

“How about a game of charades?” Fletcher suggested, desperate to steer the subject away from Fenris’s markings, or Fenris, period.

“Splendid idea!” chortled Quentin. “Do begin, Fletcher, dear boy.”

With a rigid smile, Fletcher rose, suspecting that this was the start of one of the longest nights of his entire life, and one that would not promise sleep at its end.

** Viscount’s Keep, the guard barracks, later that night **

Lieutenant Bradley’s shift didn’t start for another two hours and yet here he was, seated at the captain’s desk, working on the rota. He hadn’t been sleeping well since Hunter and Briggs’s disappearance, and was as determined as Aveline to find them.

Darren Hunter and Clarence Briggs had known each other since they were boys. They’d been a pair of rapscallions who’d flown close to the wrong side of the law several times, until they’d inadvertently started working for a real scumbag who lured young peasants with promises of a job and a better life, only to sell them into slavery or prostitution. The twosome were desperate to get out but were frightened of what their boss would do, having heard stories of what happened to ‘disloyal’ people.

Until, that was, they were approached by Captain Ewald - Jeven’s predecessor - and guaranteed immunity from prosecution if they helped the city guard secure evidence against their corrupt boss. At great risk to themselves, the teenagers not only gathered the required evidence but assisted the city guard to kill their boss and his henchmen during a raid.

The very next morning they were at the barracks, begging Ewald to give them a trial.

After giving the youngsters a stern talking-to about the error of their ways, Ewald, secretly impressed with Hunter’s tracking skills and Briggs’s courage and fortitude, agreed to take them on. 

That was six years ago, Bradley recalled as he assigned four guards to accompany him to the estate on the outskirts of Hightown later that morning. Two of their own were missing and they needed to be found. Bradley - having broken the news to Briggs’s wife when she’d gone looking for her husband at the barracks the night before - just prayed they were found alive.

He’d prayed not just for the sake of Brenda Briggs and the morale of the city guard, but for Fenris’s sake as well. Yes, the elf had been careless and yes, Captain Vallen had been right to censure him, but he knew Fenris and guessed he wouldn’t be sleeping well, either. Whether Fenris was ever reinstated in the city guard or not was immaterial; Bradley knew Fenris would never forgive himself if the worst happened. 

He also knew better than to ignore Fenris’s gut feeling about this Quentin person. Fenris had been spot-on about Gascard DuPuis and, although Aveline had to operate by the book and show that circumventing procedure _would_ be punished, one of the things Bradley appreciated about being second-in-command (in Donnic’s absence) was that _not_ being in the spotlight, or under the magistrate’s direct scrutiny, had its benefits.

Aveline knew this all too well, and had directed him to sneak Bartrand and Angrim out of Kirkwall when the magistrate had started breathing down her neck, not to save her own skin but because it wouldn’t have been right or just to release them. Bradley didn’t mind working ‘outside the lines’ for Aveline because he knew she was incorruptible - a far cry from Jeven, who’d been as crooked as a dog’s hind leg - but sometimes circumstances dictated a more lateral approach. Bradley just needed to be a little more discriminating than poor Fenris had.

“Right. Brennan and Tyler, Filbert and… Davy,” he said under his breath, making his final selection and arranging cover for the guards he’d pulled from their usual duties. His jobs done, he laid down his quill, rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up, stifling a yawn. 

Raised voices from a distance away caught his attention and he walked to the office door, opened it and listened. 

“Who’s duty officer tonight?” a panicked voice asked from the main Keep and Bradley rushed out of the office, jogging up the steps.

“I am,” he said to the two guards who were on their way up the stairs, supporting an unconscious man dressed in tattered clothing. “What’s this?” he asked the guards. “A drunk? Why are you bringing him to me? Sling him in a cell to sober up!”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” one of the guards answered, “and he’s not just any drunk. Look.” He nudged the man’s chin up, revealing his face, and Bradley gasped, dropping to one knee as the man was lowered to the floor.

“Shit… Darren!” Bradley exclaimed in shock, shaking the stricken man’s shoulders and slapping his cheeks. “Darren Hunter, wake up this minute!” he said more firmly. “Sergeant!”

After a moment, Hunter’s eyes flickered open but he immediately screwed them closed, the light of the wall torches too bright for him.

“Darren! It’s Evan! Are you all right?” asked Bradley, once again patting Hunter’s cheek. “Where did you find him?” he asked the guards who’d brought him in.

“We were patrolling west Hightown, and he just came out of one of the alleys and wandered up to us. We thought he was a drunk at first, too, until we heard his voice. He collapsed when he knew we recognised him. Started… crying.”

“I… help...” Hunter started to cough, and Bradley helped the man to sit up.

“Get him some water! And fetch the viscount’s healer!” he ordered, and the guards nodded before quickly running off, one of them returning a short time later with a mug of water.

“Here, sir,” he said, handing it to Bradley. “Put something extra in it, too, from my flask.”

“Good man.” Bradley raised the mug to Hunter’s lips and assisted him to take a sip, the potency of the alcohol making Hunter shudder. “Darren,” Bradley said more softly as Hunter started to come round. “What happened to you? Where have you been? Where’s Briggs?”

Hunter groaned, shaking his head, a pained expression coming over him. “Maker help me, sir, I… I don’t know,” he managed. “I don’t remember… any…” He fell limp in Bradley’s arms and the lieutenant bent close, checking he was still breathing.

“Where’s that healer?” he yelled just as the other guard returned with Samuel, the viscount’s personal physician, who was still wearing his nightshirt and cap.

“Make way, Lieutenant,” said Samuel, crouching next to Hunter, where he began an examination. 

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Bradley. “Has he taken a blow to the head? He said he can’t remember where he’s been.”

Ignoring the lieutenant for a moment, Samuel concentrated on his patient, looking up when his examination was complete. “There are no physical injuries I can see. He has had magic cast upon him, though, and recently.”

“What sort of magic?”

Samuel shook his head, looking troubled. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you ‘don’t know’?” 

“Shh!” Samuel hissed as another man, dressed only in shirt and leggings and holding a huge broadsword, ran down the steps towards them.

“Samuel, you know you’re not to cast without my presence!” he remonstrated, arriving next to the mage.

“This man needs help, Menzies! I can’t wait for you to put your bloody armour on, can I?” Samuel shot back.

“Do I look like I’m wearing armour to you?”

“Never mind that! We need to get him to a bed!” commanded Samuel, and he helped the guards transport his patient to a spare cot inside the barracks, where he cast fortifying magic upon Hunter and gently revived him. Unfortunately, Samuel’s care did nothing to restore Hunter’s memory.

“Do you know anyone who can help him?” Bradley asked Samuel pointedly, hoping Knight-designate Menzies didn’t catch on.

“Maybe,” answered Samuel carefully, turning to one of the several guards who’d crowded into the barracks to see what was going on. “He’s going to need some ingredients I don’t have. Go and fetch that herbalist from Lowtown.”

The guard, knowing who Samuel meant, looked to Bradley for confirmation, receiving a quick nod.

“A herbalist? Is this an apostate we’re talking about?” Menzies demanded as the guard departed.

“That’s not your concern,” Bradley said gruffly, standing in front of the templar. “You’re here for Samuel only. That was the agreement. Don’t like it, take it up with the viscount in the morning. That’ll be all, Samuel, and thank you.”

The mage nodded. “I’ll be here if the herbalist can’t help.” He started to walk out of the barracks, but the templar remained where he was.

“Is there something else you need?” asked Bradley and, for a minute, they stared at each other before Menzies turned and exited with a grunt.

When he was certain the templar was gone, Bradley started issuing orders to the remaining guards. “Penny, catch up with Miles. When you find our ‘herbalist’, bring him in round the back. O’Riley, get down to the kitchen and find some food for Darren.” He then turned to another. “Go down to the stables and have five horses made ready. We ride at first light.”

“At once, Lieutenant.”

Left alone, Bradley pulled up a small chair and sat next to Hunter’s cot.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” maundered the confused man.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, mate,” replied Bradley. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, just you wait and see.”

** Lirene’s Fereldan Imports, Lowtown **

Mallory watched from the bottom of the clinic’s steps, a soft smile on her face, as Anders gently dozed in his chair. She’d returned 15 minutes earlier and had entered quietly, suspecting the healer would be resting after a long day. It felt as though she’d been standing there for hours, though, so many thoughts, so many fears racing through her mind.

She hadn’t lied to Anders in the beginning, just employed a tweaking of the truth. She _did_ formerly live in Ferelden, but that was longer ago than she’d led him to believe. The truth was, she’d escaped a violent, womanising husband five years ago and had set sail for Kirkwall, knowing he would find her in Ferelden. She’d endured her husband’s abuses for a long time but wasn’t prepared to put her unborn child at risk, and had left in the dead of night, having scraped together what little money she could.

The journey across the Waking Sea had been long and arduous, and Kirkwall hadn’t been what she’d expected, even before the Blight and the influx of refugees. Her money had quickly run out and, desperate and starving, she started turning tricks at the back of the hovel she lived in while her newborn daughter slept within, although she never went all the way with her clients, no matter how dire things were. If it meant that her daughter was fed and warm, Mallory would forego food, even her self-respect. She’d endured much worse.

After about a year in Kirkwall, things took a turn for the better for Mallory and little Freya. Mallory had managed to secure a part-time housekeeping job in Hightown, and although childcare was sometimes an issue, she managed, and was finally able to stop giving dirty, smelly men hand jobs for a silver a time. A couple of weeks and several baths later, she finally felt clean and free.

It was when, two-and-a-half years after they’d arrived in Kirkwall, Freya starting showing _signs_ that things took a turn for the worse.

At first, Mallory thought she was imagining things. Sometimes, when handling Freya, her hair would stand on end, or she’d feel like she was surrounded by an invisible... something. It was never a menacing feeling, and after a while Mallory became accustomed to it, but when Freya started to talk and told Mallory she could see things that weren’t there, Mallory felt real fear for the first time in almost three years.

Despite her best attempts to protect her daughter - without really knowing how to protect a _mage_ \- the templars showed up one day. There were four of them, two men and two women, and they were all very pleasant, but it was made clear that they would be leaving with Freya. Mallory had no choice in the matter, and it was in her best interests to co-operate.

It was when Mallory realised that she was to have no more contact with her daughter that she stopped co-operating, and a heart-rending scene was played out in central Lowtown, Mallory’s screams and sobs carrying high into the air as Freya was torn from her bosom.

That was around the time that the first refugee ships started to arrive in Kirkwall and, unbeknownst to Mallory, the very month that the Hawke family had landed. By that time the mage underground was picking up momentum, spearheaded by an apostate named Anders.

After a week without her daughter, Mallory would have happily committed murder just to see her for a few minutes. As it turned out, the deal from the templars didn’t require murder, only the names and locations of any new apostates arriving in Kirkwall in return for weekly visiting rights with Freya.

Mallory’s contact had been an odious bastard named Karras who obviously saw mages as dog shit on the heel of his boot. Mallory hated herself for what she was doing, but was able to forget about it during each one-hour visit with her little angel.

The templars wanted Anders and suspected he was located in the undercity, but knew he was well-protected down there. The refugees were numerous and well-organised, and weren’t about to let a man who healed for free slip through their fingers. Mallory was planted in Darktown, posing as a refugee, and before long she met the man himself.

What she hadn’t counted on was falling in love with Anders.

Now, Karras was dead but Mallory’s new contact was worse than him, if that was even possible. An unctuous reptile named Alrik who made her skin crawl was charged with exposing the mage underground, and it seemed that every templar in Kirkwall was now after Anders. Mallory’s information had led to the destruction of the old clinic in Darktown, something which haunted her conscience and dreams and had made her more determined than ever that Alrik would not get his oily hands on Anders.

But Alrik had the power to stop her visitation rights and had hinted he could turn Freya tranquil on a whim. Did he have the authority to do that? Was he bluffing?

More to the point, could Mallory risk antagonising him? This was her _daughter_.

“What am I going to do, love?” she whimpered, the slumbering Anders providing no answer.

“Anders! You down there?”

Cold dread seized Mallory and she instinctively ran to Anders’s side, shaking his arm to wake him up.

“Hm? Whassat?”

“Listen!”

The sound of a fist pounding against Lirene’s shop door shook the last remnants of sleep from Anders and he stood up, both of them frozen in position as the knocking stopped.

Had Mallory been followed?

“Hey! It’s Corporal Miles! You made me some medicine when I had the shits about three weeks ago, remember? I gave you a tip!”

“It’s the city guard!” Anders whispered.

“What do they want?” Mallory asked, terrified.

“If you’re there, please let us know,” Miles called out. “We’ve got about ten minutes before the templar patrol heads this way. You’re needed at the Keep. Please hurry. It’s one of our own men.”

Anders exchanged a lingering glance with Mallory before cautiously approaching the steps. “I do remember you,” he replied, “and you seemed a decent enough sort, but you can’t blame me for being careful. Why do you need me when you have your own healer at the Keep?”

“The viscount’s healer can’t do anything for him and told us to fetch you. Please, Anders, just hurry. I swear to you we’ll protect you but we have to go now before the templars show up, and we need to avoid the Hightown patrols as well!”

“Don’t you have templars at the Keep?” Anders demanded.

“We’ve got _one_ and I promise you, Lieutenant Bradley won’t let him anywhere near.”

“Bradley,” Anders said quietly. “He was the one who refused to name me and Hawke to the templars that night when the gas was released in Lowtown. All right, I’m coming,” he announced more loudly and started to climb the steps.

“Anders!” Mallory grabbed his sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. “What if this is a trap?”

“The guards must be desperate to call me at this time of night,” he replied. “I can’t just refuse them. It sounds like they know the templar patrols and want to keep me out of sight. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Mallory breathed, releasing him, “just-just be careful.”

“Are you all right?” Anders asked in concern.

“Come on! We need to go!” Miles called from up above.

“We’ll talk later, okay?” Anders said, not giving Mallory the chance to answer as he flipped up the trapdoor. “Make sure you lock up after me.”

** The barracks, an hour later **

“Where’s Menzies?” Bradley asked one of the guards.

“Back in his room.” 

“Good. Make sure he stays there.”

The guard bowed. “Will do, Lieutenant.” He departed along with his partner.

“All right, bring him in,” Bradley ordered, and a door at the rear of the office was opened, Miles and Penny entering with Anders behind them. “Serah Anders, my name is Evan Bradley. I’m Captain Vallen's deputy. Thank you for coming to our aid at this hour.”

“Thanks for keeping the templars off my back,” Anders replied, shaking the lieutenant’s hand. “Where’s the patient?”

“Just through here.” He led Anders to the small room where Hunter was sitting up in bed, finishing off a bowl of broth. After asking Penny and Miles to stand guard outside, Bradley closed the door and introduced Anders to Hunter. “He and his partner went missing two days ago somewhere between here and north of Hightown,” he explained. “Darren turned up tonight uninjured but has no memory of where he’s been. He was dressed in rags, without his armour or weapon. Samuel - the viscount’s healer, that is - said magic had been used on him, but didn’t know what kind.”

“He didn’t know?” Anders asked in confusion before his expression sobered. “Oh. I see. Now I understand why…” He glanced at Bradley. “Wouldn’t it have been quicker to send for Hawke? He… has experience with different kinds of magic.”

“Bringing Hawke here isn’t an option open to us at this time.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Bradley held Anders’s gaze, but said nothing.

“Okay, fair enough,” said Anders breezily, though his curiosity was piqued. He took a seat next to the bed and shook Hunter’s hand before setting his food tray aside. “Darren, I’m going to wave my arms around a bit and you might feel a prickling sensation on your skin. It won’t hurt you. Also… I might start to, well, glow a bit. Don’t be alarmed, it’s just the spell,” he lied.

“I just want to remember what happened,” Hunter replied weakly. “Do what you like. My partner’s still out there and his missus must be going spare.”

“All right,” Anders said softly, closing his eyes. “Try to relax and don’t fight the spell.”

After a minute, Anders opened his eyes, the blue light that had surrounded him fading, and gave Hunter a bland smile. “You did really well. Take a breather, I just need a quick word with your boss.” He rose and steered Bradley away.

“I take it this isn’t good news?” asked Bradley, seeing how concerned Anders looked.

“It’s an obfuscation spell,” Anders said quietly, shaking his head with a frown. “I might be able to lift it but there’s no telling what it’d do to his mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“How can I put this? Some magic works on the surface and leaves very little lasting impression. Other magic, like healing spells, can penetrate the skin and mend bone, but they, too, leave no lasting effects. This kind of magic, though… it can get inside someone’s head, into their very psyche, and it stays there. I might do more harm than good by going in. I just don’t know what kind of mage we’re dealing with here.”

“Could it be a blood mage?” Bradley asked in a whisper.

“Anything’s possible, but this is old magic, really old. Justi… um, I’ve heard of similar spells, that is, spells that can block someone’s memory, but this spell is just cruel and unnecessary. It’s very deeply ingrained and can’t be lifted without risk to the patient. I could do some research for you, but I don’t know how long that will take, and you need answers now.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you tonight.”

“I want you to do it,” Hunter said from his bed.

Anders turned, realising in dismay that he hadn’t been speaking as quietly as he’d meant to. “It’s okay,” he reassured Hunter, again sitting next to him. “You’ve done all you can. You need to get some rest.”

“I want you to do it,” repeated Hunter, determination in his voice. “You don’t know how horrible it is to feel like this, losing two days of your life. My friend’s out there somewhere and we need to find him. Please, his wife’s just had a bairn. I’m prepared to accept the risks.”

“Actually, I do know how it feels,” Anders mumbled, mentally shaking himself when Bradley appeared next to him.

“Darren,” said Bradley, “maybe you just need to give it time. Maybe the memories will come back to you?”

“I seriously doubt that,” Anders said gravely.

Hunter looked up at Bradley. “Lieutenant, I messed up. Fenris might have been leading the investigation but I was the senior officer and I should have known better. Fenris has been punished but this is my responsibility. I don’t have a family but Briggs does. It’s an acceptable risk. I need to make this right.”

Anders watched Hunter curiously, wondering what Fenris had been punished for, but stayed quiet.

Bradley sighed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t sanction it. At this moment, you’re back with us and you’re healthy. It’s not an acceptable risk. We’ll be able to conduct a more thorough investigation today and-”

“I wonder,” Anders began, apparently talking to himself. “Maybe I could… it might be possible to just touch the surface without going too deep.” He nodded. “Yes, I agree. That should work.”

“What should work?” Bradley asked, a little alarmed.

“I might be able to stir his memory without interfering with the obfuscation spell. The memories would be jumbled, and would only appear for a second, but there shouldn’t be any risk. The two days would still be lost, but you might be able to catch a glimpse of something. It’s the best I can do.”

“Let’s try that, then,” Hunter said.

“You sure about this, Darren?” asked Bradley, receiving a firm nod in response.

“I’m ready.”

Anders took a deep breath and raised his hands, gently resting them against Hunter’s temples. “I want you to focus on my eyes,” he said to Hunter, who nodded. “You’re going to see the blue glow again, but you mustn’t be frightened.”

“I understand.”

“Okay, here we go.”

Bradley watched in awed silence as a pale blue light streamed out of Anders’s eyes, and Hunter’s own eyes fixed on them, his breathing quickening, his knuckles whitening as the bed sheets bunched in his hands.

Abruptly, he scooted away from Anders, his knees drawn up to his chest. “No!” he yelled. “Please, Maker, what is that? No! What-what are you?”

Anders was upon him immediately, whispering soothing words which did little to quell the man’s obvious terror.

“What’s wrong with him?” Bradley demanded, only to be shushed by Anders.

“Tell us what you saw,” the mage said evenly to the trembling Hunter.

“No, it’s horrible! Wait, I… shit! It’s gone! I had something but it’s gone! No! No!”

“It’s all right,” Anders went on, his voice measured and soft. “What did you see? What was so horrible?”

Hunter looked despairingly at Anders before placing his head in his hands. “I can’t remember! It was there and then it was gone! It was…” He uncovered his face and looked at Bradley. “Please, sir, something terrible happened! I don’t know what, but… please, you have to find Briggs!”

“We will, son, don’t you worry.” Bradley looked down at Anders. “Is there any way you can-?”

Anders shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’m not risking that again. Whoever this mage is, he or she needs to be stopped. I’d like to help if I can, but I want Hawke along, and the templars can’t be involved. We can take care of the mage between us.”

“We’d certainly appreciate your help, but as for Hawke, I don’t know. I’d better go and wake the captain. Would you mind staying with Darren until I return?”

“You don’t need to ask. I’m here for as long as he needs me.”

“Thanks for everything you’ve done.” Bradley slapped Anders’s back, heaved a sigh and went for the door.

“Can I ask,” Anders began, “why you don’t want Hawke?”

Bradley turned back and paused before answering. “It’s not that I don’t want him, but he’s acquainted with a possible suspect and is already more involved in the investigation than we want him to be.”

“Right,” Anders replied nonchalantly, his curiosity burning brightly as Bradley left the room.

** West Anariel, Tevinter Imperium **

The tavern doors burst open and its patrons looked up, collectively, through bloodshot, opium-addled eyes. The young boy could have been no older than fourteen, but looked as though he’d been running for his life. He slumped against a wooden beam, hands clutching his chest, gasping for breath as sweat cascaded down his nose and brow, but he did not remove his hood.

The patrons looked away, returning to their drinks, their games, their whores. Whatever the youngster was about, it wasn’t their business, although if they accidentally happened to hear something, that wasn’t their fault.

Finding a modicum of strength in his wobbly legs, the boy staggered to the bar, leaning heavily against it, and waved for the proprietor’s attention, keeping his hood held tightly against his head.

“Where’s… where’s Papirius?” he spluttered.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m one of… just a minute… one of the sons of Gnaeus Ovidius Paulus. I am expected.”

The proprietor’s face dropped and he quickly ushered the boy behind the bar, taking him along a short corridor, through several fabric screens. “What is your business with Papirius?” the older man demanded, but the boy did not quail.

“My business is my own, and my sponsor’s purpose will not be denied,” he said insolently.

“You address one of your elders,” the proprietor scolded, cuffing the lad about the head. “Remember that!”

The screen behind them was pushed aside, and a hugely-built man appeared, who locked eyes with the proprietor. “Inside,” he hissed, and the young boy ran past, disappearing behind him. The large man then pointed ahead, indicating that the proprietor should depart. Wisely, he wasted no time obeying the silent order.

The large human stepped behind the screen and closed a door, locking it behind him. “You are safe,” he said to the boy, who exhaled and pushed down his hood, revealing not a youth’s face, but a man’s, along with a pair of long, pointed ears. 

He was led through a further door and found himself standing in front of an ornate desk where another human was seated.

“Sit. Rest yourself,” invited the man behind the desk. “Bring him wine and meat,” he ordered the large human, who bowed and departed. The mysterious man then looked up at the elf, who was taking a seat. “What tidings from Minrathous?”

“Grave tidings, Master Papirius. He is two days out, and travels along the Imperial Highway. His entourage is heavy.”

“You are certain? He lives?”

The elf nodded. “He lives. Several sources have confirmed it.”

Papirius groaned before reaching for a quill and some parchment. “Tell me of his entourage.”

“More than twenty in number, all mounted. A white-clad elf rides in the vanguard with him. His latest ‘investment’.”

“His bodyguard?” Papirius quickly scribbled some notes and shook the parchment to dry it. “Favarus!” he called, and the heavy-set human appeared again, setting down a plate of food and a goblet of wine on the desk for the elf.

Papirius handed the note to Favarus. “Have a trusted man ride for Caimen Brea this morn. Danarius is stupid and arrogant enough to traverse the Silent Plains, but we will circumvent his route.”

“This is what we’ve been waiting for, then?”

“We must assume so.” Papirius grabbed Favarus’s wrist. “I want his every move followed. If Kirkwall is his destination, word _must_ reach there well before he does, so they may prepare. We have been paid for this. Trusted people _only_.”

“It will be done, Papirius.” 

“Go. Go,” ordered Papirius, waving Favarus out. “Our man will be riding for Nevarra, should you wish to join him,” he said to the elf, who was finishing off his wine.

“No. There is work to be done here. I will not flee while members of my family are still held in bondage.”

“Perhaps one day we will be in a position to help them. Until then, take this.” Papirius produced a small coin pouch, which he passed to the elf.

“I do not do this for monetary gain. I want that maniac dead. I want all of the magisters dead.”

“Don’t we all. Take it,” insisted Papirius. “Your vigilance has bought us four or five days. Danarius has made many enemies in Kirkwall, from what I hear. He will die.”

“I will not believe that until I see his rotting corpse, and even then I would doubt my own eyes. Those who underestimate him do not live to make the same mistake twice.”

“Eat your food. Relax,” Papirius reassured him, but the elf could only shake his head doubtfully in response.


	100. Unforgiving Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris was part of a family now. He was loved, and the depth of love he felt for the man in his arms made his heart ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Carrie for the idea about Mallory.
> 
> NSFW content in this chapter.

**The Hawke Residence**

Fenris made little pretence of sneaking into Fletcher’s room that night. Normally he’d wait long enough for the other members of the household to fall asleep, but this time less than ten minutes had passed before he left his own room, careful as always not to make a sound. 

When he entered Fletcher’s bedroom the mage was seated on the edge of his bed, staring out of the window with Tufty beside him.

After Fenris had fended off the nug’s attention and settled the creature next to the fire with his blue rock, he returned to Fletcher’s side of the bed and leaned against the bedpost. Fletcher had spoken a few times but hadn’t moved, nor had he stopped looking out of the window.

“What do we think?” Fenris asked.

“I don’t like the way he kept looking at you. Your markings. This was a mistake, having you two meet each other. I’ve told him about 'someone' with lyrium markings and he must have worked out it’s you. Whether Quentin’s a good man or not is almost beside the point, now. All I can think about is how he kept looking at you.”

Fenris moved closer to Fletcher and sat next to him on the bed. “He saw them as little more than intricate tattoos. He said as much.”

“He said lots of things.”

Fenris cleared his throat. “As a mage, can you sense in any way that I have lyrium in my body when my markings are inactive?”

“No, only when I… well, sometimes I can taste it a bit on your skin. I doubt a non-mage would notice the taste.”

“Has Quentin ever tasted my flesh?”

Fletcher sighed. “No…”

“And did you describe this ‘person’s’ markings in detail? How they are arranged? Their pattern?”

Fletcher shook his head.

“Then he does not know.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Fletcher replied lethargically.

Fenris guessed there was more on Fletcher’s mind but would let the mage say it when he was ready. “I know this evening was difficult, Fletcher, but we were successful in our endeavours. There can now be little doubt in Quentin’s mind as to how well-protected your family is.”

Fletcher turned slightly towards the elf. “Our family.”

“Yes.” Fenris reached for one of Fletcher’s hands and they sat together for a short while until Fletcher sighed.

“I think he was going to ask me for Mother’s hand tonight,” he eventually said. “Beth thought so, too.”

Fenris gave a soft grunt and rose, crossing to the window where he closed the drapes before proceeding to remove his armour. “And what would your answer have been, had he done so?”

“It has to be ‘no’. I just don’t know enough about him. On the surface, he seems the perfect companion for Mother, but that’s the trouble. He’s _too_ perfect. Too charming, too suave, too… oh, I don’t know. I’ve never heard him curse, never seen him get drunk or angry or worked up about anything. Nothing seems to touch him.”

“He is courting her,” Fenris said, laying his cuirass against the wall and unbuckling his vambraces. “He understandably wishes to make a good impression. I am not defending the man, merely stating a possibility.”

Fletcher nodded and started to pull off his boots. “I know. I was wondering… do you think I should tell Bethany about our little ‘initiative’? I’ve never kept anything from her before, and she knows something’s up.”

Fenris stripped out of the rest of his clothes and folded them before climbing into bed on Fletcher’s opposite side. “She is your sister. Only you know her well enough to decide that.”

“I’m asking _you.”_ Fletcher removed his trousers and tunic, tossing them in a heap next to Fenris’s neatly-folded underclothes. “You’ve always been the sensible one.” He gave an exaggerated shiver before joining Fenris in bed and pulling the bedclothes up around their shoulders. “What would you do?”

The elf thought carefully about his answer, as he did with everything. “If I were you, I would tell her. She may not agree with your methods, but it cannot be denied that you are doing this for the right reasons. She may also be hurt should she discover that you kept this from her.”

“Hm. Keeping things from people hasn’t worked out well for me in the past, has it?” he asked, and Fenris gave a faint smile. “Okay, I’ll tell her, but I want to speak to Quentin in private first. If I don’t like what he’s got to say, it’s best to get the shit storm out of the way.”

“Your mother will not be pleased if you refuse him.”

“Oh, I think that’s a fairly safe assumption.” Fletcher groaned and sank back, his hands meshed behind his head, and stared up at the canopy of the bed.

Fenris scooted closer to Fletcher and reclined on an elbow, resting his free hand on Fletcher’s chest. “This is going to keep you awake, isn’t it?”

Fletcher sighed and looked up into the elf’s eyes. “You get some sleep, love. No sense in both of us being half-dead in the morning.”

Fenris placed a soft kiss to Fletcher’s forehead and rested his nose against the mage’s cheek. “I will help you find sleep, my dear,” he offered, his voice a warm caress.

“How are you going to do that?” Fletcher began, his breath catching as Fenris’s fingers feathered along his belly, slowly travelling downwards. “Oh.”

“Hush, now,” whispered the elf.

“You-you don’t have to-”

“Shhhhh.”

Fletcher shuddered, his eyes squeezing closed as the elf’s dainty fingers cupped him. His head fell back, his body going limp as Fenris’s touch stirred him to semi-hardness.

“That’s right,” Fenris cooed. “Be at ease, my love.”

“Oh, Fen…” Fletcher presented his lips to his elf, who met them with his own, and soon Fletcher was lost inside Fenris’s warmth, their closeness, and the faint tang of musk and lyrium which emanated off the elf.

“I love you,” Fenris murmured against Fletcher’s lips, feeling the mage grow in his hand. His grip tightened and soon his strokes became more demanding, more urgent, and he looked down at his mage, delighting in Fletcher’s inhibited mewls, his shuddering breaths, the deep line between his brows.

“Love you,” gasped Fletcher, his hands grasping for flesh but finding little on the slender elf and he fumbled for purchase on Fenris’s hips as he began to thrust into the elf’s hand. “Maker,” he moaned as the coverlet was thrown off, the shock of cold air stilling him momentarily and then he felt Fenris moving down his body, the sudden wet heat of Fenris’s mouth almost undoing him. 

“Maker!” he cried again, instinctively clutching the back of the elf’s head with one hand, his other slamming against the bed, grabbing a fistful of the coverlet.

Fenris had never done this for him before, because Fletcher had never allowed him to, always guiding him upwards and distracting him with a kiss or by playing with his ears. Fletcher had never felt comfortable with the idea of Fenris _servicing_ him, but here it felt natural, it felt right, and Fenris’s enthusiasm for the act was plain. As plain as his tongue was rough, as his lips were tight, as his teeth were frugal... 

Fenris was a little sneak, and that thought made Fletcher’s insides quiver, heralding the deep, burning onset of sweet oblivion. Fenris recognised this and removed his hands from Fletcher’s cock, taking him fully into his mouth, smiling inwardly at his small victory.

“F-Fen! I’m going to-!” 

Warm, salty fluid rushed into Fenris’s mouth and he carefully withdrew, climbed off his groaning, quivering mage and hastened to the bedside cabinet. There, he retrieved a handkerchief, discreetly spitting into it.

Looking down at the bed, he smiled at the dishevelled mess that was Fletcher, his heart leaping when the mage started to laugh. Fenris climbed back into bed, bringing the coverlet around them both and fending off Fletcher’s exhausted attempts at returning the favour.

“Sleep,” the elf drawled, winding his arm behind Fletcher’s neck and drawing him against his chest. Fletcher threw a heavy arm around Fenris and, still chuckling, kissed the elf’s smooth, dewy skin before exhaling.

“You’re ‘mazing. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Fenris kissed Fletcher’s forehead again and tangled his fingers through the mage’s wavy hair, snuggling down into the bed. He remained awake for a little while, watching the fire and listening to Fletcher’s breathing grow slower and deeper. 

Fenris was part of a family now. He was loved, and the depth of love he felt for the man in his arms made his heart ache. He’d never dreamed this life could be lived by someone like him, but now that he had it, he was not going to relinquish it, nor would he see his family harmed. Not by anyone.

Fletcher’s anxiety over Quentin was gaining the upper hand, but Fenris felt only cold implacability when he thought of Leandra’s suitor. If this man _was_ a threat to his family, then Fenris would excise that threat at whatever cost.

“I’m watching you,” he muttered darkly, looking in the direction of Quentin’s room.

OoOoO

** The guard barracks, captain’s office **

“It’ll be getting light, soon, Evan. I’d set out now if I were you,” Aveline advised her deputy.

“That’s what I thought, Captain. The others are in the stables getting ready, I just had a few things to tie up here.”

Aveline nodded and took a seat at her desk. “Has Anders gone?”

“Yes, he left about half an hour ago. He’s satisfied that Hunter will recover, but for now he’s dehydrated and shaken up. Anders recommended a couple of days’ bed rest, hearty meals and plenty of milk stout, followed by a week of light duties. I’ve informed the infirmary and the cook.”

“Good.” She fixed Bradley with an intense look. “We need to get to the bottom of this. Maker knows where Briggs is, and I don’t like what Hunter hinted at, even if he can’t remember what it actually was he hinted at.”

“We’ll take care of it, Captain,” promised Bradley and then he paused, listening as heavy footfalls were heard approaching the office.

“Captain!” one of the guards exclaimed, opening the door without bothering to knock. “Excuse me, Captain, but there’s trouble in Lowtown. It’s the templars.”

“Bollocks,” she cursed, shooting out of her seat and quickly walking out. “Evan, proceed with your investigation. I’ll deal with this.” Not waiting for his answer, she strode into the main Keep, beckoning a few idle guards to her side. “What’s the situation?” she asked the man who’d entered her office.

“The templar patrol’s trying to arrest a mage in Lowtown,” he explained, breaking into a jog to keep up with her.

“Well, that’s their job, isn’t it?” She halted. “Wait - it’s not Anders, is it? He left here not long ago.”

“Couldn’t say, Captain. All I was told is that a mage is actually casting inside the Hanged Man. The templars got wind of it, but half of Lowtown has come out to stop them. We’ve only got six of our own people down there and they’re struggling to keep order.”

“Half of Lowtown is defending a mage? It must be something important… maybe a medical emergency.” She resumed her pace, half a dozen guards following her. “Let’s get a move on!” she ordered.

As the journey to Lowtown was mostly downhill, Aveline and her men arrived in less than fifteen minutes, but they heard the baying crowd well before that.

“Looks like _all_ of Lowtown to me,” observed Aveline as they arrived outside the Hanged Man, where one of the guards who’d been patrolling the Lowtown Bazaar ran up to her.

“Captain, Nifty Nellie’s gone into labour,” he explained as he and his colleagues struggled to hold back the crowd.

“The whore from Darktown?”

“Yes, Captain, she collapsed right out here.” He moved closer so no one but Aveline could hear. “Doesn’t look good. There was a lot of blood. Watkins and Underwood found her during their patrol and took her inside. Anders had just arrived back from the Keep. He’s in there now with his assistant.”

“What about the templars?” she asked, and the guardsman rolled his eyes.

“They were here that night when we had the poison gas, and they’re saying there’s going to be trouble if we obstruct their duties again. Watkins stalled them but then they tried to enter the pub. We’ve had to make a few arrests. Some of the local men tried to rush the templars and more of them went off to get weapons. Now two more templars have arrived and it’s getting ugly. Good thing you came when you did.”

“Do they know it’s Anders in there?”

“Not the templars, they only know someone’s casting. The rest of the people here know it’s him, though, and that he’s trying to help Nellie. A few of the men here have, uh, visited her, and just about everyone’s been to Anders at some point. If the templars had any sense, they’d clear out. They’re not going to win this one.” 

“Where are the templars now?”

“Over there.” He pointed to a closed market stall, which three templars were standing behind, a few members of the city guard in front of them. “We’ve got them protected there, but once Anders leaves, or once the crowd senses the templars want to apprehend him, we’ve got real trouble.”

“Where’s the other one?” asked Aveline. “You said there were four, but I only see three.”

“Gone, probably to fetch reinforcements.”

“Shit.” She tapped a finger against her chin as she thought for a moment. “Can you keep order here for a while?”

“Yes, now that you’ve brought more bodies, Captain.” 

“All right. I’m going inside to see how bad things are and then I’ll speak to the crowd. For now, we can use them to keep the templars at bay.”

“Right you are,” he replied before turning to the crowd and raising his voice. “Make way! The guard-captain’s coming through!”

The residents of Lowtown, mostly respectful of the city guard - if not the templars - stepped back, clearing a path to the Hanged Man. Aveline nodded to them as she passed by and paused at the door to the pub, wondering what she’d find within.

She stepped inside and closed the door, immediately met with a scene of horror and carnage. Anders was kneeling on the floor and cradling Nellie, whose skin was ashen, large puddles of her blood congealing on the wooden floor. Mallory and a female guard, both wearing bloodstains, were frantically mopping it up with sawdust and rags. Behind the bar, Corff and Norah were standing slack-jawed and immobile.

“You and you!” Aveline commanded, pointing at the pub staff. “Get out the back and boil some water! Fetch some clean… cloths, towels, whatever! Anders! What can I do?” she offered, crouching a few feet away from the mage and the prone woman, fearing it was already too late for hot water.

“Nellie, your baby’s in distress,” Anders said softly to the woman, who was lapsing in and out of consciousness. “I’m going to have to cut him out. I… I can’t save both of you. You’ve lost too much blood. Tell me what you want me to do.”

A chubby hand tightly gripped Anders’s arm and the mage leaned in closer to the woman. “You gots to save ‘im,” she begged, her hands moving to grab his collar. “Give ‘im to one of them noble fam’lies. Let ‘im ‘ave everythin’ I din’t. Don’t-don’t let ‘im turn out like ‘is mum. Please,” she sobbed, her grip loosening. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” Anders gently laid Nellie on the floor, quickly standing and throwing off his coat before rolling up his sleeves. Stretching an arm out, he put Nellie to sleep, the sudden commotion from outside indicating that the templars had sensed his mana usage.

“They can’t get near you, Anders,” Aveline assured him as he dropped to his knees and parted the woman’s legs, pushing up her skirts.

“I need a sharp knife.”

“Here.” Watkins, the female guardswoman, removed a dagger from her belt and passed it to Anders. “It’s clean and sharp. Can’t guarantee it’s sterile, though.”

“That’s not going to matter now.”

The onlookers watched and waited, terrified, praying that at least the baby would be delivered safely, that at least something good would come from this. Anders was grimly efficient in his ministrations, only speaking when he told the others to look away.

When they eventually looked back, Nellie’s skirts were pulled back down - although they did nothing to hide the sickening amount of blood - and Anders was holding a pink, slimy baby upside down by its ankles. Aveline began to protest when he struck its bottom, but Mallory held the captain's arm, shaking her head.

“Come on,” Anders urged, taking Mallory’s proffered shawl and roughly rubbing the baby with it before clearing its airway with a finger. He slapped the baby’s bottom again, its resulting cry answered by a huge cheer from outside the pub.

After cutting the umbilical cord, he wrapped the baby in the shawl and lay on the floor beside Nellie, wrapping her lifeless arms around the screaming bundle. “It’s a girl, Nellie,” he whispered. “A perfect little girl. You’d be so proud.” He reached for one of the baby’s hands and examined her palm, seeing none of the tell-tale markings that would indicate this was a magi child. “She’ll be happy,” he promised the mother.

“Is there nothing you can do for Nellie?” Aveline asked, feeling she _had_ to ask, even though she knew it was hopeless.

Anders passed the baby to Mallory, sat up and wiped his bloodied hands on his robe, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. “They were already dying when you got here. It was a question of who to save. I’ve healed her wound to stop the bleeding but she’s gone.” He looked down at Nellie and heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry. You were a good woman. She… she was going to give it all up when she found out she was expecting. Wanted to be respectable.” He shook his head and stared at the floor, saying no more.

Aveline held out her hands and assisted him to stand, guiding him to a nearby bench. Mallory asked the pub staff if they had any cow’s milk, and if it could be warmed slightly. While that was being taken care of, Aveline pulled down one of the drapes and covered the deceased mother with it before speaking to Watkins.

“Go out the back and get cleaned up. I need you to fetch the undertaker on Three Colts’ Alley and someone from the chantry. They can take the baby in.”

“Nellie wouldn’t have wanted that,” Anders protested. “She wasn’t an Andrastian.”

“The baby needs to be taken care of,” argued Aveline. “It’s not about what any of _us_ want, it’s about what’s good for the child.”

“I’ll look after her,” Mallory quietly offered, not looking up as she cradled the newborn. “Just until all this is sorted out.”

“Do you have experience of looking after children, then?” asked Aveline.

“I do.” Not taking her eyes off the baby, Mallory sat down next to Anders. “Has anyone in Hightown given birth recently?” she asked, smiling as a tiny hand gripped her finger.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” answered Aveline. “Lady Barnes has a three-week old. Why?”

“Then she’ll have a wet nurse. Cow’s milk will do at a pinch, but the baby needs human milk, and soon.”

Aveline nodded. “Lady Barnes isn’t too much of a stuck-up cow. I’ll pay her a visit later and we’ll get something worked out.”

“The Chantry’s _not_ having her,” Anders insisted. “They’ll make her a bloody templar or one of those simpering lay sisters. She deserves better than that. She deserves to choose, not to be forced into a life she might not have wanted because she feels beholden to the Chantry.”

“Anders, you’ve done a wonderful thing here, but it’s not up to you,” said Aveline with a groan. “We need to get you somewhere safe and I’ll send word when I figure something out. Get going, Watkins,” she ordered her subordinate, who’d emerged from the rear of the pub. “Forget the chantry for now.”

“Thanks, Aveline,” Anders said as Watkins departed with a bow.

“I said _for now,”_ the guard-captain reiterated before glancing down at Nellie. “I don’t suppose we know who the father is?” she asked, grasping at straws. “Any family?”

“Could be Thom,” ventured Anders, and Mallory nodded her agreement. “They were together, but on and off. She came to me for birth control, but I don’t know if she used it with him.”

“I don’t know Thom. What’s he like?”

“He’s a nice man, but a drunk. Not really father material, if he even is the father. I don’t know if he has any family, he’s a refugee. They both are… were.”

“I’ll have my people look into it.” Aveline glanced at the door and sighed. “I’d better take care of this lot. How do we get you away?” she asked Anders.

“Down the trapdoor to the cellar, which leads to that abandoned house in the slums,” Corff piped up. “The templars don’t know about the hidden passage and they won’t find it. We’ll get some supplies sent over. Water, too.”

Anders and Mallory stood up, and the mage thanked the barman, not offering his hand as it was caked in blood. Aveline waited until they’d departed, and a few minutes more, before pushing the main door open and stepping out into the crowd.

“I need quiet,” she announced in a stern, authoritative voice, and waited until the noise had died down. “The baby’s fine but I’m afraid Nellie didn’t make it,” she went on, and a collective sigh was heard. “Obviously, we have things to take care of here. I know you’re good people and none of us wants any more trouble. I’m asking you all to respect what’s happened here and go home.”

“What about them templars, Captain?” a man next to Aveline demanded in a low voice. “They’re not getting their hands on you-know-who!”

Several people in the crowd shouted their agreement, and Aveline once again waited for quiet. “You all know me, and you know I won’t lie to you. He’s _safe_. The city guard will take it from here. Now go home. I won’t ask again. Thank you.”

The fight knocked out of them following the news about the popular Nellie, Lowtown’s residents slowly started to depart, deciding to take Aveline at her word.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she called a few of her guards over. “The templars will be crawling all over this place in a minute. I want two of you inside and two posted outside. Let no one in but the undertaker, his staff, the templars and us, of course. Whoever’s inside, I want you to help Corff and Norah to clean up, so I’ll need people with strong stomachs.”

Two guards immediately volunteered. 

“Clean up but keep an eye on the templars,” she continued, glancing around. “Anders, the woman and the baby are on their way to that Chantry safehouse - the one near the slums - via a tunnel beneath the Hanged Man. I want a single patrol along that stretch but keep it casual. Don’t draw attention to the fact we’re keeping an eye on the place. Co-operate with the templars but stall them as much as you can. Any questions?”

“What are you going to say to the templars, Captain?”

“Leave that to me. Now, to your posts. Quick as you like.”

The guards departed and just in time, as the three templars plus their guard protectors rounded the corner of the Hanged Man, making a beeline for its entrance.

“Looks like your apostate’s gone,” Aveline said nonchalantly as they approached.

“We don’t believe in ‘gone’, Guard-Captain,” replied one of the templars, “although maybe we should. This is the second time we’ve been prevented from doing our duty by you and your people.”

Aveline crossed her arms and raised her chin. “My _people_ were protecting you lot while you were cowering behind that market stall. Or was I misinformed?”

The templar stared at her through his helm before pushing past the guards on either side of the pub door, coming to an abrupt halt when he and his brothers entered.

“Andraste, have mercy,” he whispered at the scene that met him.

“Who are you?” Corff demanded of the templars, who immediately removed their helms out of respect.

“Knight-Lieutenant McLoughlin,” replied the man who’d spoken to Aveline, “and my associates. We’re here to apprehend an apostate.”

“Aren’t you going to commend this poor woman to the Maker first?” demanded the barman.

“Yes, of course.” McLoughlin pointed towards the cellar and then towards the rooms at the back, his colleagues going off in opposite directions while he dropped to one knee and recited an elegy.

“Oy! Don’t you get messing with my barrels!” Corff called to the templar heading for the cellar, and one of the guards immediately followed him.

“Don’t worry, Corff, I’ll make sure no criminal damage occurs.”

Aveline allowed herself a grim smile and then went to deploy her remaining guards to the docks, in case templar reinforcements arrived, reminding them to co-operate at all times. 

After the Hanged Man was thoroughly searched, the templars convened outside, Lieutenant McLoughlin giving Aveline a hard stare. “Looks like you were right. The apostate’s nowhere to be seen. Funny, that.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she replied. “My guess is that he or she mingled with the crowd while you were searching a pub with only one exit. Not telling you how to do your jobs, but if I were an apostate, it wouldn’t be my first choice of hiding places.”

“Not unless you were particularly stupid,” added Watkins innocently.

“The knight-commander won’t be happy about this at all,” McLoughlin threatened, and Aveline shrugged.

“From what I hear, she’s not happy about a lot of things. Well, if she has any complaints about the way we _protected_ you, she knows where I am. Good morning, and good luck with your search. You’re welcome, by the way.”

She turned and started to walk off. 

“You’ll be hearing from us again,” called McLoughlin. “Soon.”

“I’d expect no less,” she replied over her shoulder.

**The Hawke Residence**

The atmosphere during breakfast was decidedly different from the previous evening. Fletcher’s forced smile was completely absent this time; in fact, he didn’t even pretend to find Quentin’s company engaging, although he refrained from outright rudeness. For this, he received several sharp nudges from Bethany and questioning looks from Leandra.

Fenris also reined in his charm and wit in support of Fletcher, but responded when spoken to, remaining polite to the ladies of the household. He knew that Fletcher was preparing for a hard conversation, and that he needed time to get into character: he just couldn’t go from raconteur to rancorous in the space of a few minutes.

So, rancorous it was, albeit on a small scale.

“Thank you for the lovely breakfast, Mother,” Bethany said, rising and collecting a few dishes. “Fletcher, would you care to _help_ me?”

“I believe Quentin wanted to speak with me in private,” Fletcher began, also standing up. “No time like the present, hm?”

“I will assist you, Bethany,” offered Fenris while the two men headed for the study.

Bethany took a minute to give her brother a black look before thanking Fenris and taking the crockery to the kitchen with him. As soon as they were out of sight, she halted, blocking Fenris’s path.

“All right, what’s going on with Fletcher? A straight answer, please. You know me well enough not to give me any flannel.”

Completely unsurprised by her question, he remained poised and met her eyes evenly. “Your brother is acting as head of the Hawke family to the best of his ability.”

“What, by being weird, and rude to Quentin?” She waited for an answer that did not come, and took a step closer to the elf. “You know something, don’t you?”

“I do not _know_ anything.”

“You suspect something, then.”

Fenris exhaled and glanced down, knowing he could not lie to her. “Know that...” He looked back up at her. “Know that there is a reason for his behaviour. Please, trust him.”

“I do,” she replied, sighing softly. “It just looks to me like he’s trying to sabotage Mother’s happiness.”

He shook his head. “Believe me, dear sister, that is the last thing he wants.”

“Are you saying he’s protecting her from something?”

“I am not saying that at all.”

“You’re infuriating, do you know that?” she asked, although her tone was free from reproach. She sighed again. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He thought about that for a minute before answering. “I will wash the dishes. Go to your mother. She will need you.”

“He’s going to say no, isn’t he?” she astutely guessed, Fenris’s blank expression answering her question. 

“Fletcher will also need you. He is… disquieted.”

“There you both are!” Leandra said from down the hall. Fenris and Bethany straightened up, plastering smiles on their faces as the older woman approached. “Here, Fenris,” she began, tucking a small piece of paper into a pocket on his tunic as he was holding dirty plates. “This was pushed under the door just now. It’s addressed to you.”

“Thank you.” Fenris inclined his head and turned to Bethany. “I will take your plates.”

Reluctantly, she complied, and the women watched as Fenris walked towards the kitchen. “Did he tell you what’s wrong with Fletcher?” asked Leandra.

“Yes _and_ no,” Bethany answered, ignoring her mother’s frown. “Come on, let’s go and sit in the parlour.”

OoOoO

Fenris carefully placed the dishes in the sink and removed the small note from his pocket, fiercely curious as to who would send him a message at Fletcher’s home. He first read the salutation:

_Messere Fenris. To be opened by addressee only._

He flipped it over to examine the seal, his heart quickening when he recognised the insignia of the city guard. He tore it open, almost ripping it in two, and held his breath as he began to read it.

_Fenris,_

_We found Hunter. He’s all right, but can’t remember where he’s been. We had him examined and it was determined that some kind of spell caused his memory loss._

A chill ran down Fenris’s spine as he was reminded of obfuscation magic, commonly practised in the Tevinter Imperium.

_Briggs is still missing, but we’re working on it. We’re off to investigate that property now. I’ll update you when I can._

_I didn’t tell you any of this, okay?_

_Be careful. I don’t want to have to come looking for you as well._

_Evan._

Relief and gratitude swelled in Fenris’s chest as he read the message again. He folded the note and pocketed it, intending to destroy it later. “And yet, you did tell me,” he said to himself, wondering at Bradley’s warning to ‘be careful’. 

Was this the lieutenant’s way of endorsing Fenris’s own, private investigation? Was Bradley, in fact, discouraging him from that very thing? Or was Bradley privy to information that the elf was not, and was genuinely advising him to be on his guard?

Fenris then remembered that Briggs had not yet been found, and his sense of relief was quickly supplanted by dread. 

He took out the note again and re-read it, his eyes lingering on the last line.

“I will.”

OoOoO

Fletcher entered the study first and sat at his desk as the door was closed by Quentin. The older mage approached cautiously, unaware that Fletcher felt far less confident and severe than he appeared to be.

“You wanted to talk to me, so let’s talk,” Fletcher began.

“Of course… may I sit?”

“Please do.”

Quentin cocked an eyebrow as he took his place, but ensured his expression was placid when he looked up. He folded his hands in his lap and lightly cleared his throat.

“You want to ask for my mother’s hand, don’t you?”

Taken aback but determined to appear unruffled, Quentin smiled graciously, suspecting that Fletcher was taking his position within the house very seriously indeed, and that soon the young Hawke’s dour facade would give way to his usual bonhomie.

“You possess an adroitness and sagacity that belie your years,” Quentin complimented. “I congratulate you on your-”

“Are you a blood mage?”

Quentin’s smile slipped slightly, and he suddenly became very conscious of what his facial muscles were doing. Was he frowning? Was he blinking too quickly? Should his mouth be open or closed?

“Fletcher, my dear boy! Whatever has come over you?”

Fletcher’s face was as stone, his brown eyes unblinking. “Answer the question.”

Quentin’s mouth opened and a frown appeared despite his efforts, and he unconsciously licked his lips, cursing himself for doing so. “You asked me that very question the first time we met. I don’t understand-”

“I did, and you denied it. I’m asking you again.”

“My answer remains unchanged,” replied Quentin, sounding confused.

“I was in the thrall of a demon, once,” Fletcher confessed, and this time Quentin made no attempt at hiding his astonishment. “A somniari and a benevolent spirit of the Fade dissolved our contract. Those are powerful friends to have. I can find out if you’re lying to me.” He sat forward, clasping his hands together on the desk. “ _Do_ I need to find out?”

Quentin’s smile faded completely but he displayed no outward hostility and quickly composed himself, arranging his hands in his lap again and sitting up straight.

“It seems I have done you a disservice,” he began calmly. “I had thought you a pleasant, if indolent, young man. But I see now that you are shrewd, calculating and subtle, a formidable patriarch of the Hawke family. You do indeed have powerful friends, both in the Fade and in the here-and-now. You have gained my respect, as well as my attention.”

“Enough flattery,” Fletcher challenged, his eyes hard. “The truth.”

Quentin slowly pushed out of his chair and walked to the unlit fireplace, studying the tapestry that hung above it. From the corner of his eye he saw Fletcher start to rise, and lowered his gaze to the mantelpiece.

“It is true, I am in service to a demon,” he admitted. Fletcher remained standing but otherwise did not move. “Do you remember when I told you of my research? I have studied the relationship between non-magi and the Fade since I was a young man. Almost thirty years,” he went on, turning to face Fletcher. “Several years ago, I reached an impasse. The answer was there, but frustratingly out of my grasp.”

“So you made a deal.”

Quentin nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. “I did not do it lightly. It took me almost a year to decide. When the deal was brokered, I felt like I had lost something, but I thought if I could just reach a breakthrough…” He shook his head sadly.

“Did your demon provide any answers?”

Quentin glanced up, a strange look on his face. “He fed me tidbits here and there, but really imparted nothing. I gave much more than he did. I see now that the arrangement was only ever meant to profit him.”

“And what _did_ you give him?” Fletcher demanded, one hand resting on his staff, which lay across the desk. “Did you kill someone?”

“No, dear boy, no.” Quentin sighed and moved to the chair, sitting down. “I gave him… part of myself.”

Fletcher had been bluffing about going to Feynriel and Justice, of course. He couldn’t just snap his fingers and ask them a question. He’d been pleased with how real the threat had sounded when it had left his mouth, however.

And now, the man Fletcher had been so suspicious of, had felt so uneasy about, was sitting in front of him, defeated, about to admit to making the same mistake Fletcher once had.

He’d already shown himself to be capable of lying. Was he telling the truth this time?

“Explain.”

“I will not,” replied Quentin, unusual stubbornness in his voice. “Even if you banish me from your home I will not repeat my greatest source of shame and sorrow. I… cannot. Forgive me.”

“I require an answer, Quentin,” Fletcher said, realising his voice had softened. “I need to know what kind of man you are. She’s my mother.”

“Does she know about you?” asked Quentin, and Fletcher turned away, facing the window.

“I never told her but… yes, she knows.”

“Why did you keep the truth from her?”

“To protect her.”

“Then some part of you _must_ understand.”

Fletcher brought a hand to his chin and watched a nobleman pass by his window, thinking how brightly-coloured the man’s pantaloons were. They were the latest fashion, designed to draw attention away from a man’s paunch and provide the illusion of elongating the legs.

Everyone had something to hide. Did that make them a bad person?

“Are people like us never to redeem ourselves, never to live as others do?” asked Quentin from behind him. “Are we never to fall in love, never to share ourselves with another?”

Fletcher continued to look out of the window.

“Your friend, Fenris,” Quentin began, and Fletcher tensed. “He is much more than a friend to you, isn’t he?” There was a sound of rustling fabric, and Fletcher knew that Quentin had stood up. “When I lost my beloved wife I knew with certainty that I would never love another. And then your mother came into my life. I resisted at first. It would have been unfair to burden her with the weight of my loss. But she is a remarkable woman, and I could not help but fall for her. I love her with all my heart.”

Fletcher slowly turned around and looked Quentin in the eye, but did not speak.

“You would not be without Fenris, and I would not be without Leandra,” Quentin resumed, his tone firmer. “I have made mistakes, yes, but does that disqualify me from happiness? Should it disqualify you?”

Realising he didn’t have a valid argument against that, Fletcher sat down, and gestured for Quentin to do the same. 

“You’ll go into the parlour now and tell my mother exactly what you’ve just told me,” he began. “She’ll be shocked. If she tells you to leave, you’ll leave. If she accepts you, you’ll give her a few days’ space to think about what you’ve said.” He paused while Quentin nodded. “You’ll invite us to dine at your home. I may bring an extra guest with me. You’ll show me your research. I have no interest in plagiarising your work but that’s a risk you’re going to have to take. I may ask for more but we’ll see what happens.”

“I will do all that you ask, and more if you wish it,” said Quentin with a deferential dip of his head. “No price is too great for your mother’s fair hand.”

Fletcher stared down at his own hands, which again were tightly clasped together. Long moments seemed to pass by. 

“Okay,” he agreed quietly before standing up.

Taking that as his cue to leave, Quentin also rose. Slowly, he walked to Fletcher’s side of the desk and extended his hand, waiting until Fletcher shook it.

No more words were spoken as they left the study, and Fletcher waited at the foot of the stairs until Quentin entered the parlour and Bethany emerged.

Upon spotting her brother, she rushed towards him, her eyes wide. “What did you say? He didn’t look upset… Brother! What did you say?”

“Where’s Fenris?”

“Washing the dishes! What does that have to do with anything? Will you tell me, you impossible man!”

“Come on,” said Fletcher, heading for the kitchen. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”


	101. Foreboding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How did his wife die?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Carrie for feeding the baby! Your help with this chapter is greatly appreciated, as always.
> 
> My thanks also to all who are reading the story, and leaving kudos and comments. I was bad and neglected the story for a long time, but it warms the cockles of my heart that you're still reading it. Thank you all!

**North of Hightown**

"Everyone over here!" Lieutenant Bradley drew his forearm across his brow and waited for his fellow guards to join him next to the horses.

They'd arrived at the estate earlier that morning and had spent a couple of hours searching the nearby woodland, but had little to show for their efforts. Bradley knew there was no reason to linger, now, but considered a second search in case they'd missed something.

Deep down, though, he knew that his colleagues were thorough, and in this case, highly motivated. Briggs was still missing, and Fenris was for the chop if they didn't prove him right about Quentin.

It was no coincidence that Bradley had selected four of Fenris's friends to accompany him.

"Anything new?" he asked them before taking a drink from his water skin.

Guardswoman Brennan shook her head. "Just that broken boot strap, which could belong to anyone, and Briggs's sword."

"Are we certain it's Briggs's?" Bradley questioned. "We have to be sure."

"I'm sure." Brennan sighed and presented the hilt of the sword to him, pointing out a crude engraving on its base. Bradley squinted to read it.

"'Percival'?"

"It's his nipper's name, chief. He engraved it small enough so the captain wouldn't notice. He had it tattooed on his arm as well."

Bradley stared at the inscription for a few seconds before giving a brisk nod. "That proves he was here, then. Tyler?" he asked one of the regiment's scouts. "What of those boot prints?"

"They're not fresh, Lieutenant, maybe a couple of days old. Two sets, male, guard-issue boot treads. They lead to the rear of the property, terminating at the stables. Someone's swept the area since then, and we've had rain. There are also horse tracks but they go _away_ from the property."

"How many?"

"Two, sir. The tracks are deep and the pattern indicates that the horses were galloping."

"Running away?" asked Bradley.

"It's possible, but I'd be guessing," Tyler answered with an apologetic shrug. "They were in a hurry, I can tell you that. They could be anywhere by now. There's also a third set of horse tracks but they're much older, and they lead onto the road. Hard to say how old they are. Up to a week, maybe. Might have been this Quentin fellow leaving home."

"Just found some more boot prints," Filbert announced. "I'd like Tyler to check them to be sure, but they also lead away from the house."

"Get to it," Bradley ordered, and waited while Tyler and Filbert verified their find.

"Guard-issue again," announced Tyler upon their return. "Newer than the others, about a day old. The pattern's haphazard, and it looks like he fell over a few times."

"Just the one set?" Bradley questioned.

Tyler nodded. "I'd say it was Hunter. The tracks lead in the direction of west Hightown, where he showed up. The timing's right."

"No sign of Briggs?"

"No, sir. He might still be here somewhere."

Bradley clasped his chin and turned away from the others, mulling over the evidence for a minute or two. He then turned back to them, and they knew by the look on his face that he'd reached a decision.

"I think we have enough here to warrant a full search of the property. If anyone's home, they're not answering."

"But isn't the owner staying at Hawke's place?" asked Filbert.

"Nobody told _me_ that. Come on, we're going in."

The rest of the guards exchanged knowing glances and the young Filbert bounced on his heels. "We going to break in, Lieutenant?"

"No, Corporal. We'll force entry in the course of a legal investigation. There's a difference. Let's get that clear."

"Yes, sir," Filbert replied solemnly, willing his heels not to bounce again.

"I want you all to remember who we're doing this for," Bradley reminded them. "Clarence's life and Fenris's job could be at stake. We're going to nail this bastard."

"Too bloody right we are!" cheered Davy.

"Look around for an object we can use as a battering ram," ordered Bradley. "A large rock, a piece of wood, anything. We'll give them one more chance to open up before we enter."

"Hold on, sir," said Tyler, walking away from the group. "I think I hear something on the road."

They ceased talking and listened, hearing the faint clip-clop of horse's hooves in the distance. Bradley drew his sword and nodded ahead. Not needing verbal prompting, Brennan drew her own sword and walked away from Bradley, positioning herself in an opposite flanking position from his, while the other three approached the road.

"Davy, you'll take care of this," Bradley commanded, always willing to allow his subordinates to assert their authority.

"Yes, sir," Davy replied before clearing his throat. "You, there!" he called to the approaching rider. "In the name of the Kirkwall guard, identify yourself!"

The horse came to a halt, and Bradley listened to the ensuing conversation.

"I am Quentin, Guardsman. Has something occurred here?" he asked in concern.

"Are you the master of this estate, messere?" Davy enquired.

"Why, yes. May I be of help?"

"Would you dismount, please?"

"... As you wish."

Bradley crept closer to the road, wanting to see Quentin with his own eyes, and peered around a thicket of ivy.

This was the man Fenris might have lost his commission over, who might have been responsible for the disappearances of two of their friends. There was also the possibility that he was innocent, a fact Bradley had to remind himself of more than once as he scrutinised the tall, grey-haired man.

"We're here conducting an investigation into a missing guard patrol," Davy explained. "We have reason to believe that they disappeared around here."

Quentin frowned. "Missing? I wasn't even aware that the city guard patrolled these parts. Does your jurisdiction extend this far out?"

Ignoring the observation, Davy continued. "We've called at your property three times, now, and have had no answer."

"I have been away, young man, a guest of a family in Hightown for the past two days. They will vouch for me."

"Don't you have any staff here, though? An estate of this size would need upkeep, I'd imagine."

"Not any longer, no," replied Quentin with a soft sigh and a hint of regret.

"Then who swept the stables?"

Quentin blinked. "As I have not been here, I am unable to answer that. I _am_ sorry to hear about your colleagues. I will do all I can to assist."

"Then you won't mind if we take a look inside."

Quentin's mouth gaped. "Inside? I… don't see any justification for that," he said, looking uneasy.

Davy hesitated for a second, but Bradley sheathed his sword and emerged from cover. "I'm Lieutenant Evan Bradley, second-in-command of the city guard. It's my belief there _is_ justification for searching your estate. We'd prefer to do it with your co-operation, but we can do it without. It's up to you."

"And what is this 'justification'? Can you elaborate?"

"No."

A short silence followed, and both men seemed to size the other up.

"Far be it from me to impede a lawful investigation," Quentin said respectfully with a dip of his head. "If you follow me, I shall guide you to the stables, where you may rest and water your animals."

"We know where the stables are." Bradley walked towards the horses, his guards behind him. They mounted, bringing their steeds to the rear of the property, followed by the mage.

"That stall over there," Quentin pointed out as they approached the stables.

All dismounted and tethered their horses, the guards failing to notice the trapdoor beneath their feet, concealed by fresh hay, as Quentin led them away.

**The Hawke residence**

Fenris and Fletcher rose from the settee in the parlour when Bethany entered, closing the door behind her.

"How's Mother?" Fletcher asked. Leandra had retired to her bedroom after speaking with Quentin, and Beth had gone up to check on her.

"I think she's pretending to be asleep." Bethany sat down in a chair next to the settee, Fletcher and Fenris once again taking their seats. "This is a terrible blow for her."

"I'm not enjoying this, you know," said Fletcher.

"I know." Bethany sighed, sinking back in the chair. "I just don't know what to make of it all. Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

"I keep telling you, Sister, we didn't have any proof!"

Fenris touched Fletcher's arm and the mage shook his head, giving his sister a rueful look. "Sorry."

"This matter has caused your brother profound unrest," Fenris explained. "He did not wish to distress your mother, but his intuition regarding Quentin's status as a blood mage proved correct."

"And what about the two missing guards?" asked Bethany, softening her voice.

Fletcher and Fenris looked at each other, Fletcher giving a wave of his hand to indicate Fenris should speak.

"I am partly responsible for that," the elf confessed, "but it is my belief that they _did_ reach the residence. They are too experienced and discerning not to. I am not stating categorically that Quentin is responsible, but…"

Bethany huffed. "I should hope not! He was with me and Mother when the guards disappeared!"

"They disappeared while investigating _his_ property," Fletcher pointed out, but Bethany was unconvinced.

"You don't _know_ that. Anything could have happened before or after they visited his home. This is ridiculous, Fletcher."

"If I may," Fenris said. "Put yourself in Fletcher's place, Bethany. Imagine that I am his new suitor, and you know for certain that I am a blood mage, a fact I concealed from you and your family."

"You of all people should know that not all blood mages are evil," she countered.

"Not all, no, and yet many are. I would venture that blood mages who either do _not_ use their powers, or deal with a demon for altruistic reasons, are in the minority."

"Even I wouldn't argue with that, Beth," Fletcher agreed.

She pursed her lips, shaking her head. "Go on, then."

Fenris cleared his throat. "Imagine further that a friend of the family arranged for discreet reconnaissance to be undertaken upon me. The men conducting this survey failed to report back. Two days later, one of them returned, his memories of that time stolen. An independent mage then determined that a spell was the cause of his memory loss."

"A non-mana spell," Fletcher interjected.

"Yes," Fenris confirmed. "Such magic is available only at the behest of a demon. It is practised in the Tevinter Imperium. Danarius used it often on his enemies."

"Blood magic?" uttered Beth.

Fenris nodded and passed her the note Lieutenant Bradley had penned.

She read it, her posture drooping.

"Would _you_ be able to ignore it, Beth?" Fletcher asked. "Wouldn't you want assurance of his innocence before he married into your family?"

She stared at the note, her expression sobering. "But Quentin's so nice, so charming. I can't believe that he'd…"

Fletcher reached across and stroked her arm. "But how much do we know about him? We've never been to his home. We only have _his_ word for everything he's told us about himself."

"Fair enough, but Mother hasn't been this happy since Father was alive."

"And that's the only reason I haven't gone to the templars with this."

She was silent for a minute before she sighed. "All right, I do understand. And thank you, Fenris, for looking out for Mother. I'm sorry Aveline suspended you."

"That does not matter," the elf replied, his voice soft.

"I just want to say something," she added. "Fletcher, you didn't tell Fenris you were a blood mage at first because you thought he'd leave you. Is it possible Quentin kept it quiet for the same reason?"

"Of course it's possible, but the difference is when the time came, I told Fenris _everything._ He heard every ugly detail, even the stuff I thought was irrelevant because it might not have been irrelevant to him. Quentin refused point blank to tell me what his deal was, and I'm assuming he didn't tell Mother, either. Until that changes, and I'm satisfied with his answer, I won't permit them to marry."

"Do you believe his explanation?" asked Fenris.

"He said he 'gave part of himself'. That's quite vague. Let's say he promised his demon a portion of his life, as I did. Quentin must be in his late forties, at the very least. He told me he'd been doing his research for thirty years. Whether I believe him or not—which I'm not committing to at the moment—do we want Mother marrying a man who won't grow old with her? Do we want to make her a widow for a second time?"

"Could there be another explanation?" asked Beth. "Giving up part of himself… his mind? His powers? His estate?"

"Could be anything," her brother agreed, shrugging.

"Part of himself," Fenris said thoughtfully. "How did his wife die?"

Bethany's eyes widened. "Maker! I got such a chill, then! But… no, I can't believe that! It's…" She shook her head and stood up, both men following. "I think I'd better check on Mother again, take her a cup of… something."

She sped out of the room and Fenris followed her part of the way, watching her go up the stairs before he closed the door. "I was merely thinking aloud," he explained, turning to Fletcher. "I did not mean to cause further upset."

"She'll be fine." Fletcher sat down and patted the seat next to him. Fenris joined him, the mage wrapping an arm around him. "You know, I've had another letter from the viscount. Why don't I see what I can find out about the investigation while I'm at the keep?"

"Aveline will not suffer meddling," Fenris warned.

"She and Bradley aren't on duty at the same time, are they? Not for very long, anyway. Isn't one of them supposed to be on call at all times?"

Fenris shook his head. "With Donnic away, she will be putting more hours in, and Sergeant Grant has been deputising as well."

"So when can I get Bradley on his own?"

"He is working nights."

"Then that's when I'll go."

"The viscount will not receive you at night."

"We'll visit him now." Fletcher stood up and held a hand out to the elf.

"We? I am not certain I should, given my suspension from the guard."

Fletcher pulled Fenris up and straightened the collar of the navy blue tunic he'd once gifted the elf with. "Aveline didn't ban you from entering the keep, did she?"

Fenris's eyes softened and he gave a shrug of his shoulders. "I suppose not. We should await Bethany's return before we depart."

"We will." Fletcher pulled him close and kissed the crown of his head, trying not to entertain the dark thought Fenris had given voice to.

**Lowtown slums**

Anders opened his eyes, enjoying a long, languid yawn. After he and Mallory had washed and changed their clothing, they'd found a cosy nook for the baby to sleep in before settling down on the bed. They'd both fallen asleep as soon as their heads made contact with the pillows.

He had no idea how long ago that was, but the sun was in the west, making it around mid-morning, maybe a little later. The baby had cried every so often but Mallory had been up like a shot each time. Anders had been too tired to protest, and so had slept quite well.

Hoping his services wouldn't be needed again today, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, sparing a quick thought for poor Nellie.

"Mal?" he called out, keeping his voice low, not forgetting a newborn was in the next room.

"In here," she whispered.

He rose, walking to the small living area and finding Mallory sitting in a rocking chair, babe in arms. She was feeding the tot using a small cloth, folded into a point and soaked in milk.

He chuckled, leaned against the door jamb and watched as she dribbled the liquid into the baby's mouth, encouraging her to suckle. "You've spilled most of that down her little frock."

"On myself, too," she replied with warmth, looking up at him. "You know, if we're to stay here for a while, we might need to ask one of the new mothers from Lowtown to come and nurse her while we wait for Aveline to make arrangements. She's doing fine with this for now, but she'll need mother's milk soon."

He nodded, looking at the baby. "I'll have Norah ask around. You're really good with her. Anyone would think you've done this before."

Her lips stretched into a smile, the lustre gone from her eyes.

Anders squatted next to them, his eyes on Mallory's face, though she did not look back at him. "Mal? Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, her stomach doing somersaults as she fought to maintain her composure. Babies picked up on negative energies, she knew that.

He sighed. "I mean… well, I've noticed you've been a lot happier since we brought the baby here, but you've been sad, too. I've caught this look in your eyes a few times. I don't want to pry, but it got me wondering. You never talk much about your old life in Ferelden. I know I don't, either."

Mallory passed the cloth to Anders, stood up and positioned the baby over her shoulder, gently patting and rubbing her back. "I'm sorry if I've seemed sad, I think I'm just tired." She turned her back on him, cooing as the baby burped up a small amount of milk onto the cloth placed over her shoulder.

"Are you sure that's all?" he asked, standing up.

"Mm-hm."

He watched her, his heart sinking. "Maybe… you're just a natural at this, then?"

She nodded, praying that he wouldn't move in front of her and see that her face was about to burst.

"Well, good," he mumbled. "Why don't I see if Corff's left us anything down the hatch?"

"Okay!" she sang, her voice sounding shrill.

His eyes lingered on her and he silently urged her to turn around, concerned something was not right. When she did not, he shook his head, sighed and turned for the trapdoor.

**Viscount's Keep**

Fenris waited outside the viscount's office, feeling naked without his guard-issue armour.

He thought back to a time not so long ago, when upon entering the keep, the nobles had looked down their noses at him, and Hawke—as Fenris called him then—had all but told them to fuck off.

His lips twitched, his laughter held in. He had no more desire to draw attention to himself now than he had then. Fenris was a different person these days, blessed with serendipity and Fletcher's love, but some things would never change.

He fidgeted a little, unaccustomed to wearing civilian clothing. Despite his appearance, he remained unmistakable, and many guards had hailed him, some expressing regret over his recent trials as well as offering support.

After receiving no less than half a dozen invitations for drinks or card games, he once again felt that he belonged, and heaved a sigh of relief. With that sense of belonging, however, came mild shame—he had not been entirely truthful with Bethany.

His suspension _did_ matter. It mattered a great deal.

He'd told her otherwise to set her mind at ease, but it was still a lie. Perhaps she knew. Fletcher certainly knew, and had offered countless assurances that Aveline would see the light and Fenris would be reinstated. Words of comfort, perhaps empty ones, but Fenris appreciated them all the same.

"Fen!" another guard called, and the elf gave a warm smile as he turned around, recognising the voice. Fenris received commiserations, and gave genuine thanks. The guard departed and Fenris felt, not for the first time, an initial swell of pride which soon yielded to wistful longing.

He missed his job. He missed being _useful._

Seneschal Bran opened the office doors, and Fenris caught a brief glimpse of Fletcher bowing to the viscount. The city's leader had insisted on speaking with Fletcher in private, although he had not been dismissive of Fenris. Seeing the look on Fletcher's face as he emerged, Fenris guessed that the subject matter discussed within had been weighty.

Fletcher steered him away from the office, leading them to a quiet corner. "I've got to go and see the Arishok again," he imparted, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Will you come with me?"

"You know that you need not ask."

"Thanks, Fen." Nervous, Fletcher blew out a breath. "The viscount's son has only gone and converted to the bloody Qun."

Fenris's eyes met those of the mage. "That is… troubling."

"I want you to put your armour on, Fen, when we go. Just in case."

Fenris shook his head. "I dare not wear my guard armour in public."

"What about what you were wearing when we first met?"

"I disposed of that long ago. It was a reminder of a time I do not care to remember."

"Okay. Let's buy you some, then."

"Where from?"

"The Alienage. Even if we just throw a few pieces together, I'll feel better."

Fenris placed a hand on Fletcher's back. "Very well. Anything for your peace of mind, my dear."

"Thanks for humouring me."

"I'm not."

They left the keep without speaking another word.

**The barracks, later that day**

"Please be seated, Lord Barnes," Aveline said to her visitor, gesturing at the chair in front of her desk. She closed the office door and took her own seat before releasing a soft sigh. "I'm sorry to hear of your loss. I had no idea that your wife had delivered twins, let alone lost one of them."

"It is not common knowledge, so I would appreciate your discretion, Guard-Captain."

"Of course." They shared a thoughtful silence for a moment before Aveline spoke again. "Are you certain you want to do this? You seemed… less enthusiastic than Lady Barnes when we spoke at your home."

Lord Barnes rubbed his forehead. "I was not in favour of this at all," he began. "To be candid, the idea of introducing this child into our family is…" He sighed. "It is for my wife's sake I do this. To see her grieve for our daughter's twin is heartbreaking. This child cannot replace our daughter, of course, but I am hopeful that, in time, the hole in my wife's heart will mend."

Aveline nodded, choosing her next words with care. "Forgive me for saying so but I need to know that _both_ parents will care for this child. I know that in your circles, a man isn't involved in a child's upbringing much anyway. But if you're disdainful of her origins, _will_ you be able to be a father to her?"

"She _will_ be our daughter," he stated emphatically. "As far as everyone will know, my wife delivered two healthy girls. As you are aware, we have a son, so the continuation of my bloodline is already assured. We will care for the child and she will want for nothing. It is not the child's fault a common slattern birthed her."

Aveline grimaced at the man's words but the sentiment behind them encouraged her. "All right, then. Let's get down to brass tacks."

"What of the child's father? Does he need to be paid off?"

"We haven't been able to determine who the father is. There's a man in the Undercity who might be, but he's disavowed any knowledge of a child. To be frank, he's not in a position to provide for a baby. He can barely take care of himself."

"If he wants nothing to do with the child, I'll need it in writing," Lord Barnes insisted, but Aveline shook her head.

"He didn't receive formal schooling, so he can't read. I'll not have him signing something he doesn't understand. Besides, he might not _be_ the father. He won't be knocking on your door in twenty years' time, if that's what you're worried about. There's no way he can link the child to you or your wife."

Satisfied, the nobleman nodded. "The woman's family?"

"There isn't one."

"And her estate?"

Aveline resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. "She was a prostitute, Lord Barnes. There _is_ no estate. She's due to be cremated this afternoon."

"Are there any expenses to be taken care of?"

"Well, no. The Chantry is seeing to her cremation gratis, as she was a pauper. I'm sure an anonymous donation wouldn't go amiss, though."

He grunted, sweeping his cape aside as he rose. "I appreciate your assistance in this matter, Guard-Captain. When can the child be collected?"

She also stood up and walked him to the door. "She's being taken care of for now, but she'll need to be nursed soon, so today if possible. I'm guessing you'll want to do this after dark?"

"Will you be on duty this evening?" he asked her.

"In all likelihood yes, but if not, the duty officer will be Sergeant Grant. He'll be apprised of the situation."

"Very well. I shall send our woman, Hilda, with an escort after evensong." He reached for Aveline's hand, and she shook it.

"Just out of curiosity, Lord Barnes, you keep referring to the baby as 'the child'. Do you have a name for her yet?"

"My wife does, but I tried to discourage her in case… Megan," he admitted, sighing.

"That's sweet."

"It is," he replied, a soft light in his eyes, before he straightened up, affecting a frown. "Well. Good day to you." With a stiff nod he departed, Aveline smiling after him.

Her smile vanished, however, when she spotted a pair of templars striding down the stairs into the barracks. "Here it comes," she muttered, crossing her arms as they approached her.

"Guard-Captain Vallen," one of them said in a formal tone, handing her a sealed missive. She took it, eyeing them both.

"Slow day at the Gallows, is it?"

"Excuse me?"

"I was just wondering why it needed two of you to deliver this. Doesn't feel that heavy to me." Met with puzzled expressions, she shook her head and opened the missive.

_Guard-Captain_ _Vallen,_

_We need to discuss recent events as a matter of urgency._ _Kindly make an appointment with one of my messengers._

_I await_ _you at your_ _convenience._

_Knight-Commander Meredith._

Aveline threw her head back and laughed, much to the chagrin of her visitors. "Bit of a comedian, your commander, isn't she?"

They glanced at each other, looking confused.

"Oh, never mind. Just wait there." She moved to her desk and scribbled a note.

_Knight-Commander Meredith,_

_I find it quite amusing that you think I have the time (not to mention, the inclination) to come to the Gallows. If these 'events' you mention are so urgent, I'm sure you can make the time to visit me._

_And yes, you will need to make an appointment. One of the guards at the gate will sort that out for you._

_Cordially,_

_Guard-Captain Vallen._

She made them wait while she softened a stick of wax on a candle flame, before sealing the letter.

"Here." She thrust it into the hand of the nearest templar. "This is my response. I won't be making an appointment today, thank you. See yourselves out." She closed the door in their faces. "Cheeky bloody cow," she said to herself as she walked to her desk. "You think you can summon me? Well, think again."

Shaking her head, she sat down and, with reluctance, started work on the rota. It wasn't her favourite task, but with Donnic still in the Deep Roads, Bradley on assignment and Grant off-duty, she had none of her senior guards around to delegate it to.

Her thoughts wandered to Donnic, then, and she began calculating how long it would take for him to return. "He… _they_ should be almost out of there by now," she mused, not realising how accurate her guess was.

Her stomach tightened, and she felt the familiar warmth spread through her centre whenever she thought about him, whenever she heard his name mentioned, whenever she walked past his quarters…

Whenever she clapped eyes on anyone who even vaguely resembled him, blast it!

"Get on with it, woman!" she scolded herself, the rota looking even less appealing than it had a few minutes ago.

The knock at her door was very welcome, and she hoped it signified something interesting. "Come in," she called.

Lieutenant Bradley entered and offered a small bow before closing the door.

"You're back. What did you find?" she asked, gesturing to a chair.

He sat down, massaging his forehead. "Sod all. Whole thing was a waste of time."

" _Nothing?_ " she exclaimed in surprise. "You're telling me that five of you… what kind of search pattern did you employ?"

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "With respect, Captain, we know how to conduct a search. We found nothing because there was nothing to be found."

"Oh, I know that," she replied, disappointed. "I was just hoping that there might be something, anything. Brenda Briggs came by again earlier and I had nothing for her."

"It's a shame," he agreed, nodding.

"All right, Lieutenant. What's your recommendation?"

"There's just one thing I _can_ recommend—we close this case and get on with what we're supposed to be doing. This man, Quentin, was in Hightown when Hunter and Briggs went missing, and has been staying with the Hawkes for the past two days. He arrived home while we were there. We found nothing at his estate to show our men had ever been there. He had no part in their disappearances."

She watched him for a moment, noticing how tired he looked. "I must say I'm surprised, Evan. You're Fenris's friend, and I thought you'd be a little more… I don't know, resistant to closing the case."

"Fenris got it wrong, and I feel bad for him, but we can't keep flogging a dead horse. There _is_ no case as far as I'm concerned."

"And what about those who went with you? Do they agree?"

He gave her a strange look. "Why wouldn't they?"

"Nothing, it doesn't matter. Well, Evan, if that's what you think—"

"Brennan's right outside if you want to ask her," he said, thumbing at the door.

"No, that won't be necessary." She paused, looking down at the rota, wondering what it was she felt in the pit of her stomach. "Well, now I've got to deal with Fenris. He's a good guard, but I can't have my people going over my head on a hunch." She groaned and looked up at Bradley. "I'd appreciate your opinion. An unbiased one, if you please."

He sat back, scrubbed his face and yawned. "My unbiased opinion? We're dealing with more and more rogue mages in Kirkwall, and Fenris's opinion of mages has always been skewed. That's not his fault, but the guard's here to keep order and gather evidence—not to make judgements. That's the magistrate's job."

"He was right about Gascard DuPuis," she stated, watching for his reaction.

"Was he? Yes, DuPuis attacked him and his friends, and they were quite right to retaliate, but DuPuis _didn't_ kill Alessa. Maybe we should be getting back to who did."

"Right," she mumbled, taken aback.

"It's _because_ he's my friend that I'm saying this," Bradley explained. "He can't think straight where mages are involved, less so with blood mages. For his own well-being, he shouldn't be exposed to this sort of thing. Besides, we can't afford someone in our ranks who isn't objective."

"How do you explain Hawke, then?" she countered, determined to bring balance to their discussion. "Hawke's a mage. Fenris lives with him when he's not at the barracks. He shares Hawke's bed. I'm pretty sure he'd die for him."

"He's grown to know Hawke over, what, six months? We don't get the luxury of becoming acquainted with our suspects. Hawke told me himself that, for the first month or so after they met, he half expected to wake up with a hole in his chest."

"He was joking with you. That's just the sort of thing Hawke would say."

"Fenris was there when he said it. Yes, Hawke was joking, but the look on Fenris's face said it all. He was ashamed. Hawke shut up after that. My point is, Captain, that Fenris will always knee-jerk when it comes to mages. Think about it. The mages we end up dealing with are not the ones in the Gallows—they're _apostates_. Who's more likely to turn to blood magic?"

"Maker, you're right," she muttered. "This is going to happen more and more, isn't it?"

"Yes, and the more it happens, the less in control Fenris will be. He could become a liability if we're not careful."

She took a deep breath, feeling a strange numbness settle over her. "Are you saying he should be dismissed?"

"That's your decision, Captain."

"You've given your opinion quite freely up until now," she said, indignation in her voice. "There'll be no pussyfooting in this office, Evan. Out with it."

"All right, then, I'm saying he shouldn't have been a guard in the first place. It might sound like I'm turning my back on him here—"

"That's exactly what it sounds like."

"But the opposite is true," he continued. "Sooner or later, Fenris is going to do something that will endanger himself or his colleagues while in pursuit of a mage. Given the kind of man he is, it's more likely to be himself. So yes, Captain, I believe he should be dismissed, for his own sake." He finished on another yawn. "Better to tell Hawke you sacked Fenris than to have to tell him he's dead."

"Your opinion is noted," she said around a heavy sigh. "That'll be all."

"You'll have my report within the hour," he replied as he rose.

"Get some rest first," she ordered. "You look like shit."

"Yes, Captain." Bradley closed the door, leaving Aveline drumming her fingers against the desk.

Bradley was right, much to her annoyance. She'd always had reservations about Fenris given his experiences with mages, not to mention the fact his former master could return at any time to claim him.

In spite of that, he'd proven to be not just a good guard, but one of her best. He was hard-working, diligent, tough when needed and compassionate with those who were down on their luck or who'd made a silly mistake. As for his reports, his spelling needed work but his attention to detail was second-to-none.

Apart from the Hawkes, though, mages _were_ anathema to Fenris, and Aveline couldn't— _would_ _n't_ —tolerate prejudice of any kind in the Kirkwall guard.

She reached for her quill and turned to Fenris's section of the rota. She'd suspended him for two weeks on full pay, pending the outcome of Evan's investigation, which was now complete. Somewhat unexpectedly, Bradley—a good friend of Fenris's—had just made a solid argument against keeping the elf on the books.

 _Very_ unexpectedly. Her fingers ceased their tattoo against the desk.

What if she did dismiss Fenris? She'd have Hawke to contend with, for one. Maker, she'd have _Donnic_ to contend with, as well as some of the other guards who'd befriended Fenris. Donnic, though, would probably incite mutiny in support of the elf.

Moreover, being a guard was good for Fenris. What would he do without that stability, without that camaraderie and sense of belonging?

"I can't let _any_ of that influence me," she said aloud, trying to convince herself.

She heard Brennan's voice outside her door and rose, exiting the office and finding the guard in question speaking to one of her colleagues.

"Brennan." She beckoned the guardswoman to her.

"Yes, Captain?"

"How was the investigation?"

"Oh, I'm just getting to my report now."

"That's not what I asked. How did it go?"

Brennan sighed, suppressing a yawn, and rubbed her eyes. "It was a fool's errand, Captain. I don't know what Fenris thought he was playing at. We're lucky this Quentin hasn't filed a complaint for harassment."

"So you found no evidence at all that Hunter or Briggs had been at his estate?"

She shook her head. "Not a sausage. If you want my opinion—"

"I don't," Aveline cut in. "I want facts. Get your report done, on the double."

"Right away, Captain."

Aveline went back into her office, closed the door and walked to her desk, plopping down in her chair. She looked at the rota again, quill in hand, poised to strike the elf's name from the register.

Two of her most experienced guards—both friends of the elf—had expressed disapproval of his conduct. Fenris had gone behind Aveline's back and presided over an illegal investigation which had resulted in the disappearance of two guards, one of whom was still missing. He _did_ seem to have a problem with mages, in spite of Hawke and Bethany's influence.

"He was also guilty of lewd conduct that night at the coast," she reminded herself. "I would have arrested anyone else for that."

Her duty was clear. So why, then, did she feel so…? Just what _was_ it she felt? What was wrong? It wasn't like Aveline to feel so conflicted. There was just _something_ she couldn't quite put her finger on.

No. This would not do at all.

"The captain of the guard is _not_ indecisive!"

She inked the quill again and held it above the register until the ink had dried, her frown intensifying so much, her head started to hurt.

"Oh, bugger it!" she cursed, throwing the writing implement down, Fenris's name still not crossed out. "The suspension stands," she announced to the empty office. "Let's hope I don't regret this."


	102. Predation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was you!" he yelled, stumbling backwards, almost falling over. "It all makes sense now! I knew it was someone close! Maker! How could I have been so stupid?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Carrie for giving this (very long) chapter the once-over, and for her always sage advice. She's the sensible one in this outfit--the Fenris to my Fletcher.
> 
> There are a few changes to canon in this chapter--bear with me. :)
> 
> Qunlat translations provided in footnotes.

**Qunari compound**

"Why's the Viscount sent _me_ to sort this out?" Fletcher whined.

Fenris watched as Fletcher paced a short distance from the ramshackle gates of the compound—gates that had never been properly fortified, because who would be stupid enough to break in?—and positioned himself in front of the mage, disrupting his agitated movements.

"Politics," Fenris said simply. "The Viscount cannot be seen to directly challenge—or support—the Arishok. You are a go-between, albeit a trusted one. In this situation, the Viscount is a concerned parent. He has charged _you_ with smoothing things over. True, he does not see the fear the Arishok inspires in you, but he would not have asked you to do this had he not thought you capable. This is his _son."_

"And what if the Arishok doesn't _like_ me 'smoothing things over'?"

Fenris shrugged. "Then he will dismiss us. Be in no doubt that we are insignificant in his eyes, mere messengers. If anything, this action will diminish the _Viscount_ _'s_ position in his mind, but not ours. We are not important enough to kill."

"You're sure about that?" asked Fletcher, reaching down to tighten the straps of Fenris's newly-acquired cuirass. "And what do you mean by saying the Viscount's position is diminished?"

Fenris gently pushed Fletcher's fussing hands away. "To answer your first question, yes, I'm sure. As for the second, the Viscount would have gained more respect had he reached out directly. The Arishok will see this course of action as nothing more than cowardice on the Viscount's part."

Fletcher sighed. "I should have insisted on bringing you into his office. Should we go back and tell him?"

Fenris frowned and shook his head. "The leader of the city has given you this task. We are not his advisers. Let us have this done." He tilted his head and gave Fletcher a fond smile. "Just be yourself."

Fletcher rolled his eyes and began walking towards the compound, Fenris close behind. The karasaad at the entrance gruffly allowed them in, the gates closing behind them with an ominous _clang._

"Hold your head up and walk tall," Fenris quietly advised Fletcher as they approached the dais where the Arishok was seated. Fletcher complied as best he could, though the impulse to slouch and look at the ground—to make himself smaller—was highly compelling.

As they halted, Fenris moved to his side, eschewing his usual custom of remaining behind Fletcher while in the compound, knowing his proximity would lend his beloved some much-needed moral support.

"Serah Hawke," the Arishok began, his tone scornfully curious. "It has been too long since you graced us with your... esteemed presence."

"Is he being sarcastic?" Fletcher mumbled out of the side of his mouth.

"Unknown. Answer him, and quickly."

"Hail, Arishok," Fletcher said in what he hoped was a clear, commanding voice. "I come to you as emissary of the Viscount, and bring cordial greetings from his office."

"That will do," Fenris whispered, "but do not be so conciliatory. Remember to show strength."

The Arishok slowly dipped his head, not once taking his eyes off Fletcher. "The Viscount honours me."

" _Now_ he is being sarcastic," Fenris advised in a hurried whisper. "Say your piece."

Fletcher's stomach flipped and his carefully-prepared speech winked out of his mind. "We, uh… I mean…" He cleared his throat, seeing Fenris tense at his side. "We have reason to believe that Seamus Dumar has converted to the Qun."

"What of it?"

Fletcher sighed, his shoulders drooping slightly, any feigned _strength_ in his voice gone when he spoke again. "The Viscount's concerned that this is more a political manoeuvre on your part than a genuine conversion. He's not accusing you of coercing Seamus, he's just—"

The Arishok stood up and Fletcher held his breath, the urge to flee coming upon him, but Fenris's light touch to his back grounded him, and he held fast as the Arishok spoke.

"In the same breath you claim I am not accused of coercing the Viscount's son, but am using him to political advantage. Your words are those of a hypocrite, one who offers friendship with one hand but conceals a dirk behind his back with the other. Tell me, Serah Hawke—are your words those of the Viscount, or your own?"

"I'm merely trying to convey a message without causing offence, Arishok."

"But does that message _carry_ offence, _before_ you have disassembled it?"

Fletcher shook his head. "I don't believe so. The Viscount's in a very difficult position."

The Arishok returned to his seat. "Then tell, me, Serah Hawke, in your own words, without… politics."

"You want _my_ opinion?"

"Have I not just said so?"

Fletcher nodded, his heart rate returning to normal. He hadn't detected any hostility in the Arishok's tone, but that didn't mean the intent wasn't there.

"What I can see, Arishok, is a man who fears for his son. All parents have certain hopes and dreams for their children, and Seamus has deviated from what the Viscount would have chosen for him. The Qun is an unknown to the Viscount, and many fear the unknown. There's also the possibility that Seamus has chosen to follow the Qun to defy his father."

"The Qun is not a choice," the Arishok stated, pointing at Fletcher. "Viddathari find certainty in the Qun, something you yourself would benefit from. You quake before me, your voice hushed, your body defeated, your heart in your shoes. And yet…"

He stood up again, taking two steps forward. "And yet you have not quailed from your assigned task. You bring only one other with you into a compound housing dozens of my kind, but the Viscount surrounds himself with walls, with guards, with advisers. He sends messengers to do that which he will not. You are both afraid, but I see only you before me. Speak."

Fletcher drew a deep breath, slowly releasing it. "Have you taken Seamus against his will?"

The Arishok again took his seat. "The only will is that of the Qun."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"It is neither. Asit tal-eb."

Fletcher ventured a quick glance at Fenris, who nudged his arm, sensing the conversation was over.

"Panahedan, Arishok," Fletcher said. "Thank you for your time."

"Panahedan, Hawke." The Arishok gave a single nod to both men before standing and going inside.

Once they'd left the compound, Fletcher and Fenris stopped on the steps leading out of the docks. "Well, that didn't tell us a fat lot," Fletcher complained, mopping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.

Fenris shook his head. "On the contrary, it told us a great deal. The Arishok has sent a clear message to the Viscount."

"Really? It didn't sound very clear to me."

"As I suspected, the Arishok is displeased with the Viscount's vacillation. His tone was rather condescending."

"You can tell that? His tone always sounds the same to me—bloody terrifying, and he knows it."

"Fletcher," Fenris began indulgently. "Yes, the Arishok sensed your fear, but complimented you—in his own way—in spite of it."

Fletcher pulled a face. "I don't get it. Haven't you always advised me to be strong? When I began stammering like that, I thought I was done for. Why would he compliment me for almost shitting myself?"

They started up the steps, side-by-side. "He is already aware that _bas_ are weak," Fenris elaborated, "yet you faced him even so. You do not hide in the shadows."

Fletcher gave a snort, allowing himself a wry smile. "It's a good thing he couldn't read my thoughts, then. There's only one reason I didn't run away when he stood up, and that's because my legs were frozen in terror."

"I do not believe you would have fled," chuckled Fenris, "but yes, it is fortunate indeed that the Qunari do not possess mind-reading capabilities, else your terrified legs might have fainted."

"Can legs _do_ that? On their own, I mean?"

"You are the healer, not I. Do you not know?"

Fletcher shrugged. "Apparently not."

They shared a grin, and Fenris was glad to see Fletcher relax. "Now, you should return to the keep and apprise his Excellency of what has passed."

"Okay, but as I'm not exactly sure what _has_ passed, you're coming in with me whether that stuck-up toerag Bran approves or not. Then we'll go home and see how Mother's doing. _Then_ I've got to have a word with Bradley."

Fenris smiled up at the mage, briefly touching his back again. "No rest for the wicked, as they say. And well done, Fletcher. This is your fourth visit to the Arishok, yet you still live. That is no small feat."

Fletcher nudged the elf hard, receiving a reciprocatory shove that almost sent him off his feet. Laughing, mostly in relief, they left the dockside.

**Deep Roads entrance, Kirkwall**

"So. Have you decided what you're going to do, Chuckles?" Varric asked Nathaniel as they began to break up camp.

The warden gave Varric a long-suffering look, pausing on his haunches and sifting some dust through his fingers. "I believe I'll accompany your party back to Kirkwall. There, I can ascertain whether the warden-commander and the king are still there or have moved on. Whatever happens, I'll spend the night there before returning to Edgbaston. We'll need to place a permanent warden contingent here to avoid any further… incursions."

"You really think the miners might have disturbed something?" asked the dwarf in a low voice.

Nathaniel sighed and rose to his full height, dusting off his hands. "There's no way of knowing right away. All we can do is continue our observations. The lyrium here has shown change at a constant rate over the past fifty years. If that change begins to accelerate, then yes, their presence here might have sped the process up. There's not a great deal we can do about that now."

"But could we have been responsible for awakening the next archdemon?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "According to Chantry lore, there are seven Old Gods. Five have already been corrupted by darkspawn and subsequently defeated by grey wardens. Two yet slumber beneath our feet at undetermined locations. We don't know whether this site is where the sixth Old God sleeps, or where Urthemiel awoke. The sixth and seventh _will_ awaken, it's just a matter of when."

"So they would have woken up anyway?"

He nodded. "That's what we believe."

Varric frowned and stepped closer to the warden. "And what happens when the last archdemon is defeated?"

"That's the big question, isn't it? The seventh Old God—Lusacan—is named 'Dragon of Night'. That could mean two things, depending on which scholar you ask. Either Lusacan will herald the end of all things, or a new start."

Varric nodded, looking thoughtful. "Dragon of Night, you say? Just out of interest—what was the last archdemon called? The fifth one?"

"That would be Urthemiel, Dragon of Beauty."

"Beauty?" Varric scoffed. "Was it a looker, then?"

"The king told me it was so monstrous that grown men—seasoned warriors—wept at the very sight of it, believing it to be the harbinger of their doom. Indeed, the warden-commander defeated it, but could not bring himself to look it in the eye, it was so terrible to behold. I doubt anyone whose home was ravaged, or lost their loved ones, would find anything _beautiful_ about the fifth Blight, or the Blights that preceded it."

"So, I guess what the Chantry's said so far about the Blights is a crock, then?"

"Think what you will, but apart from referring to an archdemon as a beauty, they haven't been wrong so far. Something to consider."

Varric dipped a small bow. "True enough. Well, guess I'd better go see what Grizzly's up to. Catch you on the surface."

Varric started to walk away, and a knowing smile came to Nathaniel's lips. "I'm not packing away your things like the last time when you 'forgot', Varric."

The dwarf turned back, a hand held over his heart. "Messere, you wound me. I didn't forget a damn thing."

Varric continued on his way and Nathaniel shook his head, still smiling in spite of himself before gathering up the dwarf's belongings.

A little further in, Varric found Donnic, who was chatting with a small group of dwarves. "Hey, Grizzly, listen up," he whispered, taking the guard aside. "Remember that money-making initiative we discussed not long ago? The one involving Chuckles and Broody?"

Donnic raised an eyebrow, forcing a serious expression. "I'm listening."

"Well, it's gotta be tonight! Chuckles will be spending the night in Kirkwall so we need to get them together. I'll arrange lodgings for our visitor, you fetch Broody!"

Donnic thought about that for a moment before shaking his head. "That won't work. Fenris is on duty tonight, or at least he should be."

"What, you're second-in-command of the illustrious Kirkwall guard and you can't even arrange a supper break for a hard-working elf?"

"You're assuming he'll even agree to it," replied Donnic, his mouth twitching, "and what about Nathaniel? Is _he_ in on your plan?"

Varric waved his hand in dismissal. "He's already got too much on his mind, Blights and lyrium and such. What kind of friend would I be if I added to his burdens?"

"You're a complete and utter scoundrel, Varric Tethras," said the guard, trying hard not to laugh. He cupped a hand to his mouth and lowered his voice. "Remember, my sovereign's on Fenris."

"And my sovereign says Chuckles will brood the elf into the next age."

"First one to laugh loses?"

Varric shook his head. "Uh-uh. First one to show any sign of animation _whatsoever_ loses."

"You're on," Donnic challenged with a wide grin, extending his hand. "Put it there."

**Lowtown slums, after sunset**

"Anders," Mallory called from the window. "It's one of the guards, I can see her uniform."

He craned his head around a doorway. "Are you certain it's not a templar? Absolutely certain?"

"Honestly, it's a guard, a female one. I think there's someone else with her. She's talking to someone, but I can't see who it is. It's getting dark out there."

A second loud rap came at the door, and the newborn in Anders's arms started to cry.

"Anders! It's Guardsman Watkins. I was there in the Hanged Man when you delivered the baby, remember? Let me in."

"Who's that with you?" he called out.

"I've got Lord and Lady Barnes's retainer here. She's come to take the baby."

"Lord and Lady Barnes?" Mallory questioned. "Who are they?"

"We're drawing attention to ourselves—and to _you—_ out here," warned Watkins. "Hurry up!"

"Let them in," Anders said. Mallory hesitated momentarily, but did as he asked.

Watkins stepped in with a woman of mature years, who was plain and smartly-dressed, but had a kindly face. In one hand, she carried a small wicker basket. "This is Mrs. Lachance," Watkins said, "here on behalf of the Barneses of Hightown."

"Hilda," the older woman said with a smile at Anders and Mallory.

"Ma'am," Anders replied, dipping a small nod, but Mallory said nothing, taking the baby from Anders. "Has this all been arranged?"

"The guard-captain sorted it all out," answered Watkins. "It's being done under the table, but in a proper way, if that makes sense. These are the folks that've been looking after the bairn," she said to Hilda.

"And a grand job they've done, too. She's a bonny-looking babe," replied Hilda, pinching the infant's cheek. "Aw," she cooed when the baby continued to cry. She reached out for the child, but Mallory held onto her. Watkins glanced up at Anders, giving him a questioning look.

"She needs a feed," Mallory began, turning away from the others. "Just give me a while, and she'll be ready."

"She's ready now," Anders broke in.

"But she hasn't been fed for an hour!" Mallory protested, reaching for the small cup and rag she used to feed the baby. "Oh, damn, I'll have to go to the Hanged Man. We're out of milk."

"Lord and Lady Barnes have a wet nurse," said Hilda, stepping closer to Mallory, who turned around. "Mother's milk's best for her."

"Yes, I do know that!" she snapped.

The tot abruptly stopped crying and Mallory's heavy breathing could be heard over the silence that ensued.

"Is there a problem here?" asked Watkins.

"No, no problem at all," Anders replied, his tone stern. "Mallory, give the baby to Hilda. Now."

"Yes, yes, of course." Eyes wide, Mallory passed the child to Hilda, who placed the small bundle in the basket, tucking her in. "I, uh, it's just, she kept me up for most of the night. I'm just tired. I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything."

Hilda smiled and patted Mallory's arm. "That's quite all right, dear. You've given her the best start in life. Please accept this for your trouble." She handed Mallory a small silk purse containing coins. "Your care and discretion are very much appreciated."

Anders opened the door for the woman, exchanging a nod with her as she stepped out. Before Watkins followed, she turned back to Anders. "Just wanted to let you know that the templars are easing off. There's still a few of them about, but for the last couple of hours it's just been the regular patrols around here, no extras."

"Thanks, Guardswoman, I appreciate that."

He watched them go, glancing left and right before closing the door. Mallory was again facing away from him, her shoulders heaving as she stared down at the purse.

"All right, what's going on?" he demanded. "You've been acting strangely ever since last night, since we started looking after the baby. I _asked_ you earlier if something was wrong and you denied it. Why were you so…?" He paused, moving closer to her. "Why were you so reluctant to give the baby up?" he asked in a gentler tone.

With her back to him, her hands went to her face and she shook her head.

"Mal," he ventured, closing the gap between them but not touching her. "Have you… ever lost a child?"

"It-it was her smell," she whispered, her voice trembling. "That newborn smell. I'd almost forgotten it. How… how could I _forget_?" She promptly burst into tears, and Anders laid a hand on her shoulder, moving to stand in front of her, unsure what to say. He pulled her close but she resisted and stepped back from him, silent sobs racking her body.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, not knowing what he was sorry for.

"I-it's not your fault. None of this is your fault." She sniffed and moved to a chair, slumping down into it. "I… I can't do this anymore," she said, her face contorting.

He knelt in front of her, one of his hands covering hers, his thumb gently stroking. "I'm here for you," he promised. "I'm so sorry you had to go through this. I can't possibly understand what it's like to lose a child, but—"

"She's… not dead."

He exhaled and moved to sit next to her, resting his hands in his lap. "You have a daughter?"

She nodded, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

"Where is she, then?" he asked as delicately as he could.

"Oh, Anders." She brought a hand to her brow, her other hand tightly clenched against her leg. "She's in the Gallows."

He stared at her in confusion, his mouth open, but Mallory said no more. A long moment passed and his confusion gave way to disbelief. "Mal? I—I'm… what?"

"They took her from me a year ago, no, no, it was longer than that," she rambled in a panic, "it was before I knew you, even before I knew about the underground movement and the clinic and everything, even before…" She paused for breath, wringing her hands together. "They told me that normally a mage's family can't have any more contact with them but they'd make an exception for me if I helped them with—"

"And you didn't think to tell me this sooner?" Anders interrupted, hurt in his voice. "I mean, I don't want to be an insensitive shit, here, but considering I'm an apostate who's helped keep several mages _away_ from the Gallows, oh! _And_ considering I thought you and I _trusted_ each other, don't you think this is something you might have mentioned in passing?" He stood up, a hand covering his eyes. "Maker, Mal! What were you—"

"I _couldn't_ tell you!" she protested, sounding distressed. "The templars don't even _know_ about me and you!"

He turned to face her. "What have the blighted templars got to do with anything?"

"The clinic," she whispered, her hands trembling. "T-they didn't know. We weren't even together, then. I'm… so, so sorry." She hung her head, bracing herself.

"The _clinic_? What are you talking about?"

She slowly looked up at him, tears spilling from her eyes, and shook her head, her lip wobbling.

"It was _you!"_ he yelled, stumbling backwards, almost falling over. "It all makes sense now! I _knew_ it was someone close! Maker! How could I have been so _stupid_?"

"Anders, please!" she implored, her voice hoarse from crying.

"Do you know who I thought it was?" he demanded. "I thought it was Fenris! I know I'm not exactly his best friend but I _hated_ him for that! And all the time you were worming your way in, trying to get me on side!" He paused, his face slackening. "You slept with me," he whispered. "Was that all part of it, too? When you were… when you were begging me not to stop? Was it all an act?" he asked in a nasty tone. "Because you're a bloody good actress, I'll give you that!"

She shot to her feet. "They were blackmailing me! They still _are!_ They say they won't let me see her if I don't give them information! I didn't even know you properly when they came to the clinic! I _swear_ I haven't told them anything else!"

"And you expect me to believe that?"

"She's my whole world, Anders! Yes, she's even more important than _you!_ I thought… I thought it would be so simple, just giving them a bit of information here and there, but I didn't count on coming to care for the refugees, and I certainly didn't count on falling in love with you!"

"Don't… don't say that word to me," he growled, turning his back on her.

"I wasn't pretending," she whimpered. "By the time I knew I had feelings for you, I was up to my neck. I—I started giving them false information to see what would happen. I think they expect failure sometimes, because Karras continued to let me see her."

"Karras?" he spun around, his eyes ablaze. _"He_ was blackmailing you?"

She nodded, swallowing hard. "Until your brother killed him, yes. I thought _he_ was bad enough but the one who took over from him, he's just—just _twisted_."

His expression hardened. "Who?"

"His name's Ser Alrik," she began, pausing when she heard the rush of breath from Anders. "Do you know him?"

He walked to the door, bracing his hands against it, his head bowed. "I know that bastard only too well."

She closed her eyes and sat down, feeling like the bottom had fallen out of her world. "She's such a beautiful little thing, the only good thing I've ever done. Alrik's saying that if I don't give him something soon, he'll make her Tranquil. If that happens, Anders, then I don't want to live anymore. I know I've done wrong but she's innocent in all this."

He turned his head in her direction, his lips pressed tightly together, his fingers clawing at the wooden door. "You're going to tell me _everything._ Not _one_ detail left out."

She nodded and sniffled, not daring to look him in the eyes. "I'll start right from the beginning."

**Quentin's estate, north of Hightown**

"I won't do it," Quentin breathed, his fingers drumming against his writing desk as he looked out at the darkening sky through a large window. "This has gone far enough. I _won't_ do it!"

"Yes you will," replied the man seated behind him. "You're as guilty as I am."

"I did _not_ butcher those women!" he retorted, wheeling around.

"No, but you brought them to me, knowing exactly what I'd do to them. I doubt your guard friends will make the distinction."

"I no longer care for consequences! I have indulged your profane pursuits for many years, but that bastardisation of my wife is the last straw! I will not permit you to continue!"

"You didn't seem all that bothered when I first proposed it. Not until you met Leandra Hawke."

"You will not mention her name again!" Quentin ordered, pointing a trembling finger. "You will not touch her. I shall kill you before you do."

A mocking laugh met Quentin's threat. "Kill me? Let's see how that works out for you. Now what are you going to do about the guards?"

"Is it not enough that I have corrupted their memories? Is it not enough that one of them is still imprisoned here? What are we going to do with him?"

"He obviously has dwarf blood in him, or was trained by the templars. Your parlour tricks failed to work on him. There is only one thing _to_ be done. We cannot let him go. He will ruin everything."

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose, slumping against his desk.

"I find your panic and cowardice revolting," muttered the other man. "All we need to do is take care of the other guards. Oh, and the son. It sounds like he's onto you."

"I have dealt with the guards!"

"No, you haven't. While you were playing paramour with Leandra in Hightown, three of them visited the estate at night. You haven't dealt with _them_ yet."

"How do you know that? How could you see them?"

"I walked among them. One of them almost saw me, but I eluded him. I had to be careful with that one—Hubris told me he has a connection to the Fade, but is no mage. Isn't that interesting?"

Quentin huffed in derision. "Your demon tells you all manner of things. For thirty years I have sought a connection between the Fade and non-magi, and have found precisely nothing, yet you are telling me that a common guard is that very connection?"

"Something to do with those strange markings upon his skin."

"Markings?" Quentin fell quiet for a moment, turning back to the window. "This guard… was he an elf?"

"Yes."

"With—"

"White hair."

Quentin released a shaky breath. "I suspected they were more than tattoos, but I never… perhaps my life's work has not been for nothing after all."

"How do you know him?" asked the man in the chair.

"He is… personally involved with the son."

"Then he must also harbour suspicions. Bring him here. Leave a trail for the son to follow. I will eliminate them both."

"No." Quentin turned back to the other man. "I _must_ be allowed to study him first. I will not let this opportunity slip through my grasp! I have waited thirty years for this!" He paused, then, thinking for a moment. "Why did Aspire not tell me of this?"

"Your demon has long had an agenda of her own. Why _should_ she tell you?"

"Why indeed?" Quentin said bitterly.

"Fine," said the other man, rising from his chair. "You shall have the elf, but not for too long. He is the perfect bait to bring the son here. Once they are out of the picture, there is nothing to stop us."

"You will _not_ have Leandra."

The other man smirked and headed for the door. "We'll see."

** The barracks, Viscount's Keep, later that night **

Fletcher entered the barracks and exchanged greetings with some of the guards who were ending, or starting, their shifts.

"Aveline around?" he asked one of them, and was relieved to hear that the guard-captain had called it a night, with Lieutenant Bradley deputising in her stead. Fletcher was directed to the office, where he waited outside for Bradley to become available.

After a while, a further few guards exited the office and Bradley stood at the door, yawning and rubbing his eyes hard.

"Long day?" asked Fletcher.

"Hawke," Bradley said in surprise, stifling another yawn. "You could say that. You're here late, aren't you? Need me for something?"

Fletcher glanced around, waiting until the barracks was almost clear of guards. "I hear you visited an estate outside Hightown today."

"Come in," Bradley invited, closing the door once Fletcher had entered.

"I'm here on Fenris's behalf," Fletcher said in a hushed tone. "Obviously _he_ can't come, and after that letter you sent, I thought you might be willing to share what you found at Quentin's estate."

Bradley's face fell and he led Fletcher to the desk, where they both sat. The lieutenant scrubbed his face before giving Fletcher a doleful look. "We didn't find anything."

Fletcher blinked slowly, his stomach dropping. "What? Nothing at all? Did you…" He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice, "search the house?"

"We actually met Quentin on his way home, and he showed us around. We found nothing untoward. We searched the grounds as well. There's absolutely no proof that Hunter or Briggs were ever there."

"Didn't you take any scouts with you?" Fletcher asked in dismay. "Of course you won't find anything without them!"

"Hawke," Bradley said, sounding annoyed, "I took _two_ scouts with me. Hunter and Briggs are _my_ friends as well. Are you implying we didn't give our best to this investigation?"

"No, I…" Fletcher sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, I just thought… _hoped_ you'd come up with something. So where does this leave the investigation? Where does this leave Fenris?"

"We're still active in our search for Briggs, but Quentin's been ruled out of any wrongdoing. As for Fenris… I don't know. It's up to the captain. He _did_ conduct an illegal investigation without her knowledge. You don't get a rap on the knuckles for that."

"I appreciate that, and Fenris is painfully aware that he did wrong, but I thought…" He paused and stared at Bradley, his mouth working.

"You thought what?"

"I just thought you'd be a bit more fired up about this," Fletcher said cautiously. "Don't you have anything else up your sleeve?"

"Like what? Quentin's out of the frame now. If we turn up anything on Briggs, then of course I'll send word to Fenris."

"And what _about_ Fenris? What do you think Aveline will do?"

"I'm sorry, Hawke, but it's not appropriate for me to discuss that with you. I've stuck my neck out enough as it is. Now, if you don't mind, I've got a lot to do."

Fletcher braced his hands against the arms of the chair but didn't stand immediately, feeling he needed to say more, but he was damned if he could think of anything.

"Was there something else?" Bradley asked, again stifling a yawn.

"No, nothing. Um, sorry to keep you. I'll go, then."

They rose and Fletcher noted with concern that Bradley seemed woozy as he stood up. "Are you all right?" the mage asked, walking around the desk. "You look like you need to go to bed. How long's your shift?"

"I'm fine," Bradley insisted.

"I'll be the judge of that." Fletcher stepped closer but Bradley held up a hand. "I'm a healer," Fletcher stated in a stern tone. "If there's something wrong, I'll find it. I assume you're here all night? D'you want Aveline to start her shift in the morning and find you asleep at her desk? Can't imagine _that_ will go down well."

Bradley heaved a sigh. "All right, then. Just remember there's a templar in the keep. You can leave through there." He pointed at a door behind the desk.

"I'll be out of here before he gets out of bed. Now stand still a minute." Fletcher laid one hand on Bradley's chest, his other hand resting against the back of the lieutenant's head, and closed his eyes.

Bradley felt no effects during Fletcher's examination, which was over in a matter of seconds. "Well?" he asked as Fletcher stepped back, frowning, a hand at his chin.

"Have you been treated by a mage recently?"

Bradley shook his head, looking confused. "No… why do you ask?"

Fletcher hesitated for a second before forcing a quick smile. "Nothing, it doesn't matter. Well, I can't find anything physically wrong with you. Have you been overdoing it lately?"

Bradley shrugged. "We all have. In Donnic's absence the captain and I have been burning the candle at both ends. We've brought Grant in to cover occasionally, but he's in charge of training and we can't neglect that." He groaned. "Look, you'd better go before Menzies gets here. I'll stall him."

"Just let me do one thing. I'll make it quick." Fletcher clutched the sides of Bradley's head, once again closing his eyes.

Bradley immediately felt his fatigue lift, and his body tingled as energy surged through him.

"That should keep you going for the next few hours," Fletcher said, stepping away from Bradley and moving to the rear door.

The lieutenant rotated his head and shoulders, releasing a long sigh. "Thanks, Hawke. That's great, really great."

"Don't tell Aveline I was here, okay?"

"Of course not. Go on, you'd better go. The guard at the end of the corridor will show you out."

Fletcher nodded once before stepping through the door, closing it behind him.

Once out of the keep, he bypassed his home and headed straight for the steps leading to Lowtown. He knew Fenris would throttle him if he discovered Fletcher had been on the streets alone at night, but this was too important to delay.

One of the guards he knew informed him where the templar patrols were, and he reached the Alienage without being spotted.

The chantry bell tolled as he reached Merrill's door, and he felt guilty for waking her at such a late hour, but knocked on her door nonetheless.

After waiting a while and knocking a few more times, he heard movements inside.

"Who's there?" asked a quiet voice.

"Hawke." Merrill opened the door, blinking away her bleariness. "Merrill, I'm so sorry to wake you at such an hour, but I need your advice."

She ushered him in and closed the door, watching in concern as he sat on a small wooden chair. "What's the matter, Hawke? Oh… do you want some tea? I've actually got some for a change. And it's not even a special occasion."

He stood up. "I'll make it. Come on, sit down and I'll get a fire going. I'm really sorry about this but you're the only person I can turn to."

While Fletcher made the tea and lit the fire, he filled her in on recent events, finishing with an account of his visit to the barracks as he sat with her at the table. "... He's definitely had magic used on him within the last day or so, but I couldn't tell what kind. Which would indicate it might not have been powered by mana."

She gave a thoughtful frown, taking a small sip of tea. "Now that your demon's dead, aren't you able to tell the difference anymore?"

"I've lost any abilities she ever gave me, including the ability to detect and dispel blood magic. You know the difference between descrying mana spells and blood spells, don't you? Of course you do. Like, when you descry blood magic you feel as though something's jarred you?" He placed a hand on his chest. "Inside?"

"I know exactly what you mean."

"Well, I don't have that anymore."

"Right," she replied, sounding almost sad for Fletcher. "Don't you miss it?"

He drained his cup and reached for the teapot, pouring them both another cup. "I don't miss being tied to a demon, but I must admit, some of the powers I gained came in handy." He paused, blowing on his tea. "I might not have used magic powered by blood—well, not until Beth got hurt, anyway—but there's more to it than that, isn't there?" He looked at Merrill, who nodded, and he placed his cup down, shaking his head. "You know, I shouldn't be saying things like this."

"Why not?" she asked. "It's all right, you can tell me. I'm not Fenris."

He frowned and waited for her to continue.

"I'm just guessing that you don't talk to him about this sort of thing."

He sighed, looking troubled for a minute. "You might be surprised, Merrill. He's a lot more tolerant of mages than he used to be."

"But?"

"But… you're right, we don't talk about things like this. He accepts me for what I am—he even accepted me when I was a blood mage—but that's because he loves me. Just because he accepts what I am, though, doesn't mean he likes it. He… no, I couldn't tell him that. He wouldn't understand."

"What wouldn't he understand?"

"That being in service to a demon made me a better mage." He looked up at her and she smiled in understanding. "There, I said it. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad Synia's dead, for more reasons than one. But I gained so much through my connection to her—the descrying abilities, plus protection from any other demons we encountered."

He paused to take a sip of tea. "The price for all that was too high in the end, and I'll never accept another demon's offer, but I can't deny that blood mages have a huge advantage over ordinary ones. Think about it. If I _had_ been a practising blood mage, my equivalent mana draw would have been so much larger. If I'd had a mind to make blood sacrifices—which I didn't—it'd be virtually inexhaustible. I'm not surprised more and more are turning to blood magic."

"You're preaching to the choir, y'know," she said, "but I'd _never_ use another person's blood. Never in a million years."

"I know that," he replied softly. "To some mages, it's a very tempting proposition, at least on paper. The problems begin when their demon starts making demands and tormenting them."

For a second she was tempted to defend her own demon, but thought better of it. "Have any demons visited you since Synia died?" she asked, reaching for a biscuit.

He nodded. "Several. I've sent them all packing, of course." He fell quiet for a moment. "I haven't told Fenris. I wanted to, but… I didn't."

She reached across and patted his arm. "Don't feel guilty."

"But I promised him I'd never keep anything from him again. I just… I _can't_ tell him that, can I? What would be the point? It'd just cause trouble. I… I hate not telling him, that's all."

"I don't think you're 'keeping' anything from him by not telling him that," she counselled. "You're _protecting_ him. Telling him something like that would just make him worry. He already knows mages get visited by demons, doesn't he?"

He nodded. "I told him a long time ago."

"Then you haven't kept anything from him, have you? Fenris is an intelligent man. I'll bet he's already aware, but maybe he trusts you enough now to know there are certain things you don't have to talk about. It doesn't mean you're shutting him out—it means the exact opposite, that you're thinking of him."

He smiled, amazed how wise his often-skittish friend could be. "It'd be nice if he thought that, wouldn't it?"

She returned his smile, passing him a plate of biscuits. "I might not know Fenris as well as you, but I do know he spends a lot of his time just thinking about _everything_. He _must_ have thought about it, Hawke, and I'd say he's all right with it."

He reached for her hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing it. "Thank you for that."

"But I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did. I'm very glad I dragged you out of bed, although you might not be." He patted her hand and released it before taking a biscuit and passing the plate back to her.

"I'm glad, too," she replied. "I usually wake up a few times at night, anyway, and I've never had tea and biscuits with a friend in the middle of the night before. It's nice. Bit of a rebellious thing to do, isn't it? Something you're not supposed to do."

Fletcher chuckled and ate his biscuit. "A blood mage and a former blood mage thumb their noses at convention by taking tea and biscuits after dark."

"I bet the templars would have a field day with that."

He raised his cup to her. "Not to mention Varric. There's a story in there somewhere, I'm sure."

They shared a companionable silence while they finished off their illicit snack. Merrill rose to pour their third cup of tea but Fletcher held a hand over his cup. "I'd better let you get some sleep."

She sat back down. "All right. You've told me all about Quentin and the guards. Your ma's always been kind to me and I'll do whatever I can to help."

He glanced down at his lap, releasing a breath and reaching for her hand again, giving it a firm squeeze. "I'd like you to visit the keep with me first thing in the morning, if that's all right, before Bradley ends his shift. We'll find an excuse to talk to him and I need you to brush against him or touch him for a second. I need _proof,_ Merrill. Quentin hasn't done anything wrong so far but there's a lot of circumstantial evidence against him. I need something _solid_."

"I can do that," she agreed, nodding.

"Thank you," he said with sincerity. "I've got to be careful here. I'd have no problem with Mother marrying a blood mage in principle," he said, remembering that his own father was a blood mage, "but if he's involved in anything sinister, I'll need to take action. I just can't make anything stick to him."

"What kind of action are you talking about?"

He sighed. "I _could_ tip off the templars, but this man's involved with my family. This is something I need to take care of myself."

"And what if you don't find anything?"

"I don't know," he said quietly. "I'd prefer discovering something bad than not knowing for certain and having these _doubts_ all the time. At least I can _do_ something if I have real evidence."

She looked across at him, holding his gaze for a moment. "Are you going to kill him?"

A log on the fire popped, startling them both, and Fletcher quickly stood up. "I'd better go." He gathered the cups, placing them on a tray. She moved to his side, lightly touching his arm.

"Hawke?"

"I've kept you long enough. I'll come for you in the morning, okay?" He bent down and kissed her cheek, lightly patting her shoulder. "Thanks again, Merrill, and for being so gracious about me waking you."

"It's all right, I didn't mind," she replied as he walked to the door.

He turned back, giving her a slightly forced smile. "Don't forget to lock up. I'll call for you at seven bells. Goodnight." He exited, closing the door.

"Goodnight! And be careful going home!" She rushed to the door and locked it before looking out of the small window next to it.

She watched as he trudged to the foot of the Vhenadahl, kicking a few pebbles around, his fingers meshed together behind his neck. He then lit a few fresh candles at the base of the tree before moving to the Alienage steps, where he sat down.

There he stayed for a while, thinking, until the guard patrol entered the Alienage, the duo engaging him in conversation.

Merrill sighed in relief as Fletcher rose and left with the guards. "I'm glad you've got someone to walk you home, Hawke. Don't worry. We'll get it all sorted out."

She pulled the small curtain closed and went back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karasaad: Qunari melee warrior.
> 
> Asit tal-eb: 'The way things are meant to be'.
> 
> Panahedan: Goodbye.
> 
> Bas: Non-Qunari, literally, 'thing'.
> 
> Viddathari: Non-Kossith convert to the Qun.


	103. Together Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Apparently, I'm not allowed to kill you. I thought at first that Satinalia had come early and the commander was having his little joke, but no, it seems you're off the hook. I can't tell you how disappointed I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks again to Carrie for checking canon and her vast knowledge of the codex (even though I ignore it half of the time). :)

** The barracks, Viscount's Keep, the following morning **

"Okay, Merrill, I've just been told Bradley's still on duty, and that Aveline's due to start her shift, but hasn't arrived yet," Fletcher told the elf as they hid in a shady corner of the keep. "Whatever we're going to do, we need to do it fast."

"Any ideas?" asked Merrill.

Fletcher thought about that for a moment. "How about I pretend I've lost something? Ask him if I left it in the office last night?"

"Oh, yes, that's a good one!"

Fletcher glanced up the stairs leading to the barracks and listened for a minute. "I can't hear Aveline, so I'm hoping she still hasn't arrived yet. Come on. Let's get this done and get out of here."

They started up the stairs, looking as nonchalant as possible, passing a few guards and keep staff on their way. When they reached the barracks, it appeared to be shift changeover, as several guards were grouped together while they received their orders and patrol routes from Bradley.

When changeover was finished, Bradley noticed the twosome lurking on the stairs and beckoned them to him.

"Hawke? You're here again? What's up?"

Fletcher gave an embarrassed groan. "I'm sorry to trouble you again, but I've misplaced one of my favourite scarves. It was a gift, you see, from my mother, and she'd be dreadfully upset if I lost it."

Bradley gave Fletcher a strange look before glancing at Merrill. "And?"

"I was just wondering if I'd left it in your office last night. I can't find it anywhere!"

"I don't remember you wearing a scarf last night," Bradley pointed out. "I'd suggest retracing your steps."

"Well, that's exactly what I'm trying to do," appealed Fletcher with a charming smile. "Would you mind awfully?"

Bradley sighed before turning into the office. "You can look around, but I really don't think—"

"Oh, blimey!" Merrill exclaimed, tripping and crashing into the lieutenant, grabbing his arm to steady herself. "I'm so sorry!" she blathered as Bradley straightened up. "I'm so bloody clumsy!"

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked her as Fletcher fought to keep a straight face at Merrill's none-too-subtle approach.

"I'm fine, thank you!" she breathed, dusting off Bradley's armour, one of her hands brushing against his. "Are you?"

"Yes," he answered shortly. "Hawke, look for your scarf then do me a favour and bugger off," he said, fighting against a yawn. "As soon as Aveline gets here, I'm going to bed. I'm done in."

Fletcher took a cursory look around the office before turning to Bradley. "No, it's not here," he said with a sigh. "Sorry to have troubled you. How are you feeling, by the way?"

Bradley shook his head and looked around to ensure none of the other guards were within earshot. "Between you and me, Hawke, I think I'm coming down with something. I've felt strange for the last couple of days. Think I'll visit the infirmary before I turn in."

Fletcher nodded. "Good idea. If they can't help you, you know where I live. I'm sure I can come up with something."

Bradley exhaled and slapped Fletcher's back. "Thanks. Look, take no notice of me being all tetchy. I just feel like I haven't slept in a week. Miss," he said with a nod at Merrill, who smiled back.

"Can't say I noticed," replied Fletcher. "We'll get out of your hair. Have a good sleep."

They ascended the stairs into the main keep, Fletcher taking Merrill aside as soon as they were out of the immediate vicinity of anyone else. "Anything?" he asked her.

She looked up at him, her green eyes large, and Fletcher's heart sank before she even spoke. "I'm sorry," she said in a serious tone. "He's definitely been touched by blood magic, and recently."

"How recently?"

She gave a small shrug. "There's an echo there, but it's weak. I'd say in the last forty-eight hours. No longer than that."

"Are you _absolutely_ sure, Merrill?"

"Absolutely sure," she confirmed. "I wouldn't say that unless I knew for certain. I know how important this is to you."

He turned away from her and leaned against the balustrade, looking down upon the lower level of the keep.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, keeping her distance. When he didn't answer, she tentatively approached him, standing at his side. "Why not go home for a bit?" she suggested. "I'll go with you."

He looked at her, his eyes dull. "I want you to know how grateful I am for your help," he began. "I need to check one more thing."

He began walking towards the barracks again, Merrill hot on his heels. "Can I help at all?" she offered as they reached the stairs.

"I'm going to take a look at the duty roster," he replied. "I want to know who else went with Bradley."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

He gave her a sideways glance. "Not really."

"What if you get caught?"

"Wait here," he instructed her. "No sense in both of us landing in trouble."

"No," she said firmly, her expression determined. "We've come this far together. Let's finish it together. You didn't wake me up in the middle of the night so I could skulk about. Ready?"

Not waiting for his reply, she walked ahead. Fletcher gawked at her for a split second before catching up with her, and they returned to the barracks together.

They hung around for a little while, sidling ever closer to the duty roster. During a brief lull in activity, Fletcher flipped open the large book, glancing furtively over his shoulder while Merrill walked back and forth behind him, trying her best to look casual.

"Let's see," he mumbled, turning to the appropriate page. "Here, I've got it. Bradley, Davy, Filbert, Brennan… hm. Looks like Bradley took Fenris's friends along for this one. We need to find them and see if—"

"Hawke!" Merrill hissed, sounding panicked.

"Just a second, I'm looking at—"

" _Hawke!"_

"Oh, shit." Fletcher slowly turned in the direction of the deep but feminine voice, coming face-to-face with an irate-looking guard-captain. "Aveline!" he exclaimed with a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"I was about to say the same thing," she replied in a hard tone. "Care to explain why you're going through the duty roster after I expressly forbade you from sticking your nose into our investigations?"

"Who said I was sticking my nose in?" he protested, pretending innocence, but Aveline was having none of it.

"My office. _Now."_

"Wait! We can explain!" Merrill began.

Aveline crossed her arms. " _This_ ought to be good."

Merrill glanced anxiously at Fletcher, whose eyes bulged before he cleared his throat. "Well, it's, uh… the thing is, what we were, I mean, what _I_ was—because this is nothing to do with Merrill—is, ah…"

"You grubby bastards better not have used all the bath water," boomed a deep voice from the stairs, "because I bloody stink!"

Fletcher, Merrill and Aveline turned around as the owner of the voice entered the barracks, a few other guards approaching the man to shake his hand and welcome him back.

"Donnic," Aveline breathed.

"The very same," he replied, walking up to them and shaking Hawke's hand. "Maker, it's good to be back. Hello, Merrill," he greeted before turning to the captain. "Aveline."

"Guardsman," she answered, her cheeks turning pink.

"Did you get everything sorted out?" Fletcher asked, glad for the interruption. "Is Varric back?"

Donnic nodded. "He's on his way to your place to see your sister. He'll tell you all about it. For now, I need a bath, a sleep and to feel the sun on my face for a bit. What's been going on around here, then?"

"We were just leaving," Fletcher began.

"I don't think so," retorted Aveline, interrupted by a commotion coming from the main keep. "What in the Void is that?" she demanded, listening to the raised voices coming from outside.

"Probably the dwarves," said Donnic with an indifferent shrug. "I think a couple of them have taken exception to the way the nobles were looking at them."

Aveline blinked. "Dwarves? What bloody dwarves?"

"Some of them have been left unemployed after the mining operation was closed down. A few want to try out for the guard. You did say you'd be interested in taking some on, didn't you?"

"I did, but how many's a few? Weren't there forty-odd miners?"

He laughed. "I didn't bring forty with me! What do you take me for?"

Aveline sighed in relief, not noticing that Fletcher and Merrill were inching towards the stairs. "How many, then?"

"About… nineteen," he mumbled around a cough.

" _What?"_

"It'll be fine! Not all of them will be suitable, anyway! They only want a trial."

At that moment, a black-bearded dwarf stumbled into the barracks, his huge blue eyes glued to the ceiling. "Oh, thank the Ancestors. It's lower in here. So sodding _big_ out there in that hall! I can stay here, right, Donnic?" he pleaded, wiping his perspiring forehead on his sleeve.

Aveline gave Donnic a hard look. "Are they all like him?"

"Anso!" Fletcher walked up to the dwarf, reaching for his hand. "It's good to see you again! Fenris will be thrilled to hear you're safe!"

The dwarf shook Fletcher's hand before wiping his palms on his tunic, his eyes never leaving the ceiling. "You _sure_ I'm safe? Really sure? What's holding this thing up? I swear I saw it wobble just now!"

"They're called walls," Merrill supplied helpfully. "They're nice and strong, Ser Dwarf, and ceilings don't wobble. Not usually, anyway."

"Speaking of Fenris," Donnic interjected, "where is he?"

"We'll discuss that another time," replied Aveline.

"Why's that?" asked Donnic, frowning.

"Because… because I have nineteen dwarves to deal with, that's why, and _I haven't finished with you, Hawke_!" she yelled as Fletcher disappeared up the stairs, taking Merrill with him.

In their haste, the departing pair almost collided with two guards who were on their way down the stairs. "Oh, it's Davy and Filbert," Fletcher said with a pointed glance at Merrill. "How are you two doing?"

"All right, Hawke," replied Filbert. "I saw Fenris here yesterday while you were in with the Viscount. Didn't speak to him, though. Felt kind of awkward."

"Why?" asked Fletcher.

The two friends glanced at each other warily before Davy spoke. "Not being funny, Hawke, but he made a right cock-up of that investigation. Don't get me wrong," he added hastily, "we like Fenris a lot, but he sent us after an innocent man. He's lucky Quentin didn't complain to the magistrate."

Fletcher slowly nodded, his expression betraying nothing. "Lucky, indeed. Oh, I'd like to introduce you to my friend, Merrill."

The Dalish mage shook hands with the pair as introductions were made.

"Well, we'd better go," Fletcher finished, not bothering with further niceties as he and Merrill took off.

They didn't speak again until they were outside of the keep. They halted at its entrance, Merrill's posture and expression saying it all. "You probably don't need me to confirm it, Hawke. I saw the look on your face. They're supposed to be Fenris's friends, aren't they?"

He sighed, looking up at the sky. "They all went on that investigation together, as his friends, and now they're just dismissing him. I don't know Bradley that well, but I do know Filbert and Davy. They share quarters at the barracks with Fenris and Donnic and they're all good friends. There's no way they'd bad-mouth him like that normally." He looked down at her. "Were they…?"

"I'm afraid so, Hawke. Both within the last forty-eight hours."

He moved to the bottom of the steps leading up to the keep and sat down, Merrill joining him. She watched him as he stared ahead, lost in his thoughts.

"Thanks, Merrill," he said softly after a minute.

"Is this the proof you wanted?" she asked.

He glanced at her and nodded. "It's enough for me."

"Maybe you should tell Aveline? She might want to help if she knows what's going on."

He shook his head. "No, I know how her mind works. She'd want something _tangible_ as proof, and the word of a blood mage and another mage who she's warned to keep out of the investigation won't be enough."

"But don't you think she'd be concerned about her guards having magic used on them?"

"Apart from the fact Bradley's exhausted—and it could be just that, exhaustion—I don't see anything physically wrong with them, do you? I'm just trying to think like Aveline does. She'd see it as a desperate attempt on my part to get Fenris reinstated. Or, on the other hand, she _might_ believe us, in which case she'd insist that you give evidence in front of the magistrate. He'd take your testimony then throw you to the templars."

She rested her head on one hand, mirroring Fletcher. "Is there _anyone_ in the city guard who'll help?"

"I think Donnic will be very interested in what's gone on, but would he defy Aveline? I don't know, and I'm not going to put him in an awkward position by asking him. According to Anders, Bradley's quite sympathetic to protecting and helping mages, but…"

"He's been ensorcelled," Merrill finished.

"Yep." He sighed. "This is something I need to sort out."

"We," she said, patting his arm. _"We'll_ sort it out, Hawke."

He gave her a warm smile before standing and helping her up. "Let's go home and speak with Fenris and Beth. Oh, and Varric, too. I'm sure he'll want to put his copper's worth in."

Arm-in-arm, they walked along Viscount's Way towards the Hawke residence.

~o~O~o~

"So, how was the Deep Roads, Donnic?" Aveline asked as she closed the office door behind them.

"Never mind that," he growled, manoeuvring her against the door. "I've missed you, woman! Where's my welcome back kiss?"

"Not here!" She giggled before remembering the captain of the guard _didn't_ giggle, and shoved Donnic away, only for him to push her harder against the door, causing it to rattle.

"Yes, _here."_

He clamped his lips over hers and she squirmed for a second before she started to weaken and forget where she was. She broke the kiss for a gulp of air, her entire body quivering when his lips moved to her neck, gently biting the soft flesh.

"Maker!" she gasped before slamming a hand over her mouth.

"Captain? You all right in there?" called one of the guards from outside as she very reluctantly fought off Donnic's attentions.

"Yes!" she squeaked, hurriedly clearing her throat. "Yes, just practising some s-stances!"

"But the training square's free at the moment, Captain! Wouldn't you have more room there?"

"I'll be out in a— _stop it!"_ she protested as teeth nipped at her ear.

"Captain? Is someone in there with you?"

"M-my enemy! My imaginary enemy! You know, the one I'm practising the stances with! Uh, _against_! I mean against! _Will you get off me!_ "

The guard outside fell quiet and Aveline finally succeeded in pushing Donnic away. He grinned at her, sending her heart racing.

"Oh," a quiet voice outside was heard to say. "Donnic's back, is he? That explains it, then. Captain said she was 'training'."

"Training?" another guard scoffed while Aveline pressed her ear to the door. "Aye, horizontal training, more like."

"Don't you two have any bloody work to do?" a third, sterner-sounding voice demanded.

"Sergeant Grant! Uh, yes, sir!"

"Then get to it!"

"Yes, sir! Right away!"

Aveline turned around, slumping against the door. "Maker's blood! We'll be the talk of the barracks at this rate!"

Donnic sat down, his grin still in place. "Sounds like we already are. I'm not bothered if you're not."

Immediately, her face dropped, and Donnic groaned, preparing himself. "Well, you would say that, wouldn't you? You haven't even been back for five minutes and already you've caused a stir!"

Donnic merely stared at her as she went to her seat, knowing anything he said would be wrong.

"Do you even want to know what's been going on here?" she asked, "or do you plan on fooling around some more?"

"Fooling around sounds good to me," he quipped before noticing she wasn't smiling. "Actually, I asked what had been going on when I arrived, but you didn't want to talk about it," he replied in irritation.

"No, you asked where Fenris was. _That_ was what I didn't want to discuss in front of anyone else."

He huffed. "Okay, I'll bite. Where is he, then?"

She took a deep breath and sorted through a pile of documents, passing one to Donnic. "Guardsman Fenris has been suspended for two weeks. _Before_ you argue with me, read that."

He held her gaze for a few seconds before turning his attention to the documents. Several tense minutes passed by as he read the report, along with the statements of those who'd conducted the search of Quentin's estate. By the time he'd finished reading, his head was resting on one of his hands. "Oh, Fenris!" he exclaimed in frustration before looking up at Aveline. "What are you going to do?"

She shook her head, taking a minute to answer. "I don't have a choice. I've been thinking long and hard about this, and I need to be careful because of my friendship with Hawke. I can't be seen to be playing favourites. I'll allow the suspension to stand so he gets his two weeks' pay, but I'll have to let him go at the end of it."

"Aveline, do you really think Fenris cares about two lousy weeks' wages? He made a fortune in the Deep Roads! He doesn't do this job because he needs the money!"

"I'm well aware of that, Guardsman," she retorted, completely unsurprised by Donnic's argument. "If you'd done what he did, I'd be letting you go as well. You _can't_ dispute my decision this time. He took it upon himself to investigate this mage's dwelling simply because he's involved with Hawke's mother. Hunter's on the mend now and I need to reprimand him as well. I'm still not discounting the possibility that Hawke put them up to it."

"Oh, come on!" Donnic scoffed. "Hawke's had ample opportunity to take advantage of Fenris's position. He was the one who proposed Fenris for the guard in the first place!"

"Yes, along with you, to protect him from Danarius!" she bit back. "I wasn't happy about it then, but you forced my hand with emotional blackmail. I've compromised my integrity enough as it is. I will _not_ let him off for this simply because he's your friend!"

"When did I say you should let him off?" he asked in dismay, his voice rising in volume. "Did I actually say that?"

"You might not have said it, but it's exactly what you're thinking!"

"Is it, now?" He pushed himself up. "So you know what I'm thinking, do you? Well, as you've obviously become omniscient in my absence, I won't need to tell you where I'm off to now!"

She shot to her feet. "Guardsman Hendyr, you are _not_ to visit a suspended guard! You know the rules!"

"I'm well aware of the rules, _Guard-Captain Vallen,_ seeing as we're going all formal and using each other's full name and rank! If you must know, I'm not going to see Fenris. I'm going to see Hawke."

"You can't do that! Fenris is staying at the—"

"As I wasn't expected back today, I don't believe I've been assigned a patrol. Unless you have a _good_ reason why I can't visit one of my friends while I'm off-duty, I'll take my leave." He walked to the door and opened it before turning back. "Oh, and I missed _you_ , too."

"You bloody—!" she hissed, stomping over to the door and watching his retreating back. "Arrogant sod!" she muttered under her breath before firmly closing the door, refraining from slamming it, not wanting to cause more gossip.

As angry as she was, however, she had to admit: she hadn't felt so alive in weeks.

**The Hanged Man**

Anders entered the pub, alone, looking like a man with the world on his shoulders. He found his way to the bar and slumped against it, staring into space until Corff prodded his arm.

"I said, 'what are you having', Anders?"

"Oh, I don't know," answered the mage miserably. "The dregs out of the slop bucket would do the trick right about now."

"I know just what you need." Corff went out back, returning with a large tankard of foaming golden liquid, which he placed in front of Anders.

"Ale?"

Corff shook his head. "Little something extra in it. I only serve this to our prestige clientele which, so far, consists of you, Varric, Hawke and Miss Bethany."

Anders managed a grim smile. "Honoured, I'm sure." He reached into his pocket but Corff shook his head.

"Your money's no good here. Keep it for your patients."

"Thanks," Anders mumbled, feeling a fleeting sense of belonging which quickly evanesced when Corff turned to serve another punter. Anders stared at the brew for several minutes until only one or two tiny bubbles still stubbornly clung to the sides of the vessel.

"Anders."

The voice from behind him, though smooth and mellifluous, was a frigid blast to his already-jangled nerves. His throat and mouth dry, he slowly turned around as a ghost from his past leaned against the bar next to him.

"Nathaniel."

The black-haired warden rested his own pint on the bar and stared at Anders just long enough to make the mage feel uncomfortable. "Heard you were in town," he drawled, taking a long sip of his ale, his eyes not leaving the former warden's face.

"How?" Anders asked, one eye on the exit as he wondered why Nathaniel hadn't immediately tried to kill or poison him. Then the thought occurred to him that if Nathaniel _had_ planned on killing him, Anders wouldn't have known a thing about it.

"The commander left me a note at the keep. Apparently, I'm not allowed to kill you. I thought at first that Satinalia had come early and he was having his little joke, but no, it seems you're off the hook. I can't tell you how disappointed I am."

Anders turned back to the bar and drained half of his tankard in one go, slamming it down against the bar and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"What, no witty rejoinder?" Nathaniel asked with a sneer. "No smart-arsed remark? Well, now I really _am_ disappointed. If there was something one could rely upon at Vigil's Keep, it was that Anders was always good for a joke."

"Things change," Anders replied, his hands tightly gripping his tankard.

"Oh, come now. You're not even going to pour some salt in my ale? Fill my boots with gelatine? Replace my arrows with breadsticks? That one _was_ quite creative, even by your low standards."

"What do you _want_ , Nathaniel?" Anders turned back to him, fear and anger in his eyes. "If you're planning on beating me up just get on with it. Otherwise, this _really_ isn't a good time."

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed by an infinitesimal amount and he studied Anders's face again until the mage turned away. "I was saying hello, Anders."

Anders's jaw tightened, his back to the rogue. "By telling me in your usual charming way that you're sorry you can't kill me? Fine. _Hello,_ Nathaniel. Now that's out of the way, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me alone."

"No skin off my nose." With a small shrug, Nathaniel picked up his mug and walked towards the tables in the centre of the pub.

"What… what are you doing here, anyway?" Anders called after him, his curiosity—as well as his sense of loneliness—getting the better of him.

Nathaniel took his time to answer, making himself comfortable in his seat and taking a sip of his ale first. "Following the debacle in the Deep Roads, I need to co-ordinate a stronger warden presence in Kirkwall. Which means we'll be seeing a lot more of each other. Won't _that_ be nice?"

Anders finished off the rest of his ale before leaving the tankard on the bar and turning for the door.

"Not staying for another, Anders?" Corff called after him. "It's on the house for you!"

"No, thanks," Anders replied, pushing the door open, feeling Nathaniel's eyes on him. "I've had enough for today."

**The Hawke residence**

"Don't be so greedy, Sister!" Fletcher joked. "I want a hug as well!"

Completely ignoring him, Bethany and Varric continued with their lingering embrace, having been parted for the past few weeks. Fletcher, Fenris and Merrill watched them in amusement, and both men were gladdened to see the smile return to Leandra's face.

Finally, Bethany let go of the dwarf, who bowed low to Leandra and Merrill before shaking Fenris and Fletcher's hands. Varric showed unusual nimbleness for a dwarf when he dodged Fletcher's crushing hug, but the mage didn't persist and instead stood back, fanning his face with his hand.

"You're a bit whiffy," he informed the dwarf. "I'll draw a bath for you."

"I'd appreciate that, Hawke, but if I'm not _too_ repellent to your nose's sensibilities, I believe an offer of refreshments has been made. If there was one thing I missed in the Deep Roads—besides Sunshine, of course—it was Ma Hawke's high tea."

"Fletcher, be a dear and rustle up some sandwiches and cake, would you?" Leandra asked her son.

"Of course, Mother."

"The tea's already made," she said to Varric and Merrill, gesturing to the parlour. "Please go through."

"Oh!" exclaimed Varric, lightly slapping his forehead. "Pardon me, messere, but there's something I need to take care of first. Excuse me."

He walked to the main door of the house with a curious Fletcher following. Varric opened the door and Fletcher stepped outside, crouching next to a large cage, a huge grin lighting up his face.

"Had one of the boys deliver it here," Varric said. "Are you sure your house is big enough to contain _two_ of these things?"

"Oh, I'm sure. Mother!" Fletcher called over his shoulder, "secure the ornaments! Oh, and secure Fenris as well!"

The elf's face dropped like a stone and he began to scurry up the staircase as the cage was opened, allowing Sprinkles entrance into the house. The nug completely ignored Fenris, however, and began investigating several pieces of furniture in the reception hall.

"Ha," muttered Fenris with a relieved smile, coming to a halt on the stairs. "Some things never change. Should I fetch Tufty?"

"I think he's way ahead of you, dear," answered Fletcher, he and Varric stepping back inside as frantic scratching could be heard from one of the bedrooms.

Fenris continued up the stairs and a minute later, Tufty came lolloping down, Fenris not far behind.

The women laughed in delight as the reunited nugs sniffed and danced around each other, but Fletcher frowned when Tufty started to nudge Sprinkles's rump with his snout. "Uh, Fen? Didn't he do that in the Deep Roads, just before—"

"Fletcher!" Fenris exclaimed in horror, moving to block the women's line of sight as Tufty mounted Sprinkles and began merrily humping away.

"What are they doing?" asked Leandra, craning her neck for a better look, her mouth falling open when a high-pitched squeal came from Sprinkles. "Oh," she mumbled. "Good gracious."

"I think they're just playing," Merrill pitched in, doing a double-take when both nugs squealed in unison. "Yes… _playing,"_ she said with a shifty glance at Leandra. _"Definitely_ not having sex. I—I mean, uh… oh, fiddlesticks."

"I'm _sure_ the men will calm them down," Bethany said pointedly as she and Varric practically dragged Leandra away, Merrill bringing up the rear. "They're just excited to see each other."

"I can see that all too clearly, Daughter," Leandra replied.

Once the others were gone, Fletcher and Fenris stopped pretending to separate the nugs, allowing them to properly greet each other. "It _has_ been a while," Fletcher said before wincing when Tufty let out a loud vocalisation, clearly enjoying himself. "Shhh!" he implored in vain.

Fenris nodded upstairs. "We should take them to your room. There, they may do as they please. The water bowl is full, and we can feed them later. They are hardly starved."

"All right," agreed Fletcher. "Any idea how we get them up there?"

"I will bring Tufty's blue rock."

"Good idea!"

Fenris scrambled to his feet and hastened up the stairs, emerging shortly after with the chunk of _Tethracite_. Before Fenris could descend the stairs, both nugs were upon him, tails swishing and snouts twitching. The elf carefully led them into Fletcher's bedroom before shutting them in.

When he stepped back onto the landing, Fletcher was waiting for him.

"Did Merrill discover anything?" the elf whispered, laying a hand on Fletcher's arm when he nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Without you, we wouldn't have known a thing."

"Who?" Fenris asked, his nostrils flaring.

"Bradley, Filbert and Davy. We checked the duty roster and all three went to Quentin's estate. They all expressed… concern and disapproval over your handling of the investigation. Not what I expected at all."

Fenris stared at the floor, holding in a sigh. "Clearly, he has interfered with their memories."

"Clearly."

Fenris then looked up, anxiety in his eyes. "Will this enchantment cause them lasting harm?"

Fletcher shook his head. "No, but the only way we can restore their memories is with blood magic. Same goes for Hunter. Merrill's offered, but I wanted to consult you first."

"That is the only way?"

"I'm afraid so, although it may not be necessary if we can prove Quentin tampered with them. There could be a problem getting close to them again, anyway."

Fenris nodded in understanding. "Aveline."

"She caught me snooping around. I'd say the barracks is off-limits to me for the foreseeable future."

Fenris heaved a sigh, once again looking at the floor. "What do _you_ want to do, Fletcher? She is your mother and Quentin obviously has something to hide… something he does not want the guard to know about."

"I want to get some people together and confront him at his estate." Both men looked up as a loud rap sounded at the main door. "Beth'll get that," Fletcher continued, lowering his voice. "I want Anders and Merrill along, if you're okay with that. We might need them. Now tell me what _you_ want to do. They're your friends."

"I agree."

"About going to Quentin's estate? About bringing Merrill and Anders?"

"Yes and yes."

Fletcher clasped Fenris's shoulders and they watched from the landing as Bethany opened the door, ushering a guard inside.

"Donnic," Fenris said, looking down upon his friend. "You have also returned."

"Well, don't look so thrilled, Fen!" Donnic teased before noticing a doleful look pass between the lovers. "Everything all right?" he asked in concern, wondering if Aveline was aware of everything.

They walked down the stairs together and shook hands with the lieutenant. "Do me a favour, Donnic," Fletcher began. "Go into the parlour, drink tea with my mother and crack some of those jokes of yours."

" _Clean_ ones," added Fenris.

Fletcher nodded. "Yes, clean ones. When Mother takes her nap later, we all need to talk. A lot's been going on," he added heavily.

"So I've heard," Donnic said with a glance at Fenris before crooking his arm. "Mistress Bethany, lead the way, if you'd be so kind."

She walked with him to the parlour, leaving Fenris and Fletcher alone. "I don't want Mother knowing about any of this," Fletcher said. "I'm going to use today to get as many people together as possible and tonight we'll take her to the Hanged Man for a night out. It might the last time she'll enjoy herself for a while."

Fenris gave a soft grunt. "I would not usually advocate keeping secrets, as you know. On this occasion, however, I believe it to be prudent for the sake of your mother's well-being. You have my full support."

"I know that," Fletcher said with a sigh, "but what about your job? You're already on thin ice with Aveline. I _would_ ask you to stay out of this but I know I'd be wasting my breath."

"Yes, you would." Fenris looked at the door to the parlour before turning back to Fletcher. "I cannot deny that I enjoy my position in the guard and that, were it taken from me, I would miss it. But its importance pales when compared with the safety of your family— _our_ family. Discussing this further is pointless. My mind is set."

"All right. Thank you." Fletcher kissed the elf's forehead and they stood together in a loose embrace for a short time before separating. "Ready?" Fletcher asked Fenris, who nodded. "Come on, then. Let's get that cake and pretend everything's all right for a bit."


	104. Not One More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They're laughing! They're only bloody laughing, both of 'em! Look!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere thanks to all who leave comments, kudos or who are just lurking. Knowing that even one person enjoys the story makes me do a happy dance! :)

** The Hanged Man **

"I'll stay for a couple of drinks then I'll get up to the barracks," Donnic said, taking Fletcher aside. "After what you told me, Aveline's bound to…" He sighed. "At least I _hope_ she'll be on board."

"I appreciate you trying," replied Fletcher, "but you need to understand that I intend to call on Quentin whether the city guard approves or not."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Donnic whispered, and both men gave a bland smile as Varric, Merrill and Leandra walked past, the dwarf pulling out a chair for the older woman. "Give me some time, okay?" resumed Donnic.

"I don't have time. I need to do this tonight."

"Do what? Do you actually know what you're going to do once you're there?"

"I… no, I don't." Fletcher glanced at Bethany, who'd joined her mother, Merrill and Varric at their table, and lowered his voice. "What I _do_ know is that every guard who's visited Quentin's estate recently has either been stripped of their memories courtesy of a confirmed blood mage, or is missing. _Quentin_ is a confirmed blood mage. He's involved with my mother, plus he took an unhealthy interest in Fenris's markings when they met."

Donnic frowned in confusion. "What have his markings got to do with anything?"

"Quentin's studying a connection between non-magi and the Fade. Without going into too much detail, he'd find Fenris a very interesting test subject." Noticing Donnic's frown deepen, he rolled his eyes. "Just take my word on this, okay? I have to do _something!_ I keep getting this horrible feeling, like panic, like—like time's running out. Something's coming, I just don't know what."

Donnic lightly slapped Fletcher's back. "All right, all right. This is what I'll do. I'll talk to Aveline but the case has been closed now, and it won't be easy. If she won't act, then you can count on _my_ support. Fenris has more or less lost his job, but I don't want him ending up in gaol as well—you, either. I won't have you doing this without a guard present."

Fletcher shook his head. "I don't want you risking _your_ job too. Not to mention Aveline's wrath."

"Aveline's a bloody good guard-captain."

"I know that, Donnic."

"I'm just saying, she's acting according to her conscience—she won't have _anything_ bringing the name of the guard into disrepute, not after Jeven's shenanigans. Well, I have my _own_ conscience and I'm acting accordingly. If Aveline can't do anything, I will."

Fletcher gave a soft sigh. "But what about you and Aveline? What about your job?"

"I'm hoping—after she's kicked my arse from here to Nevarra—that she'll understand and that there'll still _be_ a 'me and her'. As for my job, well, some things are more important. Maybe she'll put all three of us in the same cell, eh? I promise to look the other way when you and Fenris want 'private time'," he joked.

Fletcher looked at the sawdust-covered floor, shaking his head.

"We'll work something out," Donnic reassured him.

"You're a true friend. Thank you." Fletcher offered his hand to the guard, who shook it.

"All figured out?" asked Varric, who'd left his table and sidled up to the pair.

"Tonight," Donnic confirmed with a nod. "I'll slip out in a bit. One way or another, you'll have city guard support."

"Well, don't leave just yet. I just introduced our two horses," Varric said with a nod at the table next to his, where Nathaniel and Fenris were seated. "Remember what I said—Chuckles by a nose. Who's your money on, Hawke?"

"Uh, I'm sitting this one out," he replied, hands held up.

"Coward," Donnic teased. "Come on, I'm backing Fenners all the way. Can we put you down for a sovereign? Half the pub's taken a punt. I believe even your mother and sister have put a few silver down."

"On Broody, of course," Varric provided with a sly grin.

Fletcher looked around, noticing several pairs of eyes on the unwitting Brood-Off competitors. "Thanks, but if Fenris found out, my life wouldn't be worth living. I think we all know who my money would be on."

"Shh! They're saying something!" Varric hissed, straining to hear.

"You _are_ aware that we're participating in a 'Brood-Off', aren't you?" Nathaniel mumbled to Fenris, so quietly, only the elf could hear him.

"A what?"

"Don't react to what I'm saying," advised the warden. "That's the whole point. They've pitted us against one another and have wagered on who'll crack first."

Fenris took a sip of wine, carefully placing his goblet down and betraying no emotion. "Crack? Meaning what, exactly?"

"They planned the entire thing in the Deep Roads when they thought I wasn't around. Varric stands to make a lot of money out of us two tonight. Apparently, whichever of us laughs or shows any sign of animation first, forfeits."

"Of course," replied the elf with a soft groan, completely unsurprised by Varric's latest stunt. "And has a time limit been imposed upon this orgy of vacuity?"

"Not to my knowledge. I don't believe they planned that far ahead."

Green eyes met grey ones, and an unspoken understanding passed between the two men. "Then let us not disappoint our audience," said Fenris. "They have paid well for this eve's entertainment. They expect us to brood, and brood we shall."

Nathaniel gave a small nod. "Precisely my thoughts."

Sitting back in their chairs, each took a drink from their vessels, and said not one more word.

"Hoy, Varric!" hollered a disgruntled spectator. "What d'you call this, then? You said this wuz gunna be a bleedin' riot! All they're doing's ignoring each other!"

Varric fingered his collar, giving a slightly nervous laugh as the pub's clientele turned its collective gaze on him. "Uh, hey, fellas?" he called to the taciturn pair. "What're you drinking there?"

"Usual," uttered Fenris in abject boredom.

"Ale," was Nathaniel's succinct answer.

"Right!" Varric sang, his eyes moving shiftily. "And how are they? Tasty? Delicious? Make you want to _smile_ or _laugh_? What do you think of the Hanged Man's finest?"

Nathaniel eyed the contents of his vessel dispassionately. "Insipid."

"Flat," Fenris joined in.

"Rather like the conversation," Fletcher observed, the first hints of a smile that day gracing his face.

"I think someone's on to you, Varric," Leandra remarked in amusement from her table.

"No shh—uh, yeah," the dwarf grumbled. "I believe you may have deduced correctly, Ma Hawke."

"I'm still 'ere, y'know!" the irate punter interrupted, elbowing Varric's arm. "You promised us this'd be a laugh! I want my sovereign back!"

Before the man's contemporaries offered their own opinions, Varric tutted, fixing the complainant with an impatient look. "Weren't you listening when I explained the part about audience participation?"

"Eh? Audience what now?"

Varric gave a melodramatic sigh. "Okay, I'll explain it _again._ It's up to you— _all_ of you—to make one of them laugh."

"Or angry," a mischievous Bethany piped up.

"Sunshine!" Varric hissed through gritted teeth, lightly kicking her chair. "Not _angry_ , just annoyed, maybe. Nothing that'll incite violence," he said to the surrounding punters before lowering his voice. "Wouldn't want to be caught in the middle if _those_ two got rowdy. It's always the quiet ones."

"You have no idea," Fletcher said, smiling again when he caught Fenris's eye. The elf acknowledged him, but did not return his smile, already in character.

"Make 'em laugh, eh?" One of the punters positioned himself in front of Fenris and Nathaniel's table, where he proceeded to impersonate an ape, with arm and leg movements as well as sound effects. "Oowawawawawa!"

"I was in error, Nathaniel," Fenris drawled to his rival, his eyes half-closed. "It would seem _we_ are the ones being… 'entertained'."

"So you admit you're enjoying this, then?" challenged the warden as a queue formed behind the ape impersonator.

Fenris paused as he raised his goblet to his mouth. "I'm doing nothing of the kind."

"It would appear the elf doth protest too much."

"Careful," Fenris warned the rogue as the next entertainer took his turn. "You almost displayed animation, then."

Nathaniel watched the man in front of their table, who licked his palm before placing it in his armpit, flapping his arm to produce sounds of flatulence and raising his leg for added impact. "At this bilge?" he scoffed. "You most certainly are in error, friend."

"Next!" Fenris ordered, and the assembled Hawke family laughed along with Donnic.

"Now _this_ is a Brood-Off!" declared Varric loudly, wiping his brow in relief. "What'd I tell you? Hey, Nora! How about a song?"

The barmaid eagerly obliged, launching into a bawdy ditty about a dwarf, a qunari and a bucket of tallow. This proved tricky for the competitors, whose inbuilt sense of gallantry prevented them from rudely dismissing Nora's efforts. When the song ended, and surrounded by laughter, they broke into polite applause—both at the exact same time.

A hush fell over the lounge and all eyes turned to Corff, who'd been appointed Arbiter of Animation. He shrugged, unable to call it.

The next act was an inebriated gentleman who juggled beer mats—badly—but, undaunted by his ineptitude, he moved on to tankards. Full ones.

Laughter erupted around the lounge as the liberated ale sloshed over its occupants, but Nathaniel and Fenris remained unmoved. They slowly turned to each other, both shaking their heads.

"Hawke!" Varric said in excitement/desperation, nudging Fletcher forward. "Go take your turn!"

"Oh, no you don't, Tethras," commanded Donnic, body-blocking the mage. "Hawke's the only man in Thedas who can make my horse laugh out loud. I call swindling!"

"You swindling sod! It's a fix!" one of the pub's denizens yelled, and poor Varric was pelted with stale crusts of bread, beer mats and pork scratchings. He scampered into a corner and just before the crowd was upon him, Corff shouted above the commotion.

"They're laughing! They're only bloody laughing, both of 'em! Look!"

Sure enough, the competitors were highly amused by Varric's downfall. Although Nathaniel wasn't exactly _laughing_ , he had definitely 'cracked', as a genuine, if closed smile, warmed his pale face. Fenris, on the other hand, had turned pink, his svelte frame quaking with quiet laughter—a sight many in the Hanged Man had never witnessed before.

"Who was first?" demanded Corff, addressing Leandra and Bethany, who had a direct view of proceedings.

"We shall never tell, good purveyor of ales," a mellow Leandra answered.

Bethany nodded in support of her mother. "We'll take it to the grave with us."

"It was I," Fenris confessed dramatically, rising to his feet with a flourish. "I am not ashamed. I was bested by a true master of self-possession." He bowed to Nathaniel and turned a crafty eye to Varric, who was sulking in the corner. "Although I see only one who is _brooding,_ surely a prerequisite in a contest of this nature _._ A challenger to the newly-anointed champion, perhaps?"

"That's odd," Bethany commented as the elf returned to his seat, accompanied by cheers and jeers. "I'm certain Nathaniel laughed first."

"You are mistaken, Sister," said Fenris, a giveaway glint in his eyes as he shook his head mournfully. "How I wish it were not so. Varric must be distraught. He bet on Nathaniel."

"Swindler!" Leandra teased in a low voice, wagging a finger, and Fenris smiled, raising his goblet to the Hawke matriarch.

"I am no match for your keen eye, madam."

"Bravo," said Nathaniel, reaching for the elf's hand. "I'll warrant Varric will think twice before attempting to outwit you again."

Fenris shook Nathaniel's hand, his eyes still on the neighbouring table. "Bethany? Do you intend to expose this deception?"

"Not in front of this lot, no," she answered. "I won't keep the truth from my dear Varric, though," she threatened before a smile appeared. "I'll tell him… in a month or two."

Fenris dipped his head and then turned his attention to Leandra, who was stifling a yawn.

"Goodness," she mumbled. "I am tired all of a sudden. Must be the ale."

"Allow me to escort you home," offered Fenris, standing and moving to Leandra's table.

She stood up, smiling at the elf. "You are kind. I wonder if Fletcher's ready to leave? And Beth? Will you be staying here?"

"Just for a little while, Mother, I think Varric's ego is in need of soothing." She also rose, and Fletcher walked up to them.

"What's happening?" he asked. "Are you leaving?"

"Fenris has offered to walk me home," said Leandra.

"Oh, okay. I just have a couple of things to do here and I'll follow in a few minutes," he said, taking Fenris to one side. "Be careful, all right? Stick to where the patrols can see you. No back alleys."

Fenris crossed his arms. "Fletcher…"

"I know, I know." He glanced around. "Donnic's going to call on Aveline, see if he can persuade her to help, but if she can't, he's with us. We're going soon, before it gets dark."

Fenris gave a single nod. "Understood."

"Hey," Fletcher whispered, "you don't know how happy it makes me to see you holding court in a packed pub. You're the magnanimous loser of a brooding contest. Not so long ago, you'd have won hands-down."

"Actually, I did win," confessed the elf, "but only just."

"Then why did—"

"I had my reasons."

Fletcher shook his head in mock disapproval. "I'm very disappointed with you. _Very_. Except I'm not." Fenris waggled his eyebrows, and Fletcher laughed. "I love it when you do that."

"Yes, I know." Fenris cleared his throat, tamping down his smile. "Your mother is waiting. I'll meet you at the house?"

"All right," agreed Fletcher. "I'll be right behind you. Love you."

"And I, you." Fenris watched as Fletcher joined Donnic to finalise their plan, and became aware of someone else standing at his side. He turned, finding Nathaniel behind him.

"I can see something's afoot here," observed the shrewd warden. "Do you require aid? I find myself at a loose end."

Not wanting an outsider risking themselves, Fenris briefly considered denying that anything was 'afoot', but Nathaniel's probing gaze told him that would be futile. He gave a small bow. "I am humbled by your offer, but it is a personal matter and its conclusion is imminent."

Nathaniel studied the elf for a moment before nodding. "Be careful."

"Thank you. I shall." They shook hands again as Leandra approached. Nathaniel bowed to them both and wished them a pleasant evening before slipping out.

Shortly after—although longer after than the 'few minutes' Fletcher had planned on—he, Donnic and Merrill left the Hanged Man together, their respective roles in their plan decided.

The sounds of laughter, music and merrymaking died away as the threesome made for central Lowtown. Soon, there were very few other people around besides the occasional beggar or prostitute. It was late, much later than they'd realised, and Donnic, although not on duty, unsheathed his sword and walked ahead of the mages.

"Wait here a minute," he instructed them just before they reached the steps leading to Hightown.

"What is it?" asked Fletcher in a low tone, glancing over his shoulder.

"Probably nothing. It's just a bit too quiet for my liking," he muttered, walking past some closed market stalls. "Stay out of sight."

"Be careful!" Merrill whispered as Donnic disappeared from view.

"He's just doing his job," Fletcher reassured her, but remained watchful.

After a minute or two, the guardsman returned, sheathing his sword. "Looks like it's clear. Sorry to have worried you. You can't be too careful."

"That's quite all right," said Merrill, walking alongside Donnic as they continued on. "Nice to know we're safe with you. Where's Haw—"

"Aaagh!" Fletcher screamed, dropping to his knees and clutching his upper arm, an arrow protruding from it. "Bastard! _Bastard!"_

In a flash, Donnic bundled Merrill behind a stall, shushing her protestations. "Stay here!" he commanded. "Keep an eye on Hawke!"

"I can't heal!" she wailed, but Donnic was gone. "Hawke!" she cried, rushing to her friend's side. "Just stay calm! Tell me what to do!"

"Don't touch it!" he snapped, and she leapt back, afraid of hurting him. "I'm sorry," he panted, gnashing his teeth against the agonizing jolts that surged down his arm. "Help me up?" he asked, and she slung an arm around his waist, assisting him to stand. "Over there," he said, nodding to the stall Donnic had tried to hide Merrill behind.

"Hold on," she mumbled, "I just saw something. Be right back! Stay there!"

"Merrill! Come back!" He watched her vanish into the shadows of the market. "Shit!" He hung back, knowing that he'd be useless to them both, but his overactive imagination conjured an entire army of archers ensconced along the rooftops, ready to turn Donnic and Merrill into pincushions.

And Mother… Fenris… had they arrived home safely?

"Shit!" He lurched out of his hiding place, but froze when he heard the sounds of a struggle, along with raised voices.

"Come here, you little bugger!" Donnic bellowed.

"I have him," announced a calmer voice, and Fletcher listened carefully.

"No, don't hurt him!" pleaded Merrill. "He's only a boy! Oh… oh, no."

"What? What's the matter?" demanded the guard.

"Hawke! Where are you?" Merrill called out. "I need to talk to you! Are you all right?"

"Hold on!" Fletcher began walking in the direction of the voices, his hand clamped on his opposite arm, which was held stiffly at his side.

He emerged onto the main market square, utterly confounded by the sight that met him. Donnic and Merrill were walking up to Nathaniel, who was holding a young man, clutching a longbow, by the scruff of his collar.

" _Walter?"_ Fletcher exclaimed.

"You know him?" asked Donnic.

Fletcher moved closer to Walter, who stared back at him with dead eyes. "Walter?" He snapped his fingers in front of the youth's face, getting no response. "What's going on here?"

"I saw him lurking about," said Nathaniel. "It occurred to me that he was not old, or doughty, enough to be skilled with a bow such as this, so I followed him to see what he was about, fearing he might harm himself. Alas, I was too late to prevent him from striking you. My apologies, Messere Hawke. May I?" he asked, pointing to Fletcher's arm.

Fletcher nodded his assent, and Donnic took hold of the boy while Nathaniel examined the wound.

"Hawke," Merrill began, dread in her voice. "Walter's been touched by blood magic. _Recently_."

" _What?"_ Fletcher whispered, barely believing what he was hearing. "Walter," he said softly, and the young man jumped. "Did someone tell you to kill me? Was it a mage? Answer me!"

"No, not kill you," mumbled Walter, his expression blank. "Just… just delay you." He looked down at the bow in his hand, which he let fall to the ground, and looked back up at Fletcher's arm, terror in his eyes. "What… what have I done?"

"What do you mean by 'delay'?" demanded Donnic, grabbing Walter by the shoulders. "Delay him from what?"

Fletcher's head snapped around towards Hightown, his face drained of blood. "Mother! Fenris! He's got them! That bastard's got them!"

"Stay here!" Donnic barked. "All of you! I'm going to round up some guards! I'll send help to you!" He ran off, but Fletcher had no intention of obeying him. He attempted to shrug off Nathaniel, but the rogue kept a tight grip on him.

"Hold still!" Nathaniel hissed.

"My mother and partner are in danger! I can't stay here! Please, let go of me!"

"And if you wish to save them, you'll need to be patched up. You cannot hope to help them in your current state. Do you understand?"

Fletcher sighed, his face contorting with frustration. "Okay, but whatever you're going to do, make it quick! Please!"

"Stay very still." Nathaniel grasped the arrow by its shaft with both hands and snapped it off, leaving the head embedded in Fletcher's arm. "This is a hunting arrow," he declared in a grave tone. "Do _not_ attempt to remove the head. You're a mage, aren't you? Can you stem the bleeding without closing the wound?"

Fletcher nodded, his clammy face pinched with pain. He laid his free hand over the site of the wound, a pale light emanating from his arm as he sent healing energy into it.

"Don't close it completely," warned Nathaniel, unbuckling a thin length of leather from his tunic, which he used as a makeshift sling for Fletcher's arm. "It doesn't look as though poison has been used, thankfully. If it had, you'd be feeling the effects by now."

"Thank you," Fletcher said as the warden finally released him. "I appreciate everything you've done, but I _have_ to go."

Spotting a guard striding towards them, Nathaniel nodded. "Seek me out once you've finished what you're doing—I've dealt with this kind of injury before and you'll need skilled hands as well as magic. For now, I'll scout ahead to ensure no-one else lies in wait. Stick to the main thoroughfare."

"No," Fletcher argued. "Stay with them!"

"It's not us he's after," Merrill said. "Go with him, _please_ , Hawke."

"All right, then," Fletcher agreed as the guard arrived and Nathaniel melted into the shadows. "At least I know you two are safe now."

"Miss, I'm Guardsman Macleod. I'm to escort the three of you back to the Hanged Man."

"Just those two," breathed Fletcher, hurriedly moving away. "Merrill, reverse that spell on Walter if you can! Find out who did this and why!"

** The Hawke residence, shortly after **

Donnic and four of the guards he'd commandeered along his path stood in the square in front of Hawke's house. He'd already sent a further three to search the rear of the property and surrounding area. "One of you get yourself to the barracks, quick. I want the captain, Samuel Verus _and_ that templar who follows him around, as well as anyone who's free and rested. We're going to need horses as well."

"Right away, Lieutenant!" One of the guards took off, and Donnic led the remaining two to the door of the house.

"Standard search pattern," he began, readying his sword. "It's likely that anyone who was here is long gone, but be ready for anything." He tried the door. "Unlocked," he stated tersely, nudging it open.

They stepped inside, finding the reception hall deserted, but the wall torches were lit, indicating that someone was, or had been, at home. There were no signs of disturbance. Donnic nodded to his left and right, sending his colleagues off to begin their search. He took the main staircase, pushing open the first door on the landing—Leandra's bedroom—with his sword.

Finding nothing untoward, he proceeded to the next room, and the next, his gut feeling that they were wasting their time intensifying, but this was an essential first step. As he turned to search the remaining two rooms on the upper level, he heard an exclamation from the direction of the parlour.

"Donnic! Get down here now!" yelled one of the guards, forgetting rank for a moment.

His gut churning, Donnic raced along the landing and took the stairs two at a time, several thoughts racing through his head, each more awful than the last. Was it Ma Hawke? Fenris? Would he have to tell Hawke that one of his beloved were dead?

For one, terrible second, Donnic prayed it wasn't Fenris. But that would mean it was…

He growled, angrily dismissing his thoughts, and went into the parlour, stopping in his tracks when he found his colleague helping Aveline—who was on the floor—to sit up.

"What in the Void are _you_ doing here?" he exclaimed, rushing to her side, relieved and concerned all at once.

"Lying flat on my arse, by the looks of it."

"Last two rooms on the top floor," Donnic ordered his subordinate, who took off as he knelt next to the captain. "What happened?" he asked gently, examining her head for signs of injury. "How did you know?"

"Know what?" she asked in confusion, clutching the back of her head.

"Yes, you've got a nasty gash there. Don't touch it. Just tell me what you were doing here."

She laughed briefly, looking abashed. "I came to see Leandra, just for a chat. I, uh, wanted some advice."

He cocked his head. "About?"

"Never mind." She gasped, then, and scanned the room. "Where are they? Donnic, we've got to find them!"

"We are. I need you to _calm down_ and tell me what happened. Now, Aveline."

She sighed. "All right. As I said, I came here to see Leandra, but she wasn't home. As I was turning to leave, she and Fenris appeared. They'd been to the Hanged Man… you know all this, don't you? We went inside, Leandra made tea as she always does, and Fenris went off and did his own thing somewhere in the house. After a little while, there was a noise from outside, and Fenris went to the front door to investigate."

She shook her head, looking worried. "Then I heard a scream… it was Fenris, Donnic, he was… _screaming._ I shut Leandra in here and ran to the door, and then… then… I don't know. I felt something come up behind me. They must have caught me across the back of the head."

"And that happened where? Outside?"

"No, in the hall." She looked around the room. "How did I end up in here?"

He wrapped his arms around her waist and helped her to stand. "Hawke was attacked in Lowtown."

"What? How badly?"

"He was shot in the arm but I'm sure he's on his way up here. It looks like everything's been done to delay or distract us. I'm assuming that's why you were moved in here. That way, we wouldn't clap eyes on you as soon as we entered. Either that, or there's more than one person involved here." He clutched her face, looking into her eyes. "Your pupils look okay… how are you feeling?"

"Besides pissed off? Stupid? Ready to snap someone's neck?"

"You sound all right to me, then."

At that moment, the guards Donnic had sent to sweep the mansion returned. "It's clear, Lieutenant," one of them reported from the doorway. "Are you all right, Captain?"

"What do we know?" she asked, wasting no time on fussing.

"Short version," Donnic began. "Fenris and Hawke have been—"

"Conducting their own investigation. So I gathered. What did they find?"

"Okay. A blood mage who they _suspect_ is Quentin has been systematically enchanting the guards who investigated Quentin's premises."

"Get to the point," she said impatiently.

Donnic drew a breath, knowing her curtness was born of fear and guilt. "In a nutshell, all those missing women—as well as the templar, Emeric—were killed by a blood mage. Everyone who's been sent to investigate has rubbished Fenris while defending Quentin. Merrill found proof that those very guards have had blood magic used on them in the last day or so, as had the youth who attacked Hawke. Quentin confessed to Hawke that he was a blood mage a couple of days ago and has since gone to ground."

"Why didn't he use blood magic on me?"

"We still don't know that he didn't, Captain," Donnic replied. "It could be that he panicked, hit you over the head and ran. As you're not defending Quentin, or insisting Fenris should be sacked, I'm guessing he didn't have time."

"Bradley," she breathed. "Brennan… I _knew_ something was wrong, I had a feeling in my gut but I didn't… why didn't I listen to Fenris? To Hawke?" She pushed away from Donnic and started to pace. "How could I have been so wrong? This might have cost them… Maker!"

"Aveline, _listen_ to me." Donnic clasped her arms and forced her to look him in the eye. "They didn't have enough proof. Not until now. Jeven used to send us after anyone who looked at him cock-eyed in the street, but Aveline Vallen doesn't do that because she's incorruptible. Aveline Vallen doesn't—won't—act without proof. That's how it _should_ be. What matters is what you do _now."_

One of the guards in the doorway drew his sword and held a finger to his lips. "Someone at the door. I can hear rattling."

Donnic went with him, and they met Fletcher as he entered the house, along with Varric, Merrill and Bethany, who'd caught up with him, as well as Nathaniel, who'd ensured the way was clear.

The guards sheathed their swords and Donnic quickly explained the situation to the newcomers.

"I managed to get a bit out of Walter," Merrill said, "but he's very shaken, poor lamb. He told me a man in his fifties gave him the bow and said that Hawke was planning on killing him. The man told Walter that he needed to strike first, and that Hawke was in the Hanged Man."

"The physical description Walter gave is Quentin to a T," an agitated Fletcher interjected. "Why are we still standing here?"

"I want to say one more thing," Merrill continued. "He—Quentin—told Walter he mustn't actually _kill_ Hawke, because they'd hang him if he did that. He only told Walter to injure Hawke. _Delay_ him."

"I don't get it," mumbled Donnic. "Why wouldn't he want Hawke out of the way if the plan was to kidnap Leandra or Fenris?"

Fletcher huffed. "Does it bloody matter? Mother and… Fenris… I—I feel sick. _Why_ did I let them leave? Together! Why am I so fucking _stupid?"_ He turned away from them, unable to hide the fact he was close to tears. Bethany moved to his side, and the frightened siblings embraced.

"This isn't your fault, Hawke," Donnic said. "If it weren't for you and Fenris, we wouldn't even know who we were looking for. I hate to say it, but it sounds like he's been planning this for a while." 

"Donnic," Aveline began, "get to the barracks—"

"Already done, Captain. I've sent for Sam and Menzies, and as many men and horses as we can spare."

She nodded and resumed pacing. "Good job. One of you, find the templar patrol. They want to get involved in guard business so much, they can lend a hand now. Tell them it's a blood mage—that'll get their attention. When you return, stay here, guard the house and liaise with anyone we've brought into this."

"On it, Captain." With a swift bow, one of the guards departed.

"I'd like to help, if I can be of use," offered Nathaniel, stepping forward.

"You," Aveline muttered in surprise. "All right, I won't look a gift horse in the mouth. I thought wardens didn't get involved in other people's affairs, though?"

"This is clearly not a political dispute," answered the rogue. "I have no quarrel with blood mages in principle, but I do have a quarrel with those who abduct innocents. I stand ready to assist in whatever capacity you see fit."

Merrill moved in front of him. "If you don't have a problem with blood mages, you can come with me. I'm a blood mage. I can see things the others can't. Quentin might have placed magical defences that even Bethany and Fletcher can't see. We can go ahead of the others."

"I am your servant," he replied with a sweeping bow. "Provided this meets with the captain's approval?"

"Well, yes, of course it does," Aveline answered. "Obviously. All right, you two can go ahead when we're ready."

"We're ready now," Fletcher stated. "I'm very grateful for your help, all of you, but every second we waste here could be vital to Fenris and Mother! He could be doing anything to them!" He sighed as Bethany wiped her eyes.

"I agree, some of us can set out now," the captain replied, "but you're going nowhere with your arm like that, Hawke."

He released Bethany and strode over to Aveline, his expression hard. "Like you're going nowhere with that dint on the back of your head? Do you really think I'm just going to _sit_ here? Could _you_ just sit here? Are you mad?"

"We're going," Bethany said in a steely tone. " _Both_ of us."

Aveline gave a soft sigh, her eyes meeting Fletcher's. "Nathaniel, Merrill, I'd like you to begin scouting immediately. Donnic will give you directions. He'll tail you both along with a small number of guards. We'll catch up when we have some horses and more bodies."

"We're going, too," Fletcher insisted, moving to Donnic's side along with Bethany.

"Count me in," said Varric, joining them.

Aveline nodded, knowing arguing would be useless. "Hawke," she said as the group went to the door, and he turned around. "He will _not_ have them. We've lost enough already. We will not lose _one_ more, do you hear me?"

He held her gaze for a few seconds. "Not one more." Then, with a solemn nod, he turned and left with the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the unenlightened, pork scratchings are the UK equivalent of pork rinds, and are a very popular snack food over here, best enjoyed with beer. :)


	105. Hubris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I must warn you all—what you will find within is not for the faint of heart. Perhaps… perhaps the ladies should wait here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long A/N but I wanted to share some fanart two wonderful artists have produced, inspired by PAAA!
> 
> The first is based on the ending of chapter 44, 'Solace', by Deviantartist elainevdw: http://elainevdw.deviantart.com/art/Solace-455633571
> 
> The second is by Tumblr blogger chesttoupee, inspired by Beth and Varric: http://chesttoupee.tumblr.com/post/86712735150/ive-been-infatuated-with-this-fanfic-for-a-while
> 
> Thank you both! ^_^
> 
> Also a note to Colhan the Deviant: You said I'd do it one day--this is the first chapter of PAAA to exceed 10,000 words! :O
> 
> Last, but not least, an enormous THANK YOU to CCBug for trawling through this behemoth of a chapter. I wouldn't be confident enough to publish without you, and I appreciate everything you do. :)

** Grounds of Quentin's estate **

"There it is." Donnic nodded ahead towards the house, visible only because of the moon, which cast a pallid light over the surrounding woodland and was reflected in the windows on the upper level.

Nathaniel and Merrill had scouted ahead but, under Donnic's instructions, the pair had waited once they'd reached the grounds, and now eight people—Donnic plus two guards, Fletcher, Bethany, Varric, Nathaniel and Merrill—crouched in the undergrowth while they awaited Aveline and her reinforcements.

"Still nothing, Merrill?" Donnic asked.

She shook her head. "I haven't been able to detect anything. I don't think he was expecting anyone."

"Let's hope so," whispered Donnic. "How about you, Bethany? Hawke?"

"I can't detect any wards around here," Fletcher's sister answered. "It's entirely possible there'll be some inside, though, so we should still be cautious."

"We will." Donnic watched Fletcher for a moment, waiting for an answer. "Hawke?" he prompted. "Anything?"

"Hm? No, nothing," replied Fletcher, who was staring at the house, occasionally wincing.

"How's the arm?" Varric asked.

"Fine," said Fletcher, his voice unsteady as he turned to Donnic. "It's fine. Can we go in now?"

Bethany frowned in concern, knowing her brother was in severe pain and that the long trek to Quentin's estate had further weakened him. Still, no one had dared suggest he turn back or stop to rest—they knew him too well for that, and also considered how they'd feel if they were in his shoes.

Donnic considered Fletcher's plea as he joined the mage in watching the house. Aveline had told him that, once the grounds had been scouted, they were to sit tight and wait for reinforcements. However, he knew that every second they wasted here could endanger Fenris and Leandra's lives. He could live with Aveline being pissed off with him—even with getting the sack for insubordination—but he'd never forgive himself if anything happened to them because he'd hesitated now.

"Watkins," he said to one of the two guards that had accompanied them, "I want you and Nathaniel to wait on the road for Aveline. Tell her we've gone ahead and entered the premises. I'm not sending anyone round the back—we're staying together."

"Right you are," she whispered back, Nathaniel returning her nod as they turned and headed away from the larger group.

"Let's go," ordered Donnic, staying by Fletcher's side as they made their way to the main door of the house. "Have you got anything that'll help with the pain?" he asked the mage, who was sweating profusely.

Fletcher sighed. "No, I didn't bring a thing with me. I wasn't thinking straight at the time."

"Well, Aveline's sent for the Viscount's healer, Samuel. He's bound to have something. Just hang in there."

Fletcher gulped and wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Thanks."

They reached the door and Donnic tried the handle, not surprised to find it locked. "Varric, see what you can do with this."

"Sure thing." The dwarf walked forward, cracked his knuckles and opened a small pouch around his waist, producing his lock-picking tools, while Donnic and Guardsman Reilly lit the spare torches they'd brought with them, handing one to each person.

"Looks like the place is in darkness," Donnic told the Hawke siblings. "You need to prepare yourselves for the possibility that Quentin isn't here. I'm going to need you to stay calm while we conduct a thorough search. We can't rush this."

Fletcher nodded and wrapped his good arm around Bethany's shoulders. "Promise. Just… please, do it as quickly as you can."

"We'll find them," the lieutenant assured him. "How's that lock, Varric?"

"Piece of cake," boasted the dwarf before cursing as his lock pick snapped in half. "Damn it," he muttered, taking another out. "Just give me a second, here. I almost had it."

A few members of the party glanced over their shoulders while they waited for Varric to gain entry to the mansion. Outside the sphere of the light of their torches, the estate was in complete darkness, and the night was eerily quiet. Feeling increasingly apprehensive, one or two of them nervously cleared their throats, while others turned their back on the darkness of the surrounding woods, pretending it wasn't there and ensuring their vision was filed with torchlight.

"Varric," Bethany said impatiently.

A click was heard and Varric stepped back from the door. "It's open," he declared, his tone more sombre than it had been a few minutes earlier.

Donnic released a pent-up breath and beckoned Reilly to his side, both unsheathing their swords. "Varric, Hawke, you're bringing up the rear. _No_ arguments, Hawke. Bethany, in front of them. Merrill, you're with us. When we enter, you'll close the door, Hawke, and you and Varric will stay next to it. Keep Bianca handy."

They moved to their new positions without fuss, Bethany ensuring her brother was all right before turning back to the door.

The two guards wordlessly pushed the door open while Bianca's gears creaked into place as Varric nocked a bolt in readiness, training it on the blackness within the house.

Once inside, they spread out and lit some wall torches while Fletcher closed the door, staying close to Varric. He briefly thought of Fenris and how often the elf had warned him about being reckless. For once, Fletcher had decided to take his beloved's advice, not wanting to jeopardise Fenris's or Leandra's safety.

Once lit up, the mansion's vestibule and staircase were revealed to be grand, if otherwise unremarkable. Fletcher had half-expected to find an altar and human sacrifices within, but this was just… ordinary. Varric kept Bianca ready, though, in case something slipped out of the shadows on the upper level of the house.

"Quentin!" Donnic called loudly, his voice reverberating around the vestibule. "This is the Kirkwall guard! The templars are on their way and soon your property will be surrounded! You've got one chance to announce yourself!"

There was no reply, and Fletcher stepped forward, about to speak, but was stopped by a look from Donnic.

"We're here for Fenris and Leandra Hawke," the lieutenant went on. "Return them to us, unharmed, and you _might_ get out of this alive. I'll take your continued silence as a refusal to co-operate. Announce yourself. _Now_."

Fletcher and Bethany exchanged a fretful look when silence continued to answer them.

"Wait," said Reilly, holding up a hand and walking to a door beneath the double staircase. He stopped and listened for a moment before beckoning Donnic to him. Both men pressed their ears to the door while the others looked on, wondering what was going on. The guards held a quiet conversation and Reilly tried the door, which was open. "Who's down there?" he demanded.

"Who—who's that?" a muffled male voice asked from below.

"Is that Quentin's voice?" Donnic asked Fletcher, who shook his head.

"Is it Briggs?"

"No." Donnic pulled the door fully open, revealing a further staircase leading down. "Who are you?"

"Tell me your name first!" the man answered, sounding panicked.

"I'm Lieutenant Hendyr of the Kirkwall guard. Now tell me—"

"The guard?" The man's voice wavered, and he sounded close to tears. "Oh, thank the Maker! Thank you! Thank you! I thought I'd be stuck down here forever! Please, let me out of here!"

"Merrill, Bethany." Donnic beckoned the ladies close. "Is there anything down there we need to be worried about?"

Both shook their heads. "There's nothing at all," said Bethany. "No signs of mana discharge or any magic having been used for a while."

"No blood magic, either," Merrill confirmed.

"Are there templars up there?" the imprisoned man called anxiously. "Why are you discussing magic?"

"There are no templars here," Donnic replied, deliberately leaving out 'yet'. "Now tell us who you are."

"My-my name is Edmund. I'm… an apostate. Please, let me out of here and I'll tell you everything. I just… it's so dark in here, and things keep _touching_ me! I think they're rats, but I don't know! There's someone else down here with me as well, and he needs help. I was talking to him, but he's stopped answering me."

"If he needs help, couldn't you have healed him?" Bethany questioned.

"I'm not a healer!" he cried in exasperation. "Why aren't you helping us? I don't think he's injured but we've been deprived of food and water! What are you waiting for? Look, if you're templars I don't even care anymore! Just get us out of here! What's wrong with you?"

Donnic nodded at Reilly and instructed the others to wait while they descended the steps. Finding another locked door at the bottom, he called Varric, who successfully picked the lock.

The door opened out into a large storage room, full of dusty crates and cobwebs. Once the room was filled with torchlight a tall, thin, dark-haired man immediately scrambled to his feet, holding his hands up in surrender when he saw his rescuers were armed.

"Edmund?" Donnic asked, and the frightened man nodded, slowly lowering his arms. "Where's the other person you mentioned?"

Edmund looked around to his left, gasping when he spotted the prone form of an armoured guard. "There!"

Reilly rushed to the guard's side and crouched down, removing the man's helm. "Bloody hell, it's Briggs! Hawke, get down here!"

Fletcher negotiated the steps as quickly as he could, sending Varric back up to keep an eye on the ladies. With Reilly's help, he knelt down next to Briggs, who was unconscious, but alive. "Give him water," Fletcher ordered as he unstrapped his arm in preparation for casting.

"What are you doing down here?" Donnic asked of Edmund, who was patting the dust off his clothes. "How long have you been here?"

"I… don't know how long it's been," Edmund said, giving a grateful nod when Donnic passed him his water skin. He took a deep gulp before wiping his mouth. "I was passing through, trying to go north. I met this man on the road, said his name was Quentin, and that he was a mage. I was hungry and cold, and he offered to take me in if I'd help him with some research. I agreed—it had been a while since I'd eaten, and I thought with another mage I'd be safe, but…" He sighed and shook his head, taking another drink.

"But what?" Donnic demanded before Reilly butted in.

"Hawke's struggling here!" he called out. Donnic and Edmund joined them, where Fletcher was gripping his injured arm, gnashing his teeth.

"I can't do anything!" wailed Fletcher. "Every time I try to—agh!"

"What have you done to your arm?" Edmund questioned, his mouth falling open in realisation when he saw the wound with a piece of arrow protruding from it.

"I can't concentrate," panted Fletcher. "It hurts so much when I move it!" He grimaced, clutching his injured arm and bending double. "I can't concentrate long enough to cast! Shit!"

"I'm not surprised," Edmund answered sympathetically. "I wish there was something I could do to help you, but I wasn't carrying any ingredients and I can't heal. Here. Let's get that arm strapped back up." He leaned down and assisted Fletcher to secure his injured limb.

"Can't he heal with one arm?" Donnic questioned.

"Not effectively, no," replied Edmund, tightening the buckle on Nathaniel's loaned belt. "Most spells require intricate and fast arm movements, unless the mage is using a staff. A physical examination can't be conducted with a staff, though, and healing magic is much more efficacious at close quarters. That's a moot point with your friend, I'm afraid. His willpower is low."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," Fletcher interjected with a sigh, "that I can't commit enough mana to maintain a spell. My body's using all its resources to keep me awake and upright." He glanced down at Briggs. "He's alive, but I can't tell you what he needs. I'm sorry. I'm not going to be of much use."

At that moment, several loud bangs sounded on the main door of the house, heralding Aveline's arrival. A few minutes later Samuel Verus—the Viscount's healer—was tending to Briggs, while Donnic and Aveline quizzed Edmund.

"Quentin showed me this 'experiment'," he explained to the guards, while Fletcher moved closer, listening. "It was… Maker. He—he was trying to create… a person. A woman."

"Create?" asked Aveline with a dubious frown. "From what?"

"From… other women," Edmund replied in a hushed tone. "I don't know where he got them from. There were body parts all over the place." He looked at Aveline, fear in his eyes. "You've _got_ to stop him! He's deranged!"

"He's a necromancer?" Fletcher exclaimed in dismay. "I let that man into my _home_ and he's a fucking _necromancer?_ Oh, that's just perfect! _Perfect!"_ he raged, Edmund's words conjuring all manner of horrors in his mind.

"Looks like we've found our killer," Aveline muttered to Donnic before turning back to Edmund. "Where?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know. It wasn't here. He brought me here tied up on horseback."

"Why?" Donnic asked.

Edmund blinked, looking incredulous. "Why do you think? Because I reacted badly when I saw that—that _thing_ he was trying to construct! I don't know how he thought I would be any part of that. I tried to run, but he was too quick for me. He used magic on me... I think it was blood magic because I couldn't counter it. I remember coming to and I was on the back of a horse. He dragged me in here and locked the door. I don't know how long ago that was. Hours, maybe a day?"

Donnic clasped Edmund's chin and turned it towards a light source. "Were you clean-shaven when he abducted you?"

"Yes."

"You've about half a day's growth there. I need you to think _very_ carefully. Which direction were you coming from?"

Edmund screwed his eyes closed, trying to recall. "The sun was on my legs… it would have been… to the north-west. Yes, that's the way we went when I met him on the road. North-west. There's a large estate there. Where are we now?"

"We're north of Hightown," Aveline answered.

"Hightown? Then the other place can't be more than an hour away on foot."

"Did Quentin mention anyone?" Fletcher asked. "A woman? An elf?"

Edmund's mouth gaped for a second. "Yes! While I was down here, I heard him upstairs talking— _quarrelling_ —with another man. They talked about an elf but it wasn't until they brought up the woman… Linda, I think it was. Well, they really started to argue, then."

Fletcher gasped. "Linda? Do you mean Leandra?"

"It might have been, I could only hear some of the conversation."

"Think!" Fletcher snapped, pain and worry spurring on his anger. "You're telling us about women's body parts and he's got my mother! And who's this man he was arguing with? What was his name? Think, man!"

"Hawke," Aveline warned as Edmund backed off, his hands held up.

"I'm so sorry, that was all I heard," the apostate said apologetically. "I don't know who the other man was. I wish I could help you more. I should have listened better. I'm truly sorry."

Fletcher sighed, bringing his good hand up to his brow, realising that this poor man had just been through a traumatic experience. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… it's not your fault. I—I just hate all this waiting!"

"It's all right," replied Edmund warily. "It looks like we've all been victims of this man."

"Right, let's get ready to visit this other place," Aveline said, looking at Briggs, who'd been sat up against a wall. "Sam? How is he?"

"He's got a few cuts and bruises and ligature marks on his wrists and feet, but no other injuries apart from that. He's _badly_ dehydrated, though, and I can't get any sense out of him. I'm giving him sips of water. He needs food immediately, if he'll keep it down."

Aveline moved to a dust-covered shelf and grabbed an old ceramic bowl, blowing upon it before passing it to Sam. She then reached into her small shoulder bag, producing a wrapped item. "This is hardtack. Soak it in water and it'll soften. It's not home cooking, but it'll line his stomach until we can move him."

Sam nodded, taking the bowl and hardtack from her. "Thank you. It's better than nothing."

"I want you to stay with him," Aveline ordered the mage before glancing at the ubiquitous Knight-designate Menzies, who was standing at Sam's side. "I assume you'll be staying as well."

"I can't do anything here that one of your guards can't do," Sam argued. "I strongly recommend I— _we_ —accompany you. It looks like you don't have a healer," he said, choosing his words carefully in front of his templar guard.

Aveline nodded, understanding his meaning. "Fine." She moved to the foot of the steps, looking up. "Get some more torches down here! And someone fetch Hunter—we've found Briggs. He'll want to know he's alive."

"Hunter's here?" Donnic asked. "I thought he was still on light duties?"

"He _was._ As soon as he heard what was going on here, he insisted on coming along. And by insist, I mean he threatened to steal a horse and follow us here if we left him behind. I couldn't very well refuse, could I?" she replied. "He's fit and well, and _very_ motivated. He's still due a reprimand, and he knows it, but it can wait."

"Fair enough," said Donnic. "How's your head, Captain?"

"Still on my shoulders," she answered with a hint of a smile, which Donnic returned, before Fletcher let out an impatient sigh.

"I'm sorry to interrupt this touching moment but can we get going, please?"

"I'd like to help," Edmund stated. "I feel fine. I want to help you stop this man."

"Hawke," Aveline said with a surreptitious glance at Menzies. "Explain the _situation_ to Edmund. Upstairs."

Fletcher managed a quick smile. "Thanks." He led Edmund up the steps to the vestibule, where several guards and templars, as well as his companions, were milling about. "Listen," he said quietly. "These templars don't know you're an apostate, and neither does the one downstairs. You can slip out the back if you want. I'll give you some food and a bit of money."

"No," Edmund said emphatically. "We mages have a hard enough time as it is without nutcases like _him_ giving us a bad name. I'll do whatever I can to stop him."

"I appreciate the offer, but if you cast in front of these templars…"

"I'm aware of the risks. That man would probably have left me down there to rot, and your guard friend might have died. I don't want him to do to your mother what he did to those other—" He paused when Fletcher looked down, clearly upset. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Please, just let me help. I'll take my chances with the templars. You're taking a risk too, even if you can't cast, and so is the gentleman who's tending the guard downstairs."

Fletcher looked back up and offered his good hand, which Edmund shook. "Thank you," he mouthed.

"All sorted out, Hawke?" asked Aveline, who'd emerged through the door.

"Yes. He's coming with us."

"All right, he looks healthy enough. Now listen here!" she shouted, gaining everyone's attention. "We're heading to an estate north-west of here. Get your horses watered and ready if you haven't already done so. Some of you will be carrying extra passengers. Watkins, Grant, Steadman, Walsh, you'll remain here to tend to Briggs and keep watch. The rest of us will meet outside in ten minutes, no longer than that. Templars, you'll be in the vanguard—looks like we're not just dealing with a blood mage, but a potential necromancer. Let's move!"

~o~O~o~

A little over fifty minutes later, the large contingent of templars, guards, apostates and rogue archers neared the estate identified by Edmund. Aveline called a halt at its intricate iron gates, which were flanked by a high stone wall.

"Is this definitely the place?" she asked the newcomer, who gave a grim nod.

"Yes. Even under cover of darkness I recognise these gates. I must warn you all—what you will find within is not for the faint of heart. Perhaps… perhaps the ladies should wait here."

"You obviously don't know these _ladies_ ," Aveline replied with a glance at Bethany and Merrill, as well as two of the mounted templars. "We're made of strong stuff, believe me."

"I wasn't disputing that, I just…" Edmund sighed. "Of course. My pardon."

Fletcher, who ironically was riding pillion with one of those female templars, was growing ever more agitated, and that was reflected in his tone when he spoke. "How do we get these gates open? I don't see a lock anywhere."

"Hawke," Merrill said from atop Nathaniel's horse, nudging the rogue in the back. Fletcher looked at her, knowing from one word that the gate was sealed with blood magic. Merrill was the only one among them who could unlock it, but to do so with templars around would be suicidal.

Fortunately, the ever-shrewd Nathaniel cottoned on, and quickly dismounted his horse. "I'll need help to scale the gate."

Hunter duly obliged, and before long the nimble rogues had entered the grounds, where they recced an alternative entrance a short distance away where part of the wall had crumbled. This meant, however, that the horses had to be tethered and left behind while their masters climbed over.

"Did you know about this place, Hawke? Bethany?" Aveline asked the siblings once everyone was safely over the wall.

Fletcher shook his head. "He mentioned his deceased wife's estate once. I don't know if this is it or not. It shouldn't matter anyway. He's here."

"That's right, it shouldn't matter," Edmund added with a note of impatience. Realising he was receiving a few strange looks, he dipped his head. "Sorry. It's just I thought I'd never get out of that room alive. I want him stopped as much as the rest of you."

"We're all on edge," Bethany mumbled disconsolately. "Don't let it worry you."

"Beth?" Fletcher asked in concern, moving to her side. "You okay?"

"I'm… frightened, Brother," she confessed, her voice catching. "Frightened of what we'll find in there. Oh, I do hope they're all right!"

"I know," he murmured, slipping his good hand into hers, his eyes on the large manor house up ahead. He wondered which room their loved ones were in, that if he stared at a certain window hard enough, they'd somehow _know_ help was on the way. _If_ they were still alive, that was.

Bethany felt his hand start to tremble and squeezed it tight, both siblings drawing comfort—as well as pain—from each other.

"This way, Sunshine," Varric said softly from up ahead, having followed the six templars that had joined them, led by Knight-Lieutenant de Coucy. "Watch your step, sweetheart."

Wordlessly, the templars began to spread out, some moving to the rear of the property. When the group was near the main entrance, de Coucy gathered them round, Aveline standing next to him. "Best we take evildoers like this by surprise," he uttered quietly. "If we rush in, he will be alerted to our presence and may act out of desperation. Do you agree, Guard-Captain?"

"I do. Hunter, Varric, Nathaniel. I'd like you to ascertain the safest way through."

The rogues moved to the door, Nathaniel calling Merrill to his side as he stooped down, pretending to pick the lock. She laid a hand on his shoulder and shook her head. Nathaniel stood up and cleared his throat before addressing Aveline and de Coucy. "I've never seen a lock like this before. It might take a while. I'd recommend you conduct your searches of the grounds while I'm doing it, to save time later."

Aveline gave a brisk nod, knowing what they were up to. "Good idea. Everyone, pair up and let's see what we can find."

As they moved away, the three rogues—plus Fletcher—remained at the door keeping watch while Merrill discreetly dispelled the magic placed upon the lock.

"Can't the templars sense this usage of blood magic?" Nathaniel asked her as Varric strapped up her cut hand.

"In a way, yes, but the effect is brief, and hopefully they'll assume it came from _inside_ the house. Blood magic doesn't use mana—which templars can sense a _lot—_ but it does make a connection to the Fade through the mage's demon. They can sense that, and so can other blood mages."

"But if templars can only sense it briefly, can they be truly effective against a blood mage?"

"They can _see_ blood magic just fine," Merrill added, holding her hand up. "The bloodletting usually gives the game away. They're effective because they whittle away the mage's mana. They usually do that with smites and big enchanted swords, which are going to affect the amount of blood the mage has got in their body. They won't have a lot of blood _or_ mana to cast with if they've been stabbed a few times."

"They're nothing but hypocrites," muttered Fletcher. "They're all addicted to lyrium and their abilities are powered by _mana._ Just like mages. I'll bet half of them _are_ mages in secret."

"You sound just like Anders," Nathaniel commented, his face dead straight. "You know him, don't you? Funny… you didn't react at all when I mentioned him that time in the Deep Roads."

Fletcher held Nathaniel's gaze for a few seconds, wondering what was coming next.

"Nicely played," the rogue finished, a smile ghosting across his lips. "Now, if we're finished here, I suggest we recall the others and enter without delay."

"We can't let the templars go in first," urged Merrill. "If Quentin's set blood wards down, they won't be able to detect them, because the connection to the Fade's already occurred before they were here. I need to go in before everyone else without the templars wondering why."

"Looks like you've just become a scout, Daisy," Varric said with a wink while Hunter slipped away to inform Aveline they were ready. _"Head_ scout."

The elven blood mage straightened up, proud of her new title. "I won't let you down, Varric," she declared solemnly.

"I hate to be the fly in the ointment," Nathaniel began, "but what happens if you discover a blood ward in the templars' presence? We can't keep sending them away."

Merrill and Fletcher, not knowing the answer to that, blew out a sigh as the guards and templars returned, convening at the entrance.

"The door's unlocked," Fletcher told them. "Our four scouts will go ahead of us."

"Here goes," Hunter said, pushing the door open, allowing Merrill to step through first, the rogues and templars following.

A very ornately-furnished entrance hall met them. To their surprise, it was well-lit and warm, indicating not only that someone was home, but they were not in hiding.

"Could be to throw us off," Aveline mumbled. "Let's be careful. Merrill?"

The Dalish elf turned back to the rest of the group, shaking her head in bewilderment. "Nothing."

"No, I can't see any traps, either," Nathaniel quickly added, maintaining Merrill's cover.

Merrill quickly grabbed Nathaniel's arm, pulling him close. "There _might_ be something deeper in the house… lower down," she whispered. "It just _occurred_ to me."

A faint rustling caught their attention and all fell quiet as soft, regular footsteps could be heard to their right. De Coucy silently called his templars to him and drew his sword, which he suddenly held aloft, striding around a corner.

"Keep those hands where I can see them, mage!" he commanded as a cup and saucer crashed to the floor out of sight. "No sudden movements or I'll cut you down!"

Aveline and her guards edged forward, weapons ready as a commotion was heard. Fletcher and Bethany strained to see what was happening, but their view was obscured by their heavily-armoured companions.

"What is the meaning of this?" shrieked a familiar voice as the templars emerged, dragging Quentin—his arms already bound behind his back—into the entrance hall. "What is going on here? What are you all doing in my home?"

Fletcher shoved his way through the guards, yelping in pain when his injured arm knocked against one of their pauldrons. "Where are they, you sick bastard!" he yelled, his ashen face twisted in agony. "What have you done to them!"

"F—Fletcher?" Quentin's mouth fell open in genuine shock as Bethany joined her brother.

"He _said,_ where _are_ they! Tell us or I'll kill you myself!"

"Merrill," Edmund hissed from behind the guards and templars, beckoning her close. "He's going to try to stall them. Why don't we go ahead and see if we can locate your friends. They could be in danger."

"All right," she agreed, "but I need to go first."

"We can go together," he replied, watching the others carefully. "I have the same abilities as you."

"Oh! You're a—?" She slapped a hand over her mouth, but Fletcher's yelling and Quentin's pleading had drowned out her words. "Okay." She nodded. "Let's go. We need to find an entrance to the cellar. I can sense something lower down in the house."

"As can I. Follow me," he invited. "These old estates all have the same layout."

They slipped out, unnoticed, while Quentin protested his innocence.

"You _must_ listen to me!" he urged an infuriated Fletcher. "I only brought her here to protect her! Your mother is unharmed!"

Fletcher screwed his face up, his need to kill this man warring with his need for answers. "Protect them from what?" he spluttered. "The only danger to them is standing right in front of me! And what do you mean, _Mother_ is unharmed? What about Fenris? Where _are_ they?"

"I _love_ Leandra," Quentin answered, tenderness in his voice as he ceased struggling against the templars' grip. "I had to bring her here because _he_ would have harmed her. I cannot allow that, dear boy. You _must_ believe me."

Fletcher went to throw his hands up in the air, wailing when his strapped-up arm refused to budge. "S-stop trying to confuse us!" he rasped, sweat cascading down his neck and temples. "'He'? Who in the Void is 'he'? You claim to love my mother but you bring her here, _against her will_ , and I know this because I was shot in the arm and the captain of the guard was assaulted in my home! And you _still_ haven't mentioned Fenris! You'd better start talking, or the templars will be the least of your worries! _Tell me!"_

Quentin cast his eyes to the ground with a defeated sigh. "Do you remember when I told you that I gave part of myself to a demon?" he began, knowing he had nothing left to lose.

"What about it?" Fletcher barked.

"That… that 'part of myself' was… my son."

"You never mentioned a son," snapped Bethany. "Stop lying and tell us the truth!"

"I'm sorry, Fletcher, Bethany," he said, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I lied to you before, in the study, but now, my life at an end, I hope to atone by finally revealing the truth. My son was never quite… right in the head. Although handsome, he was shunned by women and lived as a virtual recluse here for many years. In desperation, I sought the services of a demon. I promised her my son's soul when the time came. In exchange, she gave him life."

"Life?" Fletcher demanded. "But he was _already_ alive. You're not making any sense. It's just lies upon lies, isn't it?"

Quentin shook his head. "No. He had no life at all. He merely _existed._ Aspire—my demon—gifted him with charm, wit and cunning. He began to enjoy success with women, as he'd desired. He went abroad among the people and was no longer a recluse. But… her influence changed him. He became twisted, malevolent. He practised profane sexual activities with those women he'd charmed, leaving them traumatised, but they would not turn to the authorities because they feared him so. He conducted arcane experiments on animals, showing no emotion when his 'trials' left them deformed or in pain. It's my belief he would have moved onto people once satisfied with his tests."

He shuddered, utter misery etched upon his brow. "My-my darling wife, Cressida, she… took her own life because she could not bear to see what he had become, and could not forgive what I had done. She carried him, loved him, reared him and he was… evil, his soul black. And her husband was the cause."

"Where. Are. They." Fletcher lurched forward, only to be held back by Donnic.

"You must—you must know who you are dealing with," sniffled Quentin. "My wife's death sent him over the edge. He began studying books on necromancy. I discovered his plan when I arrived home to find a woman… butchered in the cellar."

"And you didn't report this to the guard?" Aveline barked. "So just what _was_ this 'plan' of his?"

Quentin gulped, his eyes closing. "To fashion another Cressida."

"No!" Fletcher shook his head, shrugging off Donnic and stepping closer to Quentin. "Edmund said he heard you talking with another man. _You're_ the one—"

" _Edmund?"_ Quentin exclaimed in panic, his eyes snapping open. "You've spoken to him? _When?_ Where is he? No, you _must not_ let him near her! He wants her face, her eyes, her very voice!"

Fletcher's mouth started to quiver, his entire body going numb. "But he said… he… he…"

"Edmund's his bloody son!" shouted Aveline, her harsh voice jolting everyone into readiness. "Where's he gone?"

"Where's Merrill, more to the point?" asked Nathaniel.

"But he was locked down there," Fletcher murmured, his stomach turning over as his eyes met Quentin's. "He told us _you_ locked him down there."

"He tricked you," whispered Quentin, shaking his head. "He needed your help to reach me. I am so sorry you and your family have been involved in this. This has all gone so terribly wrong. I never meant any harm. I—I did not anticipate growing to care for Leandra."

"Spread out!" commanded Donnic. "Nathaniel says Merrill wanted to go downstairs!"

"First one to find the cellar gets a week's paid leave!" added Aveline, her guards springing into action.

"Never meant any harm?" Fletcher repeated incredulously. "You sold your son's soul! You kept his crimes from the authorities! You have my mother and Fenris here and you _still haven't told me Fenris is all right!"_

"He still lives," breathed Quentin. "…If you are quick."

Fletcher stumbled back, his mouth open, tears welling up in his eyes. "Get him away from me," he ordered the templars who held him. "Get him _away from me!"_

"With pleasure," answered one of Quentin's captors. "It's the brand for this one."

"Wait!" shouted Quentin as he was dragged away. "You need to know! My son is a mage and he made his own bargain with a demon named Hubris! You must prepare yourselves! He will show you no mercy!"

"Just leave that to us, maleficar!" growled the templar as the former candidate for Leandra's hand was hauled off.

"Hubris," said Bethany, her eyes glazed over. "Meaning…"

"Pride." Fletcher grabbed her arm and pulled her along after the others, stumbling and almost falling before he righted himself, sweat dripping from his sodden hair.

"Fletcher! You've got to stop!" she pleaded, knowing she was the only person (in Fenris's absence) with the remotest chance of persuading him.

"Not until I know they're safe!" He pressed on through an alcove leading to the dining room, adrenaline his only fuel, his strength and will long gone.

"We've found the cellar!" announced de Coucy and Fletcher turned in the direction of the templar's voice, Beth breaking into a jog to keep up, their surroundings a blur.

When they arrived, the templars and guards were already there, and de Coucy was halfway down a ladder leading through an open hatch. "If we live through this, Guard-Captain, you owe me a week's leave," quipped the knight-lieutenant.

"And if we live through this I'll visit your knight-commander in person and insist she gives it to you," Aveline replied. "It's been an honour working with you."

"Save those sentiments for later," said de Coucy as he descended the ladder, his fellows following. "Tell me again once we're all safe."

"Will do." Turning to meet the siblings, Aveline's jaw hardened when she set eyes on Fletcher. "Maker, Hawke, you look like you're about to drop!"

"He almost did," Bethany said with a worried sigh.

"Let's see if I can help." Sam Verus squeezed past the guards and laid his hands on Fletcher's cheeks. "You know the drill," he said, and Fletcher closed his eyes as the Viscount's healer recited a fortifying spell, Menzies looking on to ensure there were no hostile incursions from the Fade. "Better?" he asked Fletcher once the spell was complete.

Fletcher drew a deep breath which he slowly released, feeling a little strength return to his body. "Yes. Thank you."

"All right, our turn," said Aveline, climbing down the steps after the templars, Donnic and the other guards lining up behind her. "The rest of you, keep to the rear. _No_ heroics. I'm talking to you, Hawke."

"Knight-Lieutenant!" one of the templars shouted from the cellar.

Bethany dropped to her knees, bringing herself closer to the floor. "What is it? What have they found?" she called down the hatch.

"It's Merrill!" replied Aveline from below. "Sam, get your arse down here!"

"Excuse me." The healer cut in line and hastily descended, the others enduring a fraught few minutes before they were able to join their friends below. When Fletcher and Bethany were finally allowed down, they rushed to a small anteroom containing a large wine keg, where Merrill was lying flat on her back, her eyes closed.

"It's all right," Sam, who was crouching over her, immediately reassured them. "She's asleep. I'm guessing our master criminal didn't want to draw attention to himself by using anything stronger on her. Luckily."

"Can you wake her?" asked Fletcher.

Sam shook his head. "No, and you can guess why. We'll have to wait for the spell to wear off naturally. It _is_ only a sleep spell, though, just one not powered by mana. Clever of him. I'm going to stay with her unless I'm needed. I'll listen out."

"I'll go with you both," volunteered Menzies. "Sam's promised me he won't need to use any magic on her, and I'm needed more out there. Let's go."

"Menzies." Sam held out his hand to the templar. "Be careful. I don't know how I'd manage without you hanging around each time I go for a piss."

"Right. 'Demons don't come of out mages' willies', as you keep reminding me."

"Except Piss Demons, of course."

"Of course." The templar shook Sam's hand, giving him a quick nod before departing with Fletcher and Bethany.

The cellar was huge and divided into numerous small rooms and compartments. Fletcher, Bethany and Menzies negotiated each one, even though they'd already been checked by the templars and city guard, who were still ahead of them. As they neared the limits of the cellar, happening upon a series of tunnels hewn from the rock foundations of the estate, they found three templars outside the last room, two of them on bended knee, praying.

The standing templar thrust his hand out, barring entry. "You're not to come in here," he said unsteadily, shaking his head.

"What? Why? What's in there?" cried Fletcher. "Is it…"

"No! Sorry, I should have said. It's not your mother or Corporal Fenris. You just…" He released a shaky sigh and looked fearfully at the door. "We've found his… _creation._ Maker preserve us. _"_ He pressed his palms together, his eyes closing as he joined his brothers in prayer.

"Come on. Let's go," Menzies said softly, uttering a few quiet blessings under his breath as he led them away.

"I can feel…" Bethany stopped herself, her eyes locking with Menzies'.

"Yes, I can feel it too, Miss. Magic is being used in the vicinity."

Fletcher started to speak but Bethany thumped his good arm, telling him to _shut up_ sotto voce. There was no sense in both of them giving their status away in front of a _templar_.

"Where's Hawke?" they heard Hunter call some distance away. "We need a mage!"

"I'm back here!" Bethany yelled, forestalling Fletcher's reply.

"We've found Fenris! We need a mage, quick! Follow the main tunnel and take your third right, then first left!"

Fletcher was already barrelling along, cursing to himself that he couldn't heal, and that Beth couldn't heal, and that if Fenris was hurt and he couldn't help him then he'd just about explode and rip Edmund's head off and shove it down his fucking throat…

When he stumbled upon the small rock chamber, he found a naked Fenris in a tall cage, the elf's knuckles white from gripping the bars. Next to the cage was a desk containing an array of scientific journals, papers and paraphernalia. A huge, white ward on the floor lit up the chamber along with Hunter's torch.

"Sweet Maker, no!" Fletcher lurched to the cage, hearing Fenris release a moan of relief. "We have to dispel this ward! He's in pain! It's magic and magic causes him pain! I can't do anything!"

Bethany and Menzies entered then and, without thinking about it, Bethany held a hand up and chanted under her breath. The ward guttered a few times before waning completely, Fenris sinking to the ground as the magical hold over him was removed.

Fletcher whipped off his fur jacket and passed it through the bars, which the elf used to cover his genitals in Bethany's presence.

"You're safe," Fletcher breathed, pushing a trembling hand through to lightly touch Fenris's skin, afraid of hurting him further. "You're safe, my love. I'm _so_ sorry we couldn't get here sooner. I'm so…" His face crumpled and his body was racked by silent sobs as Fenris's fingers wrapped around his hand.

"Go," rasped the elf, who was severely weakened but still had his faculties. "Edmund is the killer, not Quentin. You must find him. Your arrival here tells me you have confronted Quentin. His son is still at large."

"Quentin's with the templars, and we know all about Edmund," Bethany said, crouching next to the cage and removing her own jacket, passing it to the grateful elf, who wrapped it around his shoulders. "Do you know where Mother is? Quentin said she was unharmed but I don't know what to believe."

"He treated her well but I do not know where he kept her. Bethany, Fletcher… if it is any comfort, I believe that, in the end, he meant to protect her. It is my fervent hope that she remains safe."

"You needn't try to make us feel sympathy for him," Bethany replied. "Look what he did to you. Why would he do this? You were in a cage! There was no need for him to hold you with magic!"

"Research," Fletcher said, bitterness lacing his words. "Research I knew about and could have prevented!"

"Enough of this," said the elf, his tone indulgent but firm. "We are alive. Find your mother and let us all be reunited."

"Can you unlock the cage?" Bethany asked Hunter, who shook his head.

"There's no lock on it. Fenris told me he was brought in sideways while lying in the cage, and the ceiling's too low in here to get him out without upending him. We'll get him out, don't worry, when I can get a few more of us together. For now, we've got light, and some sandwiches and mead in my pack. I'll stay here and we'll have a boys' night in."

"I'll make him pay, Fen," Fletcher promised, releasing the elf's hand and pushing to his feet.

"Fletcher," Fenris appealed. "Please. Do not do anything rash. Your arm… Darren told me about it. I can see you are in pain. You are the head of your family and you must protect them. That does _not_ entail throwing your life away."

A soft light came to Fletcher's eyes and he once again crouched down. _"Our_ family," he and Bethany said together.

"I love you," Fletcher added.

"Go," the elf said softly, managing a warm smile for his nearest and dearest.

Bethany and Fletcher stood up and shared a lingering look with Fenris before leaving along with Menzies.

"That man," Fenris said to Hunter. "He is a templar, is he not?"

"Mm-hm," replied the rogue, searching his pack for his mead. "He guards the Viscount's healer. He's not a full templar yet, just a knight-designate. He's due to receive his knighthood soon, I hear."

"And he just witnessed Bethany dispelling the ward?"

Hunter paused, mead in hand, his eyes meeting Fenris's. "Shit."

"Yes. Shit." Fenris groaned softly to himself and held his hand out, taking the proffered mead and drinking half of it in one go.

~o~O~o~

"Guard-Captain," said de Coucy as Aveline and Donnic arrived at a small room containing a single bed, dresser and washing facilities. "There are ladies' items here." He pointed at the dresser, atop which was a ewer containing water, along with some small trinkets and items of jewellery.

Aveline gawked at the items, fingering a silverite chain with a pendant of sundonium. "This is Leandra's," she breathed, her eyes wide as she looked up at Donnic. "She was here!"

De Coucy ushered them out of the room, pointing ahead. "This is where the tunnels end, and the rest have been searched. My guess is he's made a run for it with her. My men and women are already out in the woods, but we need more bodies."

Donnic turned and cupped a hand to his mouth. "All available members of the guard head south right now!" he bellowed. "Leave the tunnels and get out into the woods! Our man's done a runner and has Leandra Hawke with him so be careful!"

The creaking of plate armour was heard as a nearby guard approached and jogged past, Donnic accompanying him and leaving the templar and guard leaders in the room.

"I'll head back and round up any that didn't hear," the knight-lieutenant offered. "This Leandra is your friend and you should be the one to find her."

"Thank you. Stay safe," she called, slipping Leandra's necklace over her head for safekeeping before heading out, another guard running up the tunnel after her. "Please find Sam Verus if you can—we might need him!"

"Orders, Captain?" the guard behind Aveline panted as they left the tunnel system, finding themselves in a dark, densely-packed wood.

"Stay with me," she said, nodding ahead where two torches could be seen. "They've headed south-east. We'll go south-west."

"Leandra!" a guard in the distance shouted. "Leandra Hawke!"

"Leandra!" Aveline joined in. "Leandra!"

"Aveline!" a small voice answered, and the guards froze. "Ave—!"

Her heart in her throat, Aveline pointed in the direction of the voice, noting that the other guards had also fallen silent. Her temporary partner nodded, and both started creeping ahead.

"Give it up, Edmund!" Donnic shouted. "You're surrounded! Don't be a bloody fool! Give yourself up while you still can!"

"We're here, Donnic!" Leandra called from the darkness. "I've broken free! I've… hurk! No!"

"Bitch! You stupid bitch!"

Every guard and templar rushed to the source of the commotion, several points of torchlight converging towards an intersecting point.

By the time Aveline and her partner joined them, Donnic was pointing his sword at Edmund, who was standing a few feet away, his arm around Leandra's throat.

"I was going to kill her anyway, guard! There's no possible bargain you can make with me! You have no idea how insignificant you all are, do you? I could crush you under my heel!"

"Let go of her," Donnic growled, "or I swear I'll make you suffer before you die!"

"Give her up!" commanded Aveline. "You're not even armed. You'll not win this one."

A burst of broken laughter gusted out of Edmund, his grip tightening around the terrified Leandra's throat. "Armed? Do you really think I need one of your toys to inflict _pain?"_ he asked, and Leandra began to choke as he squeezed harder, arcane energy radiating off him.

While this exchange was going on, each templar waited in readiness, their palms glowing with purifying light, but they hesitated for fear of harming Leandra.

"Let her go!" ordered Donnic, stepping forward, a slight movement in the shadows behind Edmund catching his eye. He gulped, knowing he needed to buy some time.

"No! Mother!" Bethany ran into the circle of light, only to be pulled back by Aveline as Fletcher arrived behind them, panting.

"I was going to let you go!" Fletcher thundered, pushing away the guards and templars that tried to grab him, arriving at Donnic's side. "I thought you were all right! Do you know that's my mother you have there? You think you can bring your own mother back by destroying mine? What do you think that will do to _my_ family? How did _you_ feel when you lost your mother? Do you even care? Are there any human emotions in there at all?"

Edmund closed his eyes, not caring to be reminded of how he'd felt at losing his own mother. "You're all insignificant," he whispered. "You're nothing."

There was a rustle of brush and then a hand grabbed Edmund's chin from behind, pushing his head up and exposing his throat, which was neatly slit by one of Nathaniel's blades. Once Leandra was free, a well-placed shot from Bianca pierced Edmund's chest as an insurance policy.

"Fletcher! Bethany!" sobbed Leandra, blindly groping in her confusion as she was released, Edmund thudding to the ground.

"Mother!" her children cried out, both almost knocking her over with the force of their hugs.

"Where is he?" Nathaniel stepped into the light, searching for a body that wasn't there. "He should be right here!"

"Prepare yourselves!" Knight-Lieutenant de Coucy ordered, knowing this wasn't over yet.

A mocking laugh sounded around the woods, originating from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Bethany bundled Fletcher and Leandra behind a tree, pushing down on their shoulders until they squatted. "Keep her safe!" she hissed, disappearing into the shadows.

"Beth! _Beth!"_

From the spot where Edmund fell arose a tiny whirlwind, rustling the trees and sending fallen leaves bursting into the air, swirling in beautiful and terrifying eddies that didn't land, but remained in mid-air.

Slowly, they began to form into a shape which grew larger and larger until it was as tall as the highest oak. The torchlight reflected scales and spikes as well as a huge pair of cloven feet, the rest of the demon's body shrouded in darkness.

"Andraste, hear us in our time of need!" the female templar who'd rode with Fletcher entreated. "Bathe us in your merciful light! And should we fall, cleanse us with your righteous flame!"

"Fools! You are ants!" the demon mocked as several smites hit it at the same time, rocking it slightly.

"Aim for the feet!" a voice called out.

"See how insignificant you are!" The demon swept its arm, catching a few armoured bodies—templar or guard, it was difficult to tell—and hit a tree, uprooting it and leaving it standing at an odd angle.

At the same time, a volley of arrows, bolts and arcane energy from Beth and Sam—who'd joined the fight—slammed into the monster's feet, and it let out an anguished bellow as a stealthed Nathaniel stabbed at its heel before slinking away.

"You think you can best me?" taunted the enormous creature, grabbing the uprooted tree and plucking it clean from the ground. "I am Hubris! No man is my better!"

Everyone scattered as Hubris brought the tree down with an almighty crash, but the action caused the arrogant demon to lose its footing, something the long-distance specialists in the group, as well as Nathaniel, took immediate advantage of. The warden emerged once again, plunging his dagger into the upturned sole of the creature's foot as multiple projectiles hammered into it, its resulting howl punctuating the humid night air.

The templars, recovered from their smites, assailed Hubris again, the might of their combined holy power finally unbalancing the demon, who toppled backwards, destroying several trees.

The templars were instantly upon it, assisted by the uninjured guards and mages, and this time they went for the throat. In a matter of minutes, the foul creature was finally vanquished.

"We need healers over here!" a voice called out upon the discovery of the crumpled bodies.

"Stay here, Mother!" Fletcher instructed. "It's all over now. Beth's okay, we're all okay! I just need to see if I can do anything!"

He took off, knowing he wouldn't be able to heal, but his knowledge might be of some use, and he quickly found the prone body of a guard he wasn't acquainted with. He unstrapped his arm, hoping that at the very least he'd be able to conduct an examination.

Meanwhile, a distance away, Bethany, Varric, Nathaniel and some of the templars stared at the defeated demon, barely able to believe that they'd bested such a gargantuan being.

"Miss." Knight-Lieutenant de Coucy cleared his throat and stepped closer to Bethany. "You're going to have to come with us."

"Whoa, wait a second!" Varric protested. "She helped save your asses! What, you're going to just lock her up? What did she do to you? No, this isn't right!"

"Varric," she murmured softly, running a hand down the dwarf's hair. "I have no choice. It's all right. I knew this was coming."

"Look," the dwarf continued, addressing the templars. "We're all friends here, right? What do you people make in the Gallows? I can double it. Name your price. Don't want money? What _do_ you want? I can make it happen, just say the word."

De Coucy sighed, shaking his head. "Miss Hawke. Let us proceed without undue fuss. We've all had quite a traumatic night as it is. Co-operate with us and you'll be treated fairly."

"Fairly?" blustered Varric. "I saw the gleam in that guy's eyes earlier when he hauled Quentin off! Talking about the fucking brand! You're not putting a hand on my girl!"

"Quentin is a maleficar and will be treated accordingly," answered the templar calmly, accustomed to such reactions. "Miss Hawke plainly has no truck with demons. She will be treated well, I give you my word as a knight of Andraste." He turned to Bethany. "Please. Come with us."

She nodded, telling herself that at least no one had died, and that her mother was safe. "I'll co-operate," she said. "Just allow me a moment to speak with Varric?"

"Very well," agreed de Coucy. "I will wait here."

"Thank you, Ser Knight." She walked away from him and crouched next to Varric. "Listen to me," she whispered. "I need you to stall Fletcher. You _know_ what he's like. Mother's heart would break if both of us ended up in the Gallows. I'll be fine, love. Once I'm Harrowed you can visit me. We'll work something out. Don't argue, just do as I ask. Please."

Varric rubbed his brow hard, knowing the truth of her words, but his heart ached. He didn't see his Sunshine every day, sometimes not for several days at a time, but now the choice was no longer theirs.

"Varric. _Please."_ She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Distract Fletcher until we're gone. It would mean a lot to me."

She stood up and looked at Nathaniel, who responded with a respectful bow, before she took her place at de Coucy's side.

"You harm one hair on her head and I'll cut your balls off, fry them and serve them to that pit bull of a knight-commander of yours!" threatened Varric, pointing at the templar group's leader.

"She will not come to harm. Now please, go about your business." De Coucy turned and led Bethany away, who smiled over her shoulder at the dwarf.

"Where's Hawke?" Varric asked Nathaniel in a flat voice.

The warden rogue laid a hand on Varric's shoulder, turning him eastward. "I saw him walking that way to attend the wounded. We should lend a hand if we can."

"Right." Varric mournfully shook his head and trudged after Nathaniel, occasionally glancing back, but his Sunshine was no longer there.

~o~O~o~

"I'm sorry." Fletcher placed his fingers over the eyelids of the guard he'd found, closing the man's eyes. He'd successfully completed an examination, finding it was hopeless—the guardsman's bones and organs were crushed. Feeling weary and knowing his willpower was at rock bottom, he looked up, sensing mana usage nearby. He unsteadily pushed himself up, his arm jumping as the pain returned, Sam's spell wearing off.

He began to walk towards the mana source, wondering if it was Bethany. "She can't heal, you nitwit," he muttered, finding it difficult to see beyond the limits of his torch.

Then, he spotted another point of light, nearer than the fainter ones in the distance, and picked up his pace as the shadowed outline of Sam Verus, who was tending to one of the injured, came into focus.

"Sam? Can I help?" he offered, knowing his words were empty. "Oh, shit… is that Menzies?"

Sam nodded and attempted another spell. "I don't think he's going to make it. He was one of those swatted by that demon." He shook his head and blew his hair out of his eyes.

"Can I do anything?"

"Just see if you can find anyone else. From where I was standing, there were about half a dozen, most of them guards. I think Menzies was the only templar, and that's because he was over this side."

"No! Maker, no!" a loud voice cried out, and Fletcher scrambled to his feet. "Somebody help!"

" _Donnic?_ Is that you?"

"Hawke? Where are you? Where's Sam? Somebody! Anybody!"

"Go!" Sam ordered. "Do what you can. I'll be right there. I've got to give Menzies every chance."

Dread seized Fletcher as he stumbled in the direction of Donnic's voice. He called out again to pinpoint the lieutenant's position, eventually finding him hunched over the battered and twisted body of Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen.

Donnic looked up, his face slack, his eyes huge. "You've got to _do_ something," he pleaded, an odd note in his voice.

Fletcher, feeling like he'd been removed from his body, knelt next to her with Donnic's help and once again unstrapped his arm. "I'm not sure if I—"

" _Do something!_ You're a bloody healer, aren't you? _Then heal!"_

He nodded mechanically. "I—I'll try."

This was _Aveline._ He had to put the pain aside, call upon his very last reserves of mana. The pain wasn't there. It didn't _matter._ He _had_ to bring this woman back.

His mind went back to Lothering. Aveline was one of the originals, in a way as much a part of his family as Fenris was. He _owed_ it to her to ignore the pain.

"Yeagh!" he wailed, his nerves on fire as he laid his hands on her, calling on the Fade. "Stop it!" he rebuked himself. "There is no pain!"

His yelling attracted Varric and Nathaniel, who arrived just as Fletcher completed his examination. The mage moved his hands away from Aveline and dropped them into his lap, his eyes focusing on nothing.

"Why aren't you _doing_ anything?" Donnic jostled Fletcher's good arm and stood up, unconsciously distancing himself from the mage's next words.

"Donnic," Fletcher uttered, grief coating his fractured voice. "Her—her neck's broken."

"Then heal it!" he shouted, his own voice hoarse. "You healed Fenris's broken leg, didn't you? You healed her pelvis! What's the difference?"

"Grizzly," Varric said sadly.

"Don't Grizzly me, Varric! This isn't the time! Sam!" he cried in desperation, spotting the mage running towards them. "Help her! Hawke—Hawke's injured and can't heal her but I know you can! You've got to help her!"

Sam glanced at Fletcher, seeing the situation all too clearly reflected in the other man's eyes, but he went through the motions anyway and knelt down, beginning his examination.

A horrible, protracted silence was observed until Sam returned to the here-and-now, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry, Donnic," he said, his eyes downward. "There's nothing I can do. She's departed."

"You take another look!" Donnic stomped forward and grabbed Sam's arm, pushing him closer to Aveline. "You take another bloody look right now!"

"Donnic," Fletcher said gently, touching his back. "Mate. Don't do this to yourself. You know she's gone. You knew before we got here."

Donnic stared down at his hand, his fingers digging into the healer's arm. "I'm… sorry." Releasing Sam, he dropped to his knees beside Aveline, grabbing one of her hands, which was still warm.

"But you're so strong," he argued, his voice thin and reedy as he rubbed her skin, as if doing so would imbue her with life. "This wasn't supposed to happen! You can't leave us, Aveline, we need you!"

"Come on, now," Varric said, cautiously stepping forward. "Let's leave these mages to do their jobs. She's…" He looked down at her, shaking his head. "I can't believe it myself."

The lieutenant loosed her hand and stood up, shaking his head over and over, his hands moving erratically, his mouth half-wording incomplete thoughts, before he charged off into the woods without warning. With a nod to each other, Varric and Nathaniel quietly followed him, the dwarf guessing Fletcher would no longer need 'distracting'.

"Menzies is dead," Sam said to Fletcher, his voice devoid of anything. "Let's see if we can find anyone else."


	106. If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're back together now. You never should have been parted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter that doesn't really move the story along, but one I felt was essential to allow you, the readers, as well as the story's characters, to take a breath.
> 
> I was really touched (and relieved!) by the reaction to chapter 105. Thank you all for your comments, kudos and the conversations I enjoy with some readers. I'm grateful to you all for sticking with the story, no matter how many twists and turns I take it along.
> 
> As always, my heartfelt thanks to CCBug for being my counterbalance and cheerleader. Team Vaseline! :)

**Viscount's Keep, Captain Vallen's office, the following morning**

"Enter," Donnic called in answer to the knock at the door, clearing his throat when he realised how feeble his voice sounded. "Enter," he said again, feeling like he'd committed his last iota of strength into uttering that single word.

He looked up from Aveline's desk as the door opened and Lieutenant Bradley entered, hovering near the doorway, unable to look Donnic in the eye.

"Shut the door," Donnic thought he said. He wasn't quite sure whether any of this was actually real, or whether he'd awaken in a few hours to find it had all been a bad dream.

Bradley closed the door so gently it made no sound, and hesitated before turning and taking a few steps towards the desk, his eyes everywhere but on Donnic. Both men stared into space for a minute before Bradley finally steeled himself to speak.

"I've come here and…" He also cleared his throat, a reedy, strangulated sound. "I, um, I've come here and I, I, I… I don't know what to say. I just felt like I needed to be here, but I have no idea what I could say or..." He sighed, meshing his fingers together atop his head.

"You don't need to say anything," replied Donnic with an effort, his eyes on the desk.

"I knew," Bradley blurted out before he frowned, seemingly annoyed with himself. "I mean, I knew as soon as Edmund was dead, even though I was here. It was like a veil was lifted from my eyes. I suddenly remembered _everything_. I—I tried to sell Fenris down the river. I misled Aveline. If—if only I'd…" He stopped talking, his flushed face contorting.

Spittle burst from Bradley's mouth as a sob was torn from him, his hands moving to cover his face.

"It wasn't your fault," uttered Donnic, no sincerity or warmth in his voice. He didn't blame his friend for anything, but he had nothing to give: he couldn't offer empathy, sympathy or comfort of any kind, because there was none to be had. "Is there, um, somewhere you can stay for a while?"

Bradley fought to master his emotions, hiccupping and drawing several breaths, utterly ashamed of his lapse. "Yes. An aunt in Lowtown."

"Then go to her. You're on leave as of now."

Bradley shook his head and attempted to wipe his eyes with his gauntlets. Donnic pushed a piece of vellum across the desk, which the other man used to dry his face in a fashion and blow his nose. "If-if it's all the same to you, Donnic, I want to do something, help put things… I-I know I can't, but… I just need to do _something_. Please. I promise not to embarrass you like this again. I'm sorry." He stood to attention, his hands clasped behind his back, one of them holding the screwed-up vellum.

"Go to your aunt's for now," Donnic said, still not looking up, not wanting to compound Bradley's humiliation, "and I'll see you tomorrow."

Bradley blew out a long breath and nodded. "Thanks. Can I—?" He nodded to the rear exit from the office.

Donnic stood up and opened the door. "Give yourself a few minutes before you approach the gate. Don't want anyone seeing you in this state," he said brusquely, but not unkindly.

Bradley nodded, chewing his lip a little. "Donnic, are you—"

"I'm fine. Off you go. I've a lot to do here."

Bradley went to step through the door, but first turned back. "You know, my aunt always makes too much food," he ventured. "You'd be welcome at our table this evening."

"That's good of you, but another night," Donnic replied. "I was thinking of visiting the Hawkes."

"Oh, yes. How are they doing?" asked Bradley quietly.

"They're alive," Donnic began, his words sharply reminding him of who _wasn't,_ and he paused, pushing his jaw forward. "That's the main thing."

Bradley averted his eyes and rested a hand on Donnic's shoulder for a second before beating a hasty retreat.

Donnic closed the door and stared at it for a while before returning to his chair. No, _her_ chair. He heaved himself out of it, running his hand along the weathered leather back, finding a single, golden hair clinging to it. He carefully pulled it away and rolled it between his fingers, grateful for such a pathetic connection with her.

He looked back at the desk, at the stacks of papers and ledgers requiring his attention. There were so many things to do—letters of condolence to be written to the families of Hubris's victims; pyres to be built; liaisons with the chantry, and the templars, as well as some kind of initiative to lift morale within the guard following the loss of their captain.

But how could he lift morale when his own heart was in his boots, when he could feel himself slowly sinking into the mire, when each step he took felt heavier than the last, when each breath he drew threatened to burst out of him as Bradley's had? He was no actor and would fool no one with some half-hearted speech.

In her absence, _he_ was acting guard-captain. And for the first time in his life, doughty, stout-hearted, oftentimes-obstreperous Donnic Hendyr didn't know what he was supposed to do.

He took a walk around her office to shake off the cobwebs, his body moving in slow motion while all else around him went on, inexorably, relentlessly, quickly, too quickly for his torpid mind and heart to process. He knew the last thing he must do was succumb to inertia but its pull was so strong, and he was tired of fighting against it, tired even of being awake, but sleep had so far cruelly eluded him.

He'd known she'd kept an old, battered templar shield behind one of her cupboards but only now—his thoughts on nothing but her—did he realise why.

With a sigh he pulled it out, brushing dust off its surface and flicking away a small spider that had taken residence on the underside. He took the shield to the desk, pushing aside a ledger to make room. Rifling through a drawer, he found one of her polishing cloths and set to work on this little project, giving it his utmost, finding it was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

Twenty minutes later, Wesley Vallen's shield was scrubbed, gleaming and mounted on the wall to the side of Aveline's desk. Donnic stood back, looking at it for what seemed a long time.

"You didn't need to hide it from me," he said softly. "You're back together now. You never should have been parted." His last few words were wrenched from him and his forbearance finally crumbled as he placed both palms on the desk, his head bowed, his face reddening. "Maker," he blurted out. "I'm going to miss you."

A light cough from the other doorway startled him and he immediately straightened up, a shuddering breath leaving him, his jaw tight as he slowly turned around. "Seneschal Bran," he said as the red-headed man entered.

The visitor glanced at the floor, choosing his words carefully. "Guardsman Hendyr. I… did knock. His Excellency requires your presence in his office at your earliest convenience."

Donnic's gut clenched. He'd been half-expecting this, but not quite so soon. "Right," he said blankly. "I have something to take care of here, first."

Bran looked over his shoulder at a bench outside the office where Fenris and Hunter were seated, the same vacant look in their eyes he could see in Donnic's. "Yes, of course. As I said, at your earliest convenience."

"Thanks."

Both men stood in awkward silence for a moment before Bran took a further step into the office, releasing a sigh. "Guard-Captain Vallen and I did not always see eye-to-eye," he admitted. "In fact, there was more than one occasion…" He paused and shook his head. "Whatever… difficulties arose, I always admired her tenacity, her courage, and her dedication to her office and those who served under her. She will be sorely missed."

Donnic nodded and pushed a few things around on the desk. "She will." Bran turned to leave. "Seneschal?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Is the Viscount planning on offering me Aveline's position?"

"Yes, he is."

"Right," Donnic said heavily.

"You are free to decline, of course," said Bran. "However, the offer is extended not only because of your rank, but because his Excellency believes you to be the best candidate."

Donnic nodded and continued to shuffle items around the desk.

"You must not see yourself as a mere… replacement for Captain Vallen," Bran ventured.

Donnic's head snapped up, his posture defensive. "She'll _never_ be replaced."

"Quite so. You must make your own mark. Your service record speaks for itself. You are more than qualified, and well-deserving of the position."

Donnic held Bran's gaze, surprised to hear such compliments from the normally-aloof public servant. "Do _you_ think I should accept?" he asked, uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

"Why, yes. Do you require more time?"

Donnic stared at the desk for a few long minutes, his fingers drumming against the wood. "I'll be along shortly."

"Very good. Should you accept, you will honour her memory by excelling in your new post."

Donnic watched the seneschal until the door was closed, and sank into her chair again. "Guard-Captain Hendyr," he uttered quietly, looking up at the shield on the wall. "It doesn't sound right, does it?"

But it would never sound right, he knew that. Guard-Captain Bradley wouldn't sound right, either, nor would Guard-Captain _anyone_ other than Vallen _._

He thought of the ring he'd had his eye on in the Lowtown Market, the one he'd meant to purchase a few times, but hadn't. _Why_ had he quailed from asking her? If he had, maybe they wouldn't have been on duty together that night, maybe she wouldn't have visited Leandra asking for advice…

Was that advice about him?

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his fisted hands. He should have made _her_ Guard-Captain Hendyr. That was the only way the name would have sounded right.

"I'm sorry. I was a coward," he said, uncovering his face, the stacks of documents and unfinished missives on the desk reminding him that _someone_ had to be captain, that _someone_ had to hold everything together.

Aveline had done just that while still grieving for her husband.

His legs and heart heavy, he pushed himself up, feeling invisible forces pulling him towards the floor. He trudged to the door, pulling it open. "Fenris, Darren," he muttered, and the men shot up before following him inside, Fenris closing the door behind them.

Donnic took his seat and gestured for the others to stand before the desk. They did so, their demeanours vastly different: Hunter, an accomplished rogue, appeared relaxed but the tapping of his foot and constant flexing of his hands told a different story.

Fenris, on the other hand, had reverted to his classic Coiled Spring stance. He had no idea what was coming, which he loathed. More importantly, though, his best friend Donnic was grieving, Fletcher was about to undergo surgery without yet knowing his sister's fate and as for Fenris? Just how did _he_ feel?

Aveline, a woman he'd looked up to and whose friendship he'd valued, had died _disappointed_ with him.

"I'll get straight to the point," began Donnic, and both men exhaled, shifting their weight. "Fenris, you're reinstated with immediate effect."

The elf audibly gasped, looking completely confused.

"I believe very strongly that's what Aveline would have wanted," he went on, his words oozing out of him like mud. "For my part, your actions—yours too, Darren—removed threats to both the Hawke family and the women of Kirkwall as a whole. I know things didn't go exactly how we wanted," he said, his voice straining, "but it could have been a lot worse. We've got you two to thank for that."

Fenris and Hunter looked at each other briefly before turning their attention back to Donnic.

"Now we come to the matter of your punishment. Whatever the outcome, you still went behind Aveline's back to conduct an illegal investigation, the consequences of which Darren and Clarence know only too well." Realising he sounded angry, he sighed. "But I'm not here to point fingers. What's done is done."

He handed a document detailing handwritten orders and terms to each man. "Two weeks on the Wall, early start, beginning tomorrow. A reprimand has been entered into your records and will last for twelve months from today. Any similar occurrences during that time will result in instant dismissal without a hearing or severance pay as well as possible imprisonment. In other words, _don't_ do it again. Any questions?"

"The Wall?" Fenris asked.

"Darren can explain that to you. See yourselves out."

Although taken aback by his abrupt dismissal, both men bowed but Fenris lingered for a moment, concern for his friend rooting him to the spot, an unspoken question on his lips.

"Was there something else?" Donnic asked, taking up a quill, his eyes on his papers.

"Um… no. Perhaps we can speak later?"

"All right."

"Fen." Hunter nodded towards the door, and the elf reluctantly followed him out.

Both men stepped out and closed the office door. "He's handling this well," Hunter observed.

"Or not," countered Fenris thoughtfully.

"Hm," Hunter mumbled. "I suppose we all have ways of dealing with things like this. I hear Bradley's taken it pretty hard, as has young Filbert."

"They were not to blame," the elf insisted. "They were in the thrall of a blood mage. Few can resist such powers."

Hunter nodded. "Exactly. Just like _you_ are not to blame for the captain's death. Oh, I know you, Fenris, and you'll find some convoluted way to appropriate complete responsibility for all the world's evils. You're thinking you don't deserve to be reinstated, either. Am I close?"

Fenris gave a small shrug, unable to argue.

"Forgive me for saying so, my friend, but you're just not that influential or important. None of us are."

The elf frowned, glancing up at his colleague. "Do you regret nothing?"

Hunter blew out a sigh. "Well, sure I regret that Clarence was abducted and that we lost the captain, but neither of us did that—Quentin's son did. If you hadn't had that gut feeling about Quentin, if we hadn't gone to investigate that day, then you might not be here talking to me now, and Hawke would be mourning his mother's death. Aveline might _still_ have died. It's all in the Maker's hands. Clearly, He had some higher purpose in mind for her."

"You are an andrastian?"

"When it suits me, yes," answered Hunter wryly. "I do believe it was Aveline's time, though. The Maker wouldn't have taken someone as important and respected as her without good reason. She's at His right hand, now, and probably telling Him there are going to be a few changes now she's around."

Fenris gave a grunt of quiet amusement before his expression sobered. "So why are _we_ still here? What purpose do we serve by remaining behind?"

"You mean why did the Maker spare us?"

Fenris nodded.

"It's simple—we're here to be strong for those who need us. We have to make sure everything runs smoothly for Donnic, because we all know he'll be appointed guard-captain, and he might struggle with that idea. We have to be here for our friends, particularly the ones hit hard by her death. _You_ have to be strong for Hawke and his mother. Just think how they must be feeling. Ma Hawke allowed that man into her home and almost married him. Mistress Bethany is in the Gallows. Hawke couldn't save Aveline. I know she was already… when he got to her, but still."

Fenris slowly nodded. "You need not remind me. I am painfully aware of how many regrets the Hawkes are entertaining."

"Then you know what you have to do. You can't afford to feel sorry for yourself. It won't bring Aveline back. They need _you_ to be strong for _them_."

"There is wisdom in your words," Fenris conceded, "I only wish… no, it doesn't matter."

"You wish what? Go on, tell me."

He hung his head, his voice barely a whisper. "I wish… I wish Aveline and I had not parted on such poor terms. Her last words to me were ones of censure, of anger. She gave me this chance, and I let her down."

"But she must have known we'd been right in the end, else she wouldn't have brought the guards and the templars in," Hunter reasoned. "She dragged half of Hightown along to rescue you and Ma Hawke. I'd say that means she thought a lot of you."

Fenris gulped, feeling something well up inside him. "Perhaps," he rasped. "Thank you. I will think on what you have said."

"Well, while you're doing that, would you like to visit Clarence in the infirmary with me? You don't have to stay long, I know you want to get up to the Hawke place. He told me he wants to shake your hand."

"I would like that." They started walking in the direction of the infirmary before Fenris glanced at his friend. "Darren, what is the Wall?"

"Oh, you haven't had the pleasure yet, have you? You know the perimeter wall that runs around the top of the Keep? It's one of the most hated patrols a guard can get. It's so unpopular that no one is permanently assigned up there, and it's normally used as punishment, or to test the mettle of new recruits, usually the loud-mouthed ones."

"Why is it hated so?"

"Because there's absolutely sod all to do. It's just window dressing, to show visiting dignitaries that the Viscount has so many guards that he can waste a few guarding _nothing_. I've done two shifts up there, both during blizzard season. There's no protection from the elements, and my bollocks were frozen solid within half an hour. We're well into Justinian now but donning a full suit of armour in the blazing sun is no picnic, either. You and I wear light armour so it'll be a little easier, but if it rains, we're fucked. Oh, and there are only two shift rotations, so you're up there for twelve hours instead of eight. You don't get paid any extra for that."

Fenris gave a stoic nod. "We should bear this punishment without complaint."

"Wait until you're up there before making declarations like that," Hunter quipped, "but yes, it's a fair punishment. I'm glad, actually, that Donnic decided to reprimand us. It wouldn't have felt right if he hadn't. Aveline certainly would have, Maker rest her soul."

"I agree," said the elf after a quiet moment.

"It's not all bad, though. We'll have each other for company, and a few of the new dwarves actually _volunteered_ for the Wall, so you'll see them, too."

"I take it they were surface dwarves?" asked Fenris as they neared the infirmary.

"Most of them, yes, but I hear one of them lost a bet so he isn't too happy being up there with all that sky. I'm looking forward to meeting them. They sound a rare bunch."

"That, they are." Fenris gave a thin, insincere smile, his thoughts on Fletcher and the rest of his adopted family.

**The Hawke Residence, Fletcher's bedroom**

Fletcher lay on his bed, propped up on several pillows as he softly snored, lulled into the Fade by Anders's sleep spell. The Warden mage was kneeling on the bed beside him, closely examining the wound on Fletcher's upper arm.

To Anders's great annoyance, Nathaniel had insisted on being present, as he'd dealt with this kind of injury before, and the two of them debated the best course of action to take.

"I might be able to extract the head backwards," Anders began, but Nathaniel shook his head, leaning over the prone Fletcher and pointing to the site of the wound.

"That is a hunting arrow with a steel head, which is barbed and therefore _designed_ to stay in the animal. If you attempt to extract it backwards, you'll shred the muscle."

"Okay," a snitty Anders replied, "so we should go with _your_ suggestion, then. What was it? Oh, yes. Push the arrow _through_ so it comes out the other side. Do you know how many nerves might be damaged by that? He could lose the use of his arm!"

"Yes, _could._ It will certainly happen if the muscle is damaged—no, _destroyed_ ," Nathaniel hissed, trying not to raise his voice but making his objection clear, "only he won't bleed to death my way, will he? _Nor_ will he be permanently disfigured."

Anders drew a slow breath, feeling anger gnaw at his insides. "Look, I _know_ it worked with Sigrun in the Blackmarsh but that was her shoulder. This is in his _arm."_

"Your powers of observation never fail to astound me," said the ebony-haired warden, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"Still fighting off the ladies with that dry wit of yours, _Nate?"_ Anders spat in reply. "You want to be a shit about this, fine. It's not like I expected any different from you. I didn't even ask for your help. If you're only here to—"

Nathaniel stepped back and crossed his arms, an eyebrow arched. "In case it's slipped your mind, you have a patient."

Anders pursed his lips and busied himself rolling up Fletcher's shirt sleeve for the fifth time. "All right, _you_ decide when this pleasant little exchange ends if it's that important to you."

"You're too kind. Now. Your patient. I have a thought, if you can swallow your pride long enough to hear it."

Anders fixed the rogue with a look of pure hatred, his nostrils flaring. "What."

Nathaniel again pointed at the wound. "Part of the shaft is still in place, so we know exactly where the arrowhead is. Could the head be cut out, presuming it hasn't penetrated bone? Yes, the muscle would be have to be incised but it would be more precise, and therefore more manageable, than the damage simply pulling the head out would cause. We'll have to cut anyway, whatever we do."

"It's _possible_ , I suppose," Anders said dismissively with a churlish shrug, loath to admit it was actually a good idea. "I'd have to go down deep, so the arm would be painful and stiff for a long time afterwards. The stiffness might be permanent, and there's no 'might' about it if the bone's involved."

"But could he regain full mobility?"

" _Maybe._ I'd have to keep the wound open and tightly packed because infection is almost a given. Just let me think a minute. Don't crowd me, Nathaniel."

"Fine." Shaking his head, the rogue moved away from Anders and looked out of a window while Anders cogitated. "I'll let the _genius_ work. Just remember—the longer you take to decide, the greater the chance of Hawke acquiring an infection. But you already know that, don't you? You're supposed to be a healer."

In his heart, Anders already knew Nathaniel's idea was their best option, but he'd be flayed alive sooner than admit that outright.

"It might be worth a shot," he said after some feigned contemplation. "If the arrowhead _has_ penetrated the bone, though, we'll find ourselves back where we are now, with only option one left open to us—pulling it out backwards."

Nathaniel turned away from the window and approached the bed. "But at least we'll have exhausted all other options."

Anders's eyes locked with Nathaniel's, and he nodded. "I suppose at least he'd still _have_ an arm that way. Back in the day, they'd have lopped it off."

"Then let's get to it," Nathaniel said. "Tell me what you need me to do."

"I thought you'd appointed yourself in charge here," sniped Anders, some part of him regretting his words as soon as they'd left his mouth.

"How about we forget that we despise one another for a while and help this man get back on his feet?" Nathaniel suggested, his tone even. "We can resume the name-calling afterwards if it makes you feel better."

With a sigh, Anders clambered off the bed, turned his back on the rogue and started unloading an assortment of potions from his pack. "I'll need some hot water." He quickly glanced over his shoulder. "If you don't mind."

** Later that day **

Fletcher started to come to, his eyes fluttering open and closed. After a moment, he remembered where he was, and why. Instinctually, he moved his right hand to his left arm, checking it was still there. "I've still got my arm, then," he mumbled, exhaling.

"Both of them, yes."

Fletcher looked to his side, finding Fenris seated next to the bed, a book in his lap. "Hello, Fen," he said, forcing lightness into his voice.

"Hello, there." Fenris put the book down and reached across, brushing a few locks of hair away from Fletcher's face. "How do you feel?"

"A bit fuzzy. And my arm hurts."

"That is to be expected. I have been given instructions not to let you rise for the rest of the day except to relieve yourself. I will assist, if need be."

Fletcher made a weak attempt at a smile but couldn't quite manage it. "Don't worry. I won't make you wipe my bum."

"Thank you, I appreciate that." Fenris rose from the small chair at Fletcher's bedside and sat upon the bed. "Anders is resting but will return later. He and Nathaniel were successful in removing the arrowhead from your arm."

Fletcher glanced down at his heavily-bandaged limb, which was tightly strapped to his chest. "Looks like a very thorough job. Lucky I have such a good healer as a friend, eh?"

Ignoring Fletcher's jibe at himself, Fenris nodded.

"How are _you_ doing?" Fletcher asked in genuine concern. "Are you still in pain?"

Fenris glanced at one of his arms, running the fingers of his opposite hand along his markings. "There is some lingering tenderness, yes. Your cooling balm—the one I apply before bathing?—has proven quite soothing."

"How long were you there, Fen?" Fletcher asked. "And don't change the subject. I want to know how long he kept you in that cage, how long you had to suffer that wretched ward."

"What would that accomplish?" the elf said kindly, stroking Fletcher's cheek. "It is over now. There was no timepiece in the room I occupied, so I do not know how long I was there for. What is important is that we all s—" He halted, watching the mage carefully. " _Most_ of us survived."

"How many were lost?"

Fenris sighed inwardly. His plan to keep Fletcher's mood positive was not going well so far. "Dearest—"

"How many. Please, love. I need to know."

Fenris softly cleared his throat, knowing Fletcher would find out from someone, and it may as well be him. "Four were lost. Knight-designate Menzies, Sergeant Malahide, Corporal Sissons and, of course… Aveline. I mean… Guard-Captain Vallen."

Both men's eyes slowly moved downward and for several moments, neither spoke as they remembered their fallen friend.

"She was there, in Lothering," mumbled Fletcher. Fenris looked up and waited for him to continue. "She lost her husband and I—we—lost Carver. I thought… I thought she'd always be here, you know? She was such a presence, it's… it's going to be bloody quiet without her. I—I keep thinking, if I hadn't been shot in the arm, if I'd been closer to her at the time, I might have—"

"Fletcher." Fenris brought his legs up onto the bed, slipping an arm through his lover's good one. "'If' is such a small, innocuous word, one that can easily invade our thoughts. Once there, it takes root and flourishes, until it becomes so much more than its humble origins promised. Do not let it in, for it will leave naught but sorrow in its wake." He firmly squeezed Fletcher's hand. "Do not succumb, my love. 'If' is pointless. 'If' changes nothing."

Fletcher closed his eyes and rested his head against Fenris's. They remained there for a while, content to simply be, until soft padding could be heard outside the door. A quiet knock sounded, and Fletcher called for the visitor to enter.

"Mother!" He plastered a grin across his face and Fenris began to rise, but Leandra held a hand up.

"Please, Fenris, stay where you are. You both look very comfortable there."

Fenris gave a silent nod, one eye on Fletcher as Leandra closed the door before she took a seat at Fletcher's bedside.

"Are you all right, Mother?" Fletcher asked hesitantly.

"I'm fine, dear," she said sweetly, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "My children—as well as Fenris and Varric—are safe. We are very fortunate and have much to be thankful for."

Fletcher sighed. "I know, but…" He paused, recognising that Fenris was trying to keep his spirits up, and that he must do the same for his mother. "Where _is_ Beth, anyway? I'd have thought she'd be up here, saying something like, 'Raise both arms if you're not an idiot'. And then raising her arms, knowing I _can't_."

He noticed a look pass between Leandra and Fenris, and immediately tensed. "Wait… she wasn't injured, at least I don't remember…" His eyes widened as he realised he hadn't seen Bethany since the demon had been defeated. "Was— _was_ she injured?" he asked, panicking. "What's going on?"

"No, she wasn't injured," answered Leandra, tamping down a frown. "The templars have her, darling. She's in the Gallows."

Fletcher's mouth slowly opened and he blinked, his breath rushing out of him. "And… and this happened _when,_ exactly?" he demanded, angry with them both without knowing why.

"After the fight. I decided not to tell you until after your arm had been seen to. Now," she went on, blocking her son's spluttered protest, "I don't want any silliness from you, Fletcher. She's safe and is being treated well. And don't be hard on Fenris, either. He didn't want to keep this from you, but supported my decision because he's a gentleman, just like you were raised to be, so we're going to discuss this _calmly_ , aren't we?"

Fletcher's free hand was covering his face as he struggled to take everything in. "I…" He uncovered his face and tried to sit up, Fenris assisting. "Okay… just _how_ do you know she's being treated well?"

Leandra indicated that Fenris should speak.

"I visited the Gallows this morning," he began.

"But you're supposed to be resting!" argued Fletcher, only to be silenced by a look from his mother. "All right. _Sorry."_

"I was informed that Bethany undertook her Harrowing this morning—successfully—and is to recuperate for the remainder of the day," Fenris continued, pausing while Fletcher groaned in relief. "The templars asked for the names of those who would be visiting her regularly, which I provided. I did not give yours for the time being. Visits must be arranged in advance and the templars have the right to refuse certain parties, but the names I provided met with no argument."

"Whose names did you give?"

"Your mother's, mine, and Varric's. I trust there are more, but I am not acquainted with her other friends."

"So you didn't see her, then?"

"No. As I stated, she is recovering from her Harrowing," Fenris said patiently.

"Right, you did say that." Fletcher sighed, frowning heavily. "I'm not going to be able to see her, am I?"

"Not necessarily," said Leandra. "True, you can no longer visit the Gallows, but we know First Enchanter Orsino makes frequent trips to the mainland, as do some of the senior enchanters. With a templar escort, of course."

"I spoke with Knight-Captain Cullen," Fenris added. "He did not say it in so many words, but I believe it will be possible for you to visit with Bethany away from the Gallows, after an appropriate amount of time has passed and it has been ascertained that she can be trusted."

"He said that?"

"In a carefully-worded way, yes. He also told me…" Fenris hesitated, looking at Leandra.

"It's all right," she said, looking troubled. "He needs to know."

"Know what?" Fletcher asked, and Fenris laid a hand on his arm.

"The knight-captain informed me that Quentin has been made Tranquil. In consideration of Bethany's arrival at the Gallows, he will be transferred to the Circle in Nevarra within a matter of days. Until then, he will be kept in isolation so there is no chance of them meeting."

"That was decent of Cullen." Fletcher drummed his fingers against his thigh, drawing a calming breath. "Thank you for taking care of that, Fen. I'm not happy that I'm only finding out about all this now, but… I suppose I understand why. I don't exactly take bad news in a measured way, do I?" He shook his head, his voice muted. "I always thought _I'd_ be the one to end up in the Circle. Beth was always so careful and discreet, unlike me."

"She fought valiantly to vanquish the demon," Fenris said. "Unfortunately for her, the templars witnessed her use of magic. Varric—now that he is calmer—told me they treated her respectfully, even after he threatened to do something unspeakable to their leader's, um… well, to a certain part of his anatomy."

"Good for him," mumbled Fletcher with another failed attempt at a smile. He glanced at Leandra. "Oh, Mother. How are you coping with all this? It's so much for you to deal with."

"Bethany is alive and safe." She looked down at her hands, which were neatly folded in her lap, and sighed. "I… cared for Quentin," she murmured.

"I know," Fletcher said, his eyes meeting Fenris's. "I'm sorry things didn't… well. I'm just sorry."

"But no matter how many times I think things over," she resumed, "no matter how many times I tell myself that he also cared for me, that he was only protecting me…" She clutched one of Fenris's hands. "I shall _never_ forget hearing you scream like that, both in the house and in that—that _awful_ place. And what he did to his son… to your arm, Fletcher… how could I have been so blind?" Her voice cracked and she stood up, Fenris pushing himself off the bed as she released his hand.

"I'm fine," the elf reassured her. "We are _all_ fine."

She stood with her back to them, struggling with her emotions. "Fenris, you _saved_ our family." She turned back, wiping her eyes. "I know Fletcher bought and paid for this house but he keeps telling me it's as much mine as it is his."

"That's because it is, Mother," Fletcher interjected. "Money has nothing to do with it. This is the Amell family home and is yours by right."

She nodded, making a valiant attempt at a smile. "And yours after me, my dearest son. I… wanted you both to know that you needn't hide anymore." Seeing the men's puzzled expressions, her smile became genuine. "What I mean is, I shan't expire if you decide to share a suite, which you already _do_. Of course, I'd prefer that you were married, but…"

"Mother!" Fletcher exclaimed, laughing, and Fenris started to cough, raising a hand to his mouth.

"This is _your_ home as well, Fenris, a place where you must always feel safe and welcome," she went on, clearly gleaning amusement from the men's embarrassment. "I owe you my children's lives and I consider _you_ family now, as do my son and daughter."

Fenris blinked several times and dipped his head slightly, Fletcher's resulting smile causing the elf's eyes to crinkle. He bowed to Leandra. "You honour me."

"Fletcher," Leandra said, "when you are well I want you both to fill that library with books and have that garden blooming. I want to see flowers and fruit trees, just like we had back home. I want laughter, song and light to fill this house. I intend to go about town this day and let it be known that the Hawkes are looking to employ a housekeeper, now that I don't have Beth to..."

She swallowed hard and straightened up. "We are _not_ going to let what has happened destroy our spirits. Beth is but a short distance away, and she will not want for company. We will best remember and honour Aveline by continuing with our lives and being _happy._ We will _never_ forget her."

"Never," Fletcher echoed softly.

"Never," agreed Fenris.

"And I'll not have that man's name mentioned in this house again," she finished on a determined note.

Fenris and Fletcher looked at each other and nodded their agreement.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Anders has left me with a batch of medicine for you," she said to Fletcher, whose mouth dropped open. "I'll warm it up for you."

"I _knew_ I could smell garlic! And _you_ can stop laughing!" he said to Fenris, who was failing badly at repressing a chuckle.

Leandra turned and headed out, looking over her shoulder before she exited. "Fenris, why don't you tell Fletcher your good news?"

She closed the door behind her, the men staring at it for a moment. "Your mother is a remarkable woman," the elf commented, returning to the bed and sitting upon it. "Just like your sister."

"Hm," Fletcher mumbled. "I think it'll take a bit more than a stirring speech, but yes, the Amell women have always been strong. Just like a friend of ours, eh? I'm really going to miss Aveline. Who else is going to keep us in line now?"

Fenris nodded and they shared a few minutes of quiet reflection.

"So, what's this good news, love?" Fletcher coaxed.

"Oh. Well, it is hardly cause for celebration considering everything else, but I have been reinstated at the Keep."

Fletcher watched the elf, keeping his reaction reserved. "I'm happy for you, Fen. It must feel a bit strange, though."

"It does," Fenris agreed thoughtfully. "Donnic was appointed guard-captain not long ago. He was the one who reinstated me."

Fletcher slumped back, giving a heavy sigh. "How's poor Donnic doing?"

"He is…" Fenris shrugged. "Carrying on. Just like your mother. He intends to call upon us this evening, after Aveline has been commended to the Maker."

Fletcher looked down at his lap. "They're doing it outside the chantry, aren't they?"

"Yes, alongside the guards and templars who fell with her. I am sorry you will not be able to attend."

Fletcher turned a sly eye to the elf, which was immediately met by a raised elven eyebrow. "You know, I _might_ be able to. I can walk. The chantry's not that far from here."

"Fletcher, _no_. You are to rest in bed. You lost a large amount of blood and are under the influence of several analgesic compounds. _That_ is why you are not to rise. Doing so will make you woozy."

"But if I take it easy and—"

" _No."_

Fletcher affected his most charming smile. "Look, love, I'm a healer, remember? I know what my limits are."

"So, as a healer, would you allow _me_ to rise from bed if I were in your position and 'drugged up to the eyeballs', as Anders so eloquently put it?"

"She was my friend," the mage protested with a plaintive look at the elf, avoiding the question. "I can't _not_ attend her funeral, can I? What kind of friend would that make me?"

"Bethany was also her friend," reasoned Fenris. "She will not be able to attend, either. It does not diminish the friendship you shared with Aveline, nor does it mean you cannot pay your respects. Remember her well, honour her memory and do not forget her, as your mother counselled. She would have understood."

"But Fen—"

"Imagine, if you will, that Aveline is standing here right now," said Fenris, changing tack. "What do you believe she would say to you, injured, confined and bent upon folly?"

Fletcher made a quiet snort. "She'd shut me down pretty quickly, that's for sure."

Fenris tilted his head, giving his mage a fond smile. "Precisely. Honour her memory. Do as she would wish."

"Not _all_ the time?" Fletcher bleated. "I'd never have any fun!" He looked up. "Sorry, Aveline, I love you but it's true."

"Not all the time, no. But you would surely not disrespect her wishes on the day of her funeral?"

"But she hasn't made any wishes!"

"Has she not? Do you know that for certain? None of us know what awaits us beyond this life. She could very well be standing here, only on another plane of existence. As a mage with a connection to the hereafter, you would not dispute that possibility, would you?"

Fletcher folded one arm and pushed his lips out in a pout. "You know, Fenris, sometimes you can be a manipulative sod."

"We are in agreement, then. The matter is now closed," decreed the elf as he hopped off the bed, a hint of mischief in his voice. "I believe I will assist your mother with your medicine. I know how much you enjoy it. I shall endeavour to expedite its preparation."

Fletcher scowled at his lover's departing back before sighing and settling down, staring up at the ceiling. He imagined Aveline, then, looking down at them all and having a bloody good laugh.

Having _fun._

A wistful smile came upon him and he held onto it, deciding it felt much nicer than dwelling on the hole her death had left inside of him.


	107. Boring Old Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anyone would think you've never seen a half-naked man before! Well, take a good look, darling! It's free! And there's no padding, either! This is all mine!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to CCBug for the support and encouragement I'd be lost without! 
> 
> Here's a fun little fact: Per Ardua Ad Astra's word count has now surpassed that of _War and Peace_ by Tolstoy! Thank you to all of you for sticking around for so long! :)

**The Hawke residence**

Fletcher held his breath and listened for the click of the front door. Leandra and Fenris had just left for the chantry, where Aveline was to be commended to the Maker.

Despite the conversation he'd just had with Fenris, Fletcher still wanted to go, and had weighed up the pros and cons, deciding that he'd take Fenris's inevitable anger on the chin. He just _couldn't_ be absent from Aveline's send-off.

After allowing a couple of minutes to pass—just to be on the safe side—he used his legs and good arm to haul himself into a sitting position, which left him slightly breathless, but not woozy as Fenris had claimed.

_Fenris._

"No, let's not think about… I might just manage this," he mumbled, looking around for something to wear. He couldn't very well attend his friend's funeral wearing nothing but his small clothes and a smile, could he?

He then remembered that his arm and shoulder were immobilised, meaning that getting dressed might prove a challenge, unless he wore a robe.

"Which would be stupid, seeing as one of the templars is being cremated and half of the Gallows will be there. Okay. Now I'm talking to myself." He looked up at the ceiling. "Unless _you're_ listening, in which case kindly avert your eyes. I'm not decent."

Finding his little quip quite amusing, he started to chuckle to himself as he unsteadily stood up, bracing himself against the wall with his good arm. "Bloody hell!" He sniggered, blood rushing into his head. "What's Anders put in my tea?"

Why did he feel so _silly,_ today of all days _?_

"It's a funeral," he said, forcing gruffness into his voice. _"Aveline's_ funeral."

That had the desired effect: the silliness was immediately supplanted by the empty ache in the pit of his stomach he'd tried so hard to suppress. With a sigh he weaved out of his room, forgetting that he wasn't dressed, and gingerly took the stairs, clinging tightly to the bannister as he descended.

"I don't feel woozy at all," he tried to convince himself. "Fen was just being protective."

_Fenris._

Fletcher halted mid-stairs and screwed his eyes closed, trying to eradicate the mental image of a _very_ cross elf, arms folded, lips pursed, eyes fierce. Then, a rolling pin appeared in the elf's hand, a scarf materialised on his head, and a frilly apron around his waist.

This was sufficient to assuage the severity of Fenris's reaction in Fletcher's mind, should he venture outside. Giggling inanely to himself, he headed in the direction of the parlour, a strange tapping sound from within drawing his attention.

"Oh, it's you." He walked to the ornate cage atop a small table, where Leandra's popinjay—a very colourful and noisy reminder of Quentin—was pecking its perch. "Hello, boy. Or girl." He selected a large sunflower seed from a pot next to the cage and passed it through the bars, giving a brief smile as the bird gently took it.

"We never gave you a name, did we?"

The bird responded with a loud _caw_ , dropping its treat, and hopped to the bottom of the cage to retrieve it.

"What am I going to do with you?" Fletcher asked. "It's not your fault the man who bought you turned out to be…" He sighed again, no longer feeling silly, but rather sick. "Mother's already thrown away every gift he bought for her, but we can't throw you away, can we?"

The nameless bird, having finished its small snack, climbed back to its perch where it resumed its housekeeping and loudly rapped the perch with its beak. Fletcher watched it for a few minutes, forgetting why he was downstairs in the first place, when an altogether louder knocking was heard.

With a frown, he tore himself away from the fascinating creature and traipsed to the front door. Without even thinking who might be there, he pulled it open, blinking as a small, green shape came into focus.

"Hawke! You're not dressed! Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Merrill?" he slurred, opening his eyes wide. "Y'okay?"

A loud gasp was heard from behind Merrill as a nobleman wafted past. "Well, I _never!"_ the outraged man exclaimed, quickly scurrying away, his nose high in the air.

"What's _her_ problem?" Fletcher retorted, cupping a hand to his mouth. _"Anyone would think you've never seen a half-naked man before! Well, take a good look, darling! It's free! And there's no padding, either! This is all mine!"_

"Get inside!" Merrill hissed, pushing him in and closing the door. "Are you even supposed to be up?" She clasped his chin and turned his head to face her. "You look funny. Sort of… befuddled. Have you been at the lyrium?"

"I don't know. I feel really weird but in a good way, like I've been taken out of my wrapper. Yes… unwrapped, you know? And my arm doesn't hurt anyone! Anymore, I mean! Yes, anymore!"

"Aaaall right," Merrill began, guiding him to the staircase. "Let's get you back to bed, now. Nice and easy."

"No, I can't, I was doing something." Fletcher halted and racked his brain for a moment before remembering that Merrill was standing next to him. "Hey, how _are_ you? That bastard knocked you out, didn't he? Are you feeling all right?"

She nodded quickly. "I'm fine. One of the healers in the Alienage has been taking care of me, and I've got a clean bill of health. I missed all the fun, didn't I?" She shook her head, then, and dropped her voice to a whisper. "I didn't mean… oh, poor Aveline."

He snapped his fingers. "Aveline, that was it. I'm going to her funeral. Are you coming?" he asked her, speaking rapidly. "Do me a favour and help me get dressed, would you?"

"I am going, yes, but I'm not sure you should," she replied. "I just came to see how you and your ma were doing."

"She's already left," he informed her, making for the stairs on wobbly legs. "Come and give me a hand and we can catch up to her. Although… we should probably stay out of sight, what with all the templars that'll be going."

"Does _she_ know you're going?" she asked sternly. "Does _Fenris_?"

_Fenris._

He sniggered quietly as Mama Fenris in the frilly apron appeared in his mind again.

"Hawke? Are you all right? I really think you should go back to—"

"Ooh! Come with me, I've something to show you." He grabbed her hand and led her to the parlour, noting with satisfaction that her eyes lit up as soon as she set eyes on the cage.

"Oh, he's gorgeous! What amazing colours! Hello!" she greeted the bird, running to the table.

"You like him?" he asked. "You can have him if you want."

Her mouth gaped and she looked up from the cage. "What? Are you… you can't just give him to me! He must have cost a fortune!"

He joined her at the cage and looked sadly at the bird. "He's lovely, yes, but he was a gift from Quentin."

She glanced at him warily. "Oh."

"I think it would be best if he's gone," he explained. "He was sort of an engagement gift, and Mother wants all reminders of Quentin gone. She's torn over our friend here, so I'm going to take that decision off her hands. Also, the nugs don't like him and I've had to separate them. I want him to go to a good home."

"Really? You'd just give him to me? But he's so… well, posh! I might get burgled."

"We'll sneak him into your house after dark so no one sees him."

She gave a gentle smile. "Thanks, Hawke."

"It's the least I can give you after everything you've done. And I can't imagine anyone else caring for him better."

She tapped the cage, laughing when the bird edged closer to her. "What's his name? What does he eat? Do you let him out of the cage for a fly?"

"He doesn't have a name yet and his wings are clipped, so he can't fly. We do let him out, though. He likes to see what you're up to and will follow you. He eats seeds, and fresh fruit and veg. He loves apples and carrots. He'll eat flowers, too, so watch it if you have any at home. They give him the runs."

"Flowers?" she scoffed. "You must think I'm rich or something."

"Oh, I—I'll pay for his food, don't worry," offered Fletcher, suspecting Merrill might not always have access to fresh produce.

"It's all right, I can manage," she replied. "I do okay, I sell potions and poultices on market days. I've got a little stall now."

He rested a hand on her shoulder. "That's great. Well, let me know if you need any ingredients. I get mine from Sol in the Gallows through an intermediary. And if you ever need anything else, anything at all, don't be afraid to ask. I mean that. I don't… I'm not trying to be condescending, I hope you know that."

"I know." She moved to his right side and slipped her arm around his. "You're going to be all right, you know, and so is your ma. And I'm certain Bethany will soon whip those templars into shape. I wish I could visit her."

"So do I." Feeling more sober, Fletcher clutched her hand. "Thanks for being such a good friend. I suppose I'd better get dressed. Can I trouble you to help with my tunic?"

"All right," she reluctantly agreed. "You know you're going to get told off, don't you?"

He shrugged. "Yes, I know. We'll need to keep out of sight of the templars, anyway, so we'll just hang back. Once the ceremony's over, I'll head home and climb back into bed. Fenris is going straight on duty afterwards. I'm not going to keep it from him, though, I'll tell him the truth when he's off-duty. I've _got_ to go, haven't I? It's Aveline."

She patted his arm. "He'll understand."

"You're optimistic, I'll give you that." Holding onto her arm, he allowed the elf to lead him out of the parlour, his heart heavy and his head swimming.

**The chantry courtyard**

The pyres were ready, all four of them packed with wood and tinder to ensure a long burn. The morning air was damp and humid following rainfall the night before, and the mood of the huge crowd, tightly squeezed into the courtyard, was just as heavy.

Near the chantry doors were the templars, Meredith and Cullen at their head. All off-duty guards—and some who _were_ on duty—were assembled next to the exits, barring further entry as there was no more room. Mingled in between were civilians and well-wishers, Fenris, Varric and Leandra among their numbers.

Right in the centre was the chantry contingent, led by Grand Cleric Elthina. A number of lay sisters and brothers including Sebastian Vael respectfully checked the structure of the pyres, ensuring they would withstand the flames without collapsing.

Just outside the chantry was a much smaller crowd, consisting of a handful of men and women. They kept out of sight, some hiding behind pillars and shrubs. It was known to the guards on the periphery that Fletcher Hawke, Anders and Merrill were among them. Suspecting that the majority of the group were apostates, the guards did not draw unwanted attention by looking at them.

Newly-appointed Guard-Captain Hendyr was flanked by his second, Evan Bradley, and Viscount Dumar at the foot of the chantry steps. Donnic was one of the _big_ people, now, a man who stood next to viscounts. Soon, everyone in the city would know his name.

He wished they wouldn't.

From where he was standing he could see her face, framed by golden tresses, a circlet of pewter—a posthumous gift from the viscount—adorning her head. Her skin was paler than ever, but not so pale that she didn't look like she was sleeping. At Leandra's insistence, she still wore the necklace she'd taken for safe keeping. Her sword was laid across her chest, her shield at her feet, her full guard armour maintaining the illusion of a mighty warrior.

Donnic had seen another side of her, though. He remembered that night at the warden compound when she'd removed her armour and he'd let her hair down. That night, she'd looked like a woman. Still tall, still well-built, but with smaller shoulders than he'd expected, with a nip in her waist and a curve to her hips. She'd turned to jelly when he'd kissed her and no matter how many times they'd clashed or bickered since then, he'd dreamed of making her his wife one day. He'd dreamed of the night they'd spend together and of waking next to her the following morning, their whole lives ahead of them.

But Aveline Vallen wasn't meant to be tamed. He knew, even when married, they'd have ferocious arguments. There would be slammed doors, long periods of not speaking, maybe even a black eye or two (of his).

There would be terrific make-up sex, though. There would be a meeting of minds, of wills, of intelligences. Their marriage would not have been a traditional one, with the wife barefoot and pregnant, her husband's dinner on the table when he returned home from work.

No, she'd sooner have thrown his dinner at him than play the dutiful wife.

Their life together would have been exciting, each day an adventure, and he wouldn't have had it any other way.

And children… would they have had any? How many? Who would they have looked like? Would they have followed their parents' example and enlisted in the guard, or would they have been merchants? Teachers? Farriers? Farmers? Publicans? Scholars?

He closed his eyes and hung his head, heaving a long sigh, regret and longing burning his chest. He remained closed-off with his thoughts for long minutes until a tap to his arm from Lieutenant Bradley stirred him. He opened his eyes, finding a sincere-looking, mature woman in front of him.

"Guard-Captain," she greeted respectfully with a dip of her head.

He returned the gesture. "Grand Cleric."

"My child," she said kindly. "It has come to my attention that you were… close to the captain. Would you like to light her pyre?"

Taken unawares, he drew a deep breath. "Um, all right, but I'm not big on speeches. I'd prefer not to—"

She gave a gentle smile and laid a hand on his arm. "There is no need for a speech, child. Leave that part to me."

He nodded, releasing his breath. "In that case, I'd be honoured. Thank you, your Grace."

"Very well. I will begin proceedings now. Please take your place next to her pyre. I will speak for a short time, and then the loved ones of the captain and those joining her will be invited to light the pyres. You will be assisted with this as it can take some time. I believe you know Sebastian. He is waiting for you."

Elthina stepped aside and Donnic, with a nod to the chantry's leader, walked the short distance to the foot of the pyre, where Sebastian was standing next to a brazier. They shook hands.

"My friend, it has been too long," said the archer earnestly. "I was grieved to hear of Aveline's passing. Rest assured, she has earned her place at the Maker's side. He will receive her with a full heart."

"Thanks," Donnic managed, roughly clearing his throat as Elthina held her arms aloft, stepping into the centre of the courtyard.

"Gentle people of Kirkwall," she began, and the assemblage fell quiet. "We come here today to honour and celebrate the lives of four brave souls, defenders of our fine city, all. They gave their lives so that we, their charges, might continue to enjoy liberty from tyranny and evil. We thank them for their sacrifice. It will not be forgotten, in this life or the next."

"Liberty?" Anders scoffed from outside the chantry. "Is that what she calls it? Well, of course she would. _She's_ not a mage."

"Shh!" Fletcher hissed as he strained to listen. "Can we leave the diatribes for another time, please?"

"I bid you now to join me," Elthina went on, closing her eyes and outstretching an arm. "Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places."

"Silly old biddy," one of the other apostates in the small group said. "Who put her in charge?"

"The Maker, apparently," Anders answered. "Like _He_ knows what's really going on. If He did, He'd appoint someone who actually _did_ something, instead of someone who does nothing but smile, never actually achieving anything useful."

"Will you shut up!" barked Fletcher. "That's my friend in there! Why are you even here? You can insult the grand cleric anytime!"

"I'm _here_ to pay my respects to Aveline. It doesn't mean I have to agree with everything that ineffectual old trout has to say."

Fletcher clutched his head and swayed, Merrill assisting him to lean against a wall. _"Show_ some bloody respect, then, will you?" she whispered harshly. "You're making him feel worse!"

"I _did_ leave instructions for him not to get out of bed," Anders replied, but finally relented when Fletcher gave him a black look.

"I'm grateful for what you did, Anders, but today isn't about you and your struggle! If you say one more word, so help me!"

"Understood." He sniffed, turning his back on Merrill and Fletcher and folding his arms.

They listened in silence while Elthina recited several verses of the Chant and paid individual tributes to the fallen. Finally, the time came for the pyres to be lit.

"Draw your last breath, my friends," she said. "Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven."

"Receive them," Sebastian uttered along with the Andrastian contingent of the crowd. He then took two torches from the brazier, passing one to Donnic. They held the torches against the base of the pyre as Elthina continued.

"Aveline, Jeffrey, Dylan, Niall, through Andraste's righteous flame I commend you to the Maker. Take your places at His side, now and for all eternity," she said as flames licked up the sides of the pyres. "Maker, lend Your strength and Your grace to those they leave behind. Tomorrow is a new day that brings renewed hope. The sun will rise and set, as it will the next day, and the day after that. Maker, Your humble servant beseeches You. Stand firm with them during the dark times ahead. The bounty of Your love is not for one, but for all."

Outside, Fletcher wiped a tear from his eye, a solemn Merrill squeezing his arm in support. "'Bye, Aveline," he said in a quavering voice. "Thanks for everything."

"Let's get you home," Merrill gently coaxed, noticing that the guards were letting people out. "All right?"

He nodded and stared ahead, a look of panic spreading across his face before he clutched his chest, exhaling.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I thought I saw Mother, then! Maker, that was close!"

"We'd best be quick," she advised, her face dropping as she glanced behind Fletcher. "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh? What do you mean by—?" Fletcher turned around to find a very cross elf, arms folded, lips pursed, eyes fierce. And _no_ frilly apron.

"I heard you were here," Fenris said in exasperation. "Must I tie you to the bed?"

"So that's what you two get up to behind closed doors," Anders quipped.

In a flash, Fenris stalked over to him, standing toe-to-toe with the possessed mage. "I should have known _you_ would be behind this!"

"What?" Anders spluttered as Fletcher leapt to his defence.

"It wasn't his fault, Fen! I was the one—"

"What manner of 'healer' would permit his patient to walk about after a major operation?" the elf accused, heedless of all three mages' protestations as he pointed at Fletcher. "Look at him! He can barely stand upright!"

Anders laughed in derision, though his own anger was not far from the surface. "You know, I'm not even going to bother. I don't need to justify myself to you and if you think I'd advise a patient of mine to go out immediately after a procedure, you're even more stupid than you look."

"Fen, please," Fletcher began, leaning heavily on Merrill. "This was my choice. Nobody forced me."

Ignoring him, Fenris matched Anders's arrogant bearing, his upper lip curling as he glared at the former warden. "Regardless of your role in this, you appear to have made no attempt to dissuade him from this foolhardy exercise! Now get him home before his Mother sees him. She is talking to a friend. You had better be quick."

Anders huffed, placing his hands on his hips. "I don't take orders from you!"

"As I am on duty, I would beg to differ," argued the elf. "Do you not think Leandra has endured enough without the added worry of her ailing son's actions?" he asked Anders, lowering his voice. "I _should_ have expected this," he added with a surly glance at Fletcher before turning back to Anders, "and so should _you._ Now if you are able to see past the end of your own nose long enough, your _patient_ needs care. Get him home _. Now."_

"Who do you think you are?" Anders barked, pausing when they received a few disapproving stares from passers-by.

"No respect, some people," they muttered.

"Let's go, Hawke," Merrill said quietly, slipping an arm around Fletcher's waist.

"Fen," said Fletcher, "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out like this. I was going to tell you, I swear."

"We will discuss this later," threatened the elf in a low tone. "Now _go._ I have a wall to guard, but first I must now stall your Mother before escorting her home. Hurry!"

"I hope your shift goes well," Fletcher called forlornly as Merrill led him away. "And thanks for looking after Mother. And for putting up with me. You _are_ still putting up with me, aren't you?"

"Come on!" Merrill urged. "The templars will be out in a minute!"

She finally succeeded in dragging him away, leaving Anders and Fenris to stare daggers at each other.

"So you're on the Wall, eh?" Anders sneered, having treated guards who'd been posted there for sunburn. "It's a muggy day. Watch out for thunderstorms. That lightning's bound to strike someone. I _do_ hope it's you."

"And watch out for the templars," Fenris retorted as Anders walked away towards Fletcher and Merrill. "They are bound to find someone. I _pray_ that it's you. _"_

He glowered at Anders until the three mages were out of sight before drawing a deep breath and going in search of Leandra.

He found her a short but safe distance from Aveline's pyre, where she was talking with the viscount and Donnic. Fenris stayed back, not wanting to intrude, but Varric spotted him and waved him over.

"You okay there, Broody? Did Hawke get home all right?"

"You _knew_ that he intended to come here?" Fenris began irately, but Varric held his hands up.

"I didn't know anything. I _do_ know Hawke, though. I would have been _really_ worried if he hadn't shown up. Are you telling me you didn't have at least an inkling?"

"No, but I should have." Fenris fell quiet and they turned to look at the chantry lay brothers and sisters, all bent in prayer at the foot of the steps.

"Nice day for it, I guess," muttered Varric. "Pity Sunshine couldn't attend. I visited her earlier."

"How is she?"

"She's making the best of it. She said the templars aren't as bad as some people think. She already enrolled in some classes, and she'd like to teach eventually. She'll be good at it."

"You must miss her," Fenris ventured. "I'm sorry."

"Eh." Varric clapped a hand on the elf's shoulder. "She's in one piece, which is more than can be said for the renowned captain." He turned and looked up at her pyre. "Maker grant you rest, Carrot-Features. It just won't be the same without you," he said with genuine regret, shaking his head.

They stood together in silence for a few minutes until Leandra joined them along with Donnic.

"Captain," Fenris greeted his friend. "I am due to begin my shift in a few minutes' time, but with your permission I should like to escort Leandra home first. If that is not possible, I am certain that Varric—"

"I've no problem with that," Donnic uttered in a hushed tone.

"Thank you," replied Fenris with a small bow as Leandra and Varric chatted among themselves. "How are you?" he cautiously asked Donnic. "If the question is not an inane one."

"Just trying to keep busy, Fen," he answered softly, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "I'll see you tonight. Ma Hawke's invited me for supper. You won't have to bow to me then."

Fenris looked up at Donnic, feeling a glimmer of hope that the new captain would eventually rally round, and that their friendship would not suffer for his new position. "I look forward to it. I hope that your day will be… a good one, if such a thing is possible."

"Same here. Well, I'd better get back to it." With a single nod, Donnic walked off, turning to look upon Aveline one last time before leaving the chantry, alone.

A throat was softly cleared from behind Fenris and he turned around, finding an awkward-looking Lieutenant Bradley standing next to him. "Good morning, Lieutenant," Fenris greeted.

"Morning." Bradley held Fenris's gaze for a moment before looking down at the ground. "I'm glad you came out of this safe, Fen." He heaved a sigh. "I wanted to say something to you."

Fenris lightly touched Bradley's arm. "There is no need. I know what you would say. You were a victim of Edmund and your actions were not your own. You were a source of support to me during my 'investigation'. Were it not for your help, which you rendered at great risk to yourself, none of us would have been here today."

Bradley shook his head. "I don't know if I'd go that far."

"I would feel the same, were I in your position," the elf consoled him, "but, as I am _not_ in your position, I know that you were not to blame. It will take time, but you _will_ arrive at the same conclusion, I swear it."

"You're a good man." Bradley held his hand out, and Fenris shook it. "Thank you."

"I must go," said Fenris. "I am posted on the Wall today, but will take my lunch in the Mess at two bells. Perhaps you would care to join me?"

Bradley managed a small smile. "I'd like that. See you there?"

"You shall. Farewell."

"Farewell."

They went their separate ways, Fenris towards Leandra and Bradley heading for the Keep. Feeling his spirits rise, Bradley bowed to Aveline's pyre before leaving the chantry grounds, ready for his first day as second-in-command of the Kirkwall guard.

**The Hawke residence**

Fletcher, Anders and Merrill arrived back with time to spare, Leandra turning up fifteen minutes later with Fenris, who immediately departed for the Keep.

As he was now dressed, Fletcher decided not to return to bed but to sit in a comfy armchair in the drawing room, his feet up on a small ottoman. While Merrill chatted with Leandra in the kitchen, Anders administered another dose of analgesics to Fletcher and examined his arm.

"I'm sorry about Fenris blaming you," Fletcher began as Anders changed his dressing. "I think that anger was meant for me. Unfortunately for you, you were the first person he saw with me, and that was that. He can be a bit unreasonable when he's worried." He sighed. "I'll talk to him when he's off-duty, tell him the truth. I'm sure he won't apologise, but I hope you'll accept _my_ apology."

Anders continued to wind the bandage around Fletcher's arm, giving no answer.

Fletcher fidgeted a little, reminding himself of how grateful he was to Anders and that he shouldn't be feeling _irritated_ with him. "So, um, how are things with you?"

Anders let out a quiet snort. "You didn't seem that interested earlier on when you were deriding my 'struggle'."

"That was because—" Fletcher bit his lip, willing himself to calm down. "We were at Aveline's funeral. I was _trying_ to listen. I _am_ interested, but that wasn't the time or the place. So, come on. What's been happening? Where's Mallory? I haven't seen her in a while. Ow!" he exclaimed as the bandage was pulled tight.

"Sorry." Anders finished the dressing and then retrieved his pack from a nearby settee, placing various potions and balms inside it. "If you must know, Mallory's returned to Darktown," he said with his back to Fletcher.

"Why?"

"Because… you remember when we suspected there was a mole? The old clinic?"

Fletcher leaned forward in his chair, the newly-administered medicine sending him giddy, and he sat back. "Oh, Anders. I'm so sorry."

"You knew, didn't you?" Anders turned back to him and leaned against the arm of the settee. "You suspected. You never quite trusted her."

"I didn't trust anyone from Darktown back then. As far as I was concerned, any one of them could have done it. How did you find out?"

Anders shrugged. "She told me." Before Fletcher could reply, he continued. "There's something else. She's got a daughter in the Gallows."

Fletcher's mouth dropped open. "You're joking."

"She _claims_ the templars were blackmailing her. I don't know what to believe, but something she said made me very uneasy. She said that a templar named Alrik—he was the bastard who made Karl Tranquil—threatened to brand Mallory's daughter if she didn't act as a snitch. Whatever's going on between me and Mallory, I can't ignore this."

Fletcher once again leaned forward. "You need to take this to the grand cleric."

Anders gave a mirthless laugh. "And what will _she_ do? Pat my hand and tell me the bloody Maker will take care of it? I don't think so! No, I need to look into this myself or nothing will ever get done."

"Yourself?" Fletcher questioned. "And just how are you going to do that?"

Anders cleared his throat and pushed away from the settee, fingering his pack. "Actually, that's where you come in. Well, Bethany, really."

"I don't think I like where this is going," said Fletcher in annoyance.

"Look, Beth's in the Gallows now. This is a perfect opportunity. All we have to do is get a message to her asking her to keep her eyes open. Maybe ask a few mages and sympathetic templars."

"She's only been there for one day, Anders! How's she supposed to know who the sympathetic templars are?"

"She's a clever girl. She'll cotton on pretty quickly," Anders began, but Fletcher interrupted.

"Wait, don't you have a brother in the Gallows? A _templar?_ Wouldn't he be the best one to investigate?"

Anders shook his head. "Out of the question. Do you have any idea what they'd do to him if they found out he was acting against one of his own?"

"But you're quite happy to involve my family?" snapped Fletcher. "My sister? We want her to gain the templars' trust so she can leave the Gallows, not get a reputation for snooping! Have you been planning all this? Did you really expect me to agree?"

Anders leaned against a wall, his arms crossed, his lips tight. "Forgive me for saying so, but you've never shown any interest in the plight of imprisoned mages. That's understandable—you've been a free apostate all your life, but I was hoping with Bethany's situation you'd take more of an interest. No matter. She's a grown woman and can make her own decisions."

Fletcher tried to stand but his head began to swim, the effects of Anders's medicine kicking in. "If I find out you've written to her there'll be trouble, Anders! Mark my words! You're going to have to find another stooge!"

"Stooge." Anders shook his head, his face reddening. "You really have no idea, do you? Whoever this 'stooge' is could become a hero to the mages!"

Fletcher groaned. "Oh, not this again."

"I _knew_ you didn't care!" Anders growled. "Do you really think it's right that a small child be made Tranquil because of the whims of a bent templar? Do you?"

"Of course I don't! But I'm not letting my sister get involved! You want someone on the inside, ask your brother! My family has gone through enough shit lately to last us a lifetime! You will _not_ contact Bethany, do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear." Anders gathered his belongings and headed for the door. "I'll be back tomorrow to change your dressing again. _If_ you want me to."

"Of course I do! Maker, Anders!" Fletcher sighed, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "Look, I'm _not_ unsympathetic! I was going to ask you, when I'm better, if I can help out in the clinic. I know I've always been promising to, but…"

"But what?"

Fletcher fell quiet for a moment, his posture slack. "I've been… I've kind of lost confidence in my abilities as a healer. When we were tending the injured, Samuel Verus was like a whirlwind. He was so professional, he made it look so easy. I know my arm was injured but I kept thinking that his skill level was way above mine. I want to… I want to learn from scratch from a _proper_ healer. From you. Maybe I'll see some things that'll make me understand the plight of mages better, I don't know."

From behind Fletcher, Anders started to laugh but there was bitterness and scorn in his words when he spoke. "Oh, I like that little touch at the end. Very nice. So what you're saying is, you don't want to work at the clinic to help me, but to help yourself. To get something out of me."

"What?"

"You're not willing to help me investigate things at the Gallows, but you're quite willing to _use_ me to better your skills, is that it?"

Fletcher half-looked over his shoulder, again struggling to sit up. "No! It's not like that at all! You promised me once to help me with my skills, remember? And I promised to help out. Can't we just help each other?"

"I don't think I need any help, but thanks all the same. Like I said, I'll see you tomorrow." Anders started to walk away.

"Fine! I'll ask Sam Verus, then! _He_ won't want something in return like you always do!"

Anders halted in the doorway and Fletcher waited for what seemed a long time, his stomach lurching when he fancied he heard Anders holding a whispered conversation with himself.

His eyes darted from side to side as he sensed Anders re-entering the room, but he didn't turn around, suddenly feeling very apprehensive.

"All right," Anders said, remaining out of sight, his voice unnaturally calm. "When you're better I'll start tutoring you. No strings."

"O… kay," Fletcher mumbled, not sure what was going on.

"See you tomorrow."

"Uh… yes, all right." He gulped. "Thanks, Anders."

He waited until Anders's footfalls grew fainter, and waited longer still before finally turning around, finding Anders gone. He held his belly, a very peculiar and unpleasant sensation taking hold of him.

What had just happened?

**Viscount's Keep, perimeter wall, later that day**

"Got a delivery here for Corporal Fenris! Where is he?" Corporal Baines puffed, struggling to carry a small wooden crate full of foodstuffs.

One of the guards near the upper entrance to the keep thumbed over his shoulder. "Round the other side."

"He bloody well would be, wouldn't he? I slog this thing up all the way up those stairs and he's round the other side. Typical." He adjusted the burden in his arms and continued on his way, grumbling under his laboured breath.

A minute or two later, he found Fenris with Sergeant Hunter, both men looking over the high Keep wall, Fenris on tiptoes to enable a better view.

"Here!" Baines grunted, dropping the crate to the ground at the men's feet and wiping his brow. "Blimey, I'm sure this thing's got heavier the longer I've carried it!"

"What's this, then?" asked Hunter, he and Fenris hopping down.

"Delivery for you, Fenris. One of Kieron's boys brought it up from the market. There's a note in the bottom. You had a tiff with Hawke, then?"

"You read it?" Fenris scowled, rummaging through to retrieve the note in question.

"Well, it's got to be cleared downstairs, hasn't it? It could be someone sending you poisons for all we know!"

Fenris unfolded the note, stepping back so no one else could sneak a glimpse.

_For Guardsman Fenris_

_Here's a little something to keep you and your friends going during your shift. This is a shameless gift in lieu of the apology I can't give you at the moment. I know you're mad at me, but I'll feel better knowing you've had something decent to eat. Make sure you get your proper share!_

_See you at home._

_Fletcher._

"D'you think you could fall out with Hawke more often, Fen?" joked Hunter as he looked through the assortment of treats. "There's some good stuff here—cheese, apples, pork, bread, ginger ale, candied fruits… hey, someone's had a go at these!" he protested with an accusing glance at Baines.

"Don't look at me! Sam says I've got too much sugar in my blood and I can't eat sweets!"

Hunter looked up as Fenris picked open a small wrapped package. "What've you got there, Fen?"

"Shortbread." Fenris shook his head, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. He sighed. "I suppose we ought to share this out."

"I'll get the men!" Hunter took off quickly, while Fenris pocketed the shortbread, not intending to share a morsel of that.

**The Hawke Residence, that evening**

"Wake up." Fenris prodded Fletcher's thigh, taking a seat in the opposite chair as the mage stirred.

"Mm?" Fletcher slowly opened his eyes, his heart rate quickening when the image of Fenris resolved.

"You slept through supper," the elf told him. "Donnic has just departed."

"I missed Donnic? Oh shit, I didn't mean… I hope he didn't think me rude."

Fenris shook his head. "We left you to sleep. You needed it. There is plenty of food left should you have the stomach for it."

Fletcher watched the elf carefully, detecting no signs of the anger he'd displayed outside the chantry. He decided this was not a good time to tell Fenris about the strained—and downright bizarre—conversation he'd had with Anders. Fenris had just pulled a long shift, and Fletcher wanted them all to have a peaceful evening. "I feel a little queasy, actually. I think Anders gave me something a bit stronger this time so I won't 'escape' again." He sighed. "Are you okay? Are… we okay? How was your shift? Was there any thunder?"

Fenris held a hand up. "One question at a time."

Fletcher exhaled and gave a nervous laugh. "Right, okay. I'm… sorry about earlier. I _was_ going to tell you when you finished your shift. It wasn't Anders or Merrill's fault, you know. Merrill wanted me to go back to bed but I think she knew I was set on going."

"I should have guessed you would go," Fenris said, his expression completely neutral, apparently not distressed that he'd wrongly blamed Anders.

Fletcher hung his head slightly. "I know I didn't actually promise not to go, but I still feel bad that I worried you. I _was_ going to come clean, I hope you believe that."

Fenris groaned softly. "Although I could cheerfully strangle you at times, I believe you."

"Good." Fletcher gave a tentative smile, but Fenris didn't return it. "So how was your shift? Did you get anything to eat?"

"If you mean 'did I receive your blatant attempt at inveigling yourself into my good books', then yes, I did." Fenris sat back, crossing one leg over the other, his fingers meshed together atop his knee.

"And did you get the shortbread?" Fletcher asked hopefully.

"I did. Thank you."

Both men looked at each other for a few moments, Fletcher making a valiant attempt at puppy eyes while Fenris's expression remained _neutral._ Eventually, the elf's mouth twitched, a huge grin lighting up Fletcher's face in response.

"You will be the end of me, Fletcher Hawke."

Fletcher managed to push himself up, Fenris leaping up to assist. The mage moved to the small settee and sat down, Fenris joining him, and they made themselves comfortable.

"So what happened during your shift, Fen? Anything exciting?"

Fenris shook his head. "Very little of consequence occurred. Darren and I distinguished four distinct pigeon calls and observed a cloud shaped like an anvil. I acquired a light tan on my face. Oh, and I received a gift, of course. Other than that, nothing. Although… I did hear rather an interesting rumour."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I heard that a certain nobleman in Hightown—not a _true_ noble with a title, you understand, but one of the new money riff-raff—entertains not only _male_ elves at his abode, but female ones as well." He shook his head, appearing troubled, and Fletcher gave him a shifty glance. "Quite the scandal, don't you know. The local gentry are up in arms over his depraved and uncouth behaviour. He was observed conversing with said female elf at his home this morning while in a state of undress."

"Ah." Fletcher cringed and rubbed the nape of his neck while Fenris sat back, watching him expectantly. "That _might_ have been me and Merrill. She called for me and I wasn't dressed. Some toff walked past and took umbrage at seeing me in my smalls. I… might have shouted at him a bit. My memory's not what it used to be."

"I see," Fenris drawled. "And was this toff suitably outraged? You _do_ know I consider the outraging of nobles to be a sport, don't you?"

"His face was _purple_ with outrage." Fletcher reached for one the elf's hands, clutching it tightly. "I did it all for you, Fen. I've only ever wanted to make you proud."

"Do you know something, Fletcher?" Fenris released his hand and stood up. "Sometimes you can be a manipulative sod."

"It's my illness," Fletcher claimed with a rueful smile. "Ah, injury, I mean."

"Hm." Fenris glanced down at Fletcher, a playful light in his eyes. "And lack of food, no doubt. What would you like?"

"Oh, not much, just a few biscuits and a cup of tea if you don't mind, love. As I said, I feel a bit queasy."

"Tea and biscuits for two." Fenris brushed Fletcher's cheek with his hand as he passed by. Fletcher reached for it and kissed it.

"Thanks, love. Hey, will you read to me for a bit when you come back? It's been a long time."

The elf nodded. "Of course. Anything in mind?"

Fletcher nodded at a small bookcase to his side. "I've acquired a copy of the _History of the Kirkwall Guard._ Do you remember Aveline said she was reading it that night when we got drunk at the coast?"*

"Ah, yes," Fenris recalled with a fond smile. "She attempted to beguile Donnic with the story of how many hundredweight of steel the guard used during the Blessed Age."

"We could find little nuggets like that and guess what Aveline would have thought of them," suggested Fletcher. "I think it's fitting today, don't you? I don't think she'd mind. She might even listen in and have a laugh with us."

Fenris met Fletcher's eyes. "I would enjoy that. Shall I ask your mother to join us?"

"Oh yes, she'd get a kick out of it, too, and she doesn't know how well your reading's progressed. She'll be pleasantly surprised."

"Tea and biscuits for three, then." Fenris kissed the top of Fletcher's head and left the room.

Massively relieved that Fenris was no longer angry, Fletcher sank back in the chair and closed his eyes. His stomach tightened when he briefly thought of Anders and what tomorrow's visit would bring, but he quickly opened his eyes, shaking his head to banish the thought.

"Tomorrow's a new day, just like the grand cleric said."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * See chapter 74, 'The Path of True Love'.


	108. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm to escort you to the First Enchanter's office."
> 
> "Oh? Doesn't he know the way here, then?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Texas-sized thank-you to CCBug for reading each stage of this chapter, as well as dispensing her usual invaluable advice, while driving across the USA! Welcome home, chick! :)
> 
> Please check out this fabulous rendition of the product of Fletcher's addled brain: Mama Fenris in a pinny. :) Thank you, Colhan the Deviant!
> 
> http://colhan3000.deviantart.com/art/Chibi-Fenris-Scarf-465049138?ga_submit_new=10%253A1404288357

** The Hawke residence, later that night **

"Easy," Fenris instructed as he supported Fletcher's injured arm while the mage attempted to raise it. "And down."

Fletcher winced as he lowered the arm. "How many's that now?"

"Two more to go."

Fletcher was seated on the edge of his bed, Fenris kneeling behind him, while Fletcher undertook the exercises Anders had prescribed to prevent his arm and shoulder from seizing up.

"Sorry. Did that hurt?" asked Fenris as he gently cradled Fletcher's elbow in readiness for the next repetition.

"No, it's just a bit sore. Better than it was, though."

"Good. Proceed, then. Almost there."

With an effort, Fletcher completed his exercises and was rewarded with a soothing massage from the elf. Knowing that Fletcher was still in some pain, Fenris was careful not to make the massage a sensual one, and quickly climbed off the bed when he was done, reaching for a comb on the dresser before returning to his spot behind the mage.

"I _can_ manage that, you know," Fletcher teased as his lover pulled the comb through his bushy hair, which he hadn't bothered to cut in months, and now reached his shoulders.

"I know. I just… want to."

Fletcher leaned back a little, easing himself against the elf. The sedative Anders had administered earlier that day had started to wear off, and Fletcher was able to think much more clearly. "Are you all right?" he asked Fenris, feeling the comb stop momentarily before the elf continued his strokes. "You've been awfully quiet since Mother retired."

"Just… thinking."

Fletcher turned his head back. "About Aveline?" he asked softly.

"About many things."

The mage pushed himself around, sitting at a right angle to Fenris. "Tell me," he coaxed as Fenris shuffled closer on his knees, laying the comb down.

"Oh, nothing world-breaking," the elf said with a smile and a mild frown. "It is just something your mother said. It made me think."

Fletcher watched him warily, his eyes wide. "Do you mean when she said we should be married? She _was_ joking, you know."

"Yes, I'm aware of that." His eyes met Fletcher's. "It's something I've given a great deal of thought to, even before your mother voiced her own… droll opinion."

Fletcher's expression grew serious. "Really? I—I had no idea."

"Did you not?" Fenris hung his head, snorting quietly. "I suppose I have given you no indication as to my feelings on the matter. I am well aware of the attention a miscegenating couple garners in Hightown."

"A… what?"

Fenris laughed softly, smoothing Fletcher's hair into shape with his fingers. "Forgive me. Me and my 'big words'. What I mean to say is, we are not exactly a conventional couple. Not to mention, an unmarried one."

"Since when have you cared what other people think?" Fletcher asked, wondering what was behind this. "Because I certainly don't."

"Nor do I. It is just…" Fenris sighed and manoeuvred himself to the edge of the bed, where he sat beside Fletcher. "Do you remember when I told you of Anima, the woman my imagination conjured while I lived under Danarius's regime?"

"The one you lived with in the little cottage? The herb garden?"

"Precisely." Fenris looked down at his hands, which were in his lap. "It was not so much the person that appealed to me, but the way of life. To own my own home, to live as a respectable person, to take my rightful place in society… I have always sought those things, but only recently have they been within the realms of possibility. Although I do not yet own my own home, I could easily afford to, and though many people will never see beyond these," he said, pointing at one of his ears, "I have secured employment in an honourable profession, and have a companion for life."

He reached for Fletcher's hand, and the mage held his gaze. "I do not know who would willingly unite a mage and an elf in the sight of the Maker, but it is my hope that one day…" He cleared his throat, as did Fletcher. "When I am truly free—when Danarius lies dead at my feet—I want to _be_ that respectable man, and I want you at my side. For the remainder of our lives."

For a short while, Fletcher was speechless. He knew how deeply their love for each other had grown, but neither of them had ever discussed marriage, partly because it was exceedingly rare for mages to marry at all, let alone for elves to wed outside their own race. Fletcher had always assumed that he and Fenris would just go on as they were, and had never considered how important being _respectable_ was to the elf.

He stroked Fenris's knuckles with his thumb, a soft light in his eyes. "This has nothing to do with Mother or the nobles, does it? This is about what you want."

"It is," replied Fenris. "What do _you_ want?"

"In my mind we're already married," he said, running his thumb along Fenris's Ring of No Significance Whatsoever. "You don't _really_ think I bought you this just to keep your finger warm, did you?"

A broad smile lit up the elf's face. "Not for a second."

Fletcher returned his smile and they inched closer to each other. "The only thing that matters to me is that we're together," said the mage, "but if you want to do this properly, if you want to make it official, then I'm all for it. I can think of people who'd conduct the ceremony but it might have to be done in secret, that's all. Mother and Father were married by a Chantry priest so I don't see any reason why mages can't marry. Thing is, in the eyes of the Chantry I'm not just a mage. I'm an apostate. The priest who married my parents wasn't aware of Father's status."

"Nor was your mother an elf," Fenris replied evenly, and Fletcher nodded.

"I'm not sure what the Chantry's stance on same sex or inter-racial marriage is," he said thoughtfully. "I know the elder in the Alienage conducts weddings, as does Keeper Marethari, but I doubt those ceremonies would be recognised by the Chantry, if that's important to you. If respectability is what you're after, I think a Chantry-sanctioned ceremony would be needed, which is unlikely given that I'm an illegal mage."

"I don't care what anyone else thinks," Fenris said firmly. "This is something I want for _us._ Chantry approval is not at the forefront of my mind."

"How about we ask the elder, then?" Fletcher suggested. "I'm sure he'd be happy to marry us if we make a contribution to the upkeep of the Alienage, and those elves know how to throw a good party. Just think—we could get hitched in the very place we first met. That is if you could bear the shame of marrying a shem."

"I have endured far greater trials." Fenris's smile returned and he tilted his head, gazing into his lover's eyes. "You are not just saying this to humour me? This is truly what you want as well?"

"Let's do it tomorrow," Fletcher said with genuine enthusiasm.

"Not… tomorrow," said Fenris quietly, his eyes moving to one side. "I will not commit myself fully to you until I am free of my former master. I know it should not make a difference, but it would not feel right otherwise. Rightly or wrongly, in the eyes of some I still _belong_ to him."

Fletcher nodded, considering his response for a moment. "I can see what you're getting at. But recent events have made me think that maybe sometimes it's better not to wait."

"You are speaking of Aveline and Donnic."

"Yes," Fletcher replied quietly. "Okay, I know they weren't _together_ in the way we are, but I think they had very strong feelings for each other. Aveline had a lot of trouble with that because of Wesley, but she was coming round." He shook his head and sighed. "They would have been great together. It's so unfair."

"Indeed." They looked at each other, appreciating how lucky they were. After a minute, Fenris lowered his eyes. "This is… difficult to explain. If we were to marry, that would be the final step for us. Once that step is taken, I want _nothing_ to sully our life together. I want us to wed more than you know, but while Danarius lives, I cannot. He means nothing to me, but when the time comes, when I take vows to make you happy and keep you safe, I want no obstacles to my fulfilment of those vows. Please. Tell me you understand."

Fletcher touched Fenris's cheek, gently turning the elf to face him. "Of course I do. I'm over the moon that you've even thought about this."

Fenris wound his arm around Fletcher's waist, laying his head on his shoulder. "I wanted you to know how I feel."

"Thank you for telling me. I already know how you feel, but hearing you say it out loud means a lot. There's… just one thing, though."

Fenris looked up, concern in his eyes. "Oh?"

"Well, this _was_ your idea, so when the time comes you're going to have to propose to me properly. With hearts and flowers and everything."

Fenris cocked an eyebrow, looking mildly disgusted. "Hearts _and_ flowers? Surely not."

"And _words_ ," Fletcher added. "I seem to recall you writing some rather nice love poetry a while back."

"You wish for me to recite poetry? When the time comes?"

"Yes, or just say whatever you feel. But I definitely want flowers. That's not negotiable. No flowers, no marriage."

Fenris glanced sideways at Fletcher, the mage's grin tickling his stomach. "I think I could manage flowers. But _no_ hearts. Deal?"

"Well, they do say marriage is all about compromise. You, my dear, have yourself a deal. Put it there." Fletcher offered his good hand to the elf, who grabbed it, using it to pull the mage closer.

"This is a relationship, not a business partnership," teased Fenris, moving his mouth close to Fletcher's. "I am very pleased that you are amenable to the idea of eventual marriage, but I believe a kiss, and not a handshake, should cement our new-found understanding. Do you disagree?"

"Less talk, more cementing," Fletcher mumbled dreamily, laughing in delight as his fiancé's lips met his.

** The Gallows, the following morning **

Having bathed and dressed, Bethany opened the door of her new bedroom—her 'quarters' as the templars called it—and stepped out into the hallway, listening for voices or signs of activity. Hearing nothing, she closed the door and started walking towards what she remembered as the apprentice's hall, where she'd slept off the after-effects of the Harrowing.

A nearby mana discharge thrummed through her blood, followed by another, then another, like a slow pulse which originated from inside her. She'd been told about this by some of the apprentices the day before: this was one of four times each day when the use of magic was sanctioned by the templars, albeit under heavy guard. She guessed a class or training session was taking place, and stood still for a moment to experience it.

The part of her that sensed other mages' powers was accustomed to silence—as an apostate she was used to severely curtailing her own arcane activities, as had Fletcher and their father before them. But this constant, gentle sensation was agreeable and soothing, and she closed her eyes, the harmonics of the magi playing tunes across her consciousness.

"Excuse me, mistress. Are you lost?"

Her head swam at the interruption and she blinked several times, a tall, blond templar slowly resolving in her vision.

He held his hands up. "Sorry. I should know better than to do that." He paused, his eyes narrowing by an infinitesimal amount as she focused on him. "You're… Mistress Hawke, aren't you? Brought in yesterday?"

She concentrated on his face. He was a stranger and yet his features were so familiar. Was this the man Fletcher had told her about? Anders's brother? Was that why he looked a little anxious?

"That's right," she answered pleasantly. "And you are Ser…?"

"Ruben," he said with caution. "I'm to escort you to the first enchanter's office."

"Oh? Doesn't he know the way here, then?"

He gave a brief laugh before coughing lightly. "It's just procedure. Well, follow me." He walked ahead, Bethany quickly moving to his side.

"What does someone so important want with me?" she cheekily asked.

He shrugged as they walked along, rounding a corner. "All newly-harrowed mages see him to receive their enchanted robes and a few magical trinkets. I couldn't tell you what's said in there, though. The likes of me aren't allowed in. It's all very mysterious."

"What if I invited you in? Said you're with me? We can't have you losing sleep over what we're talking about in there."

He gave a thin smile. "I can't say I lose sleep over it, but I would advise you to make the most of the privacy. It's the last you'll be getting for a while," he warned, his tone sombre. "If you have anything to ask—anything you wouldn't want said in front of a templar—Orsino's the one to talk to."

"I'm surprised to hear you giving advice like that," she remarked, coming to a stop when Ruben opened a heavy iron door with a key from a bunch hanging from his sash, ushering her through.

"Templars don't all have red eyes and sharp fangs, despite the way some portray us. Most of us believe mages are just ordinary people with extraordinary powers," he whispered as they approached Templar Hall. "I said _most._ Not all. Be on your guard until you know this place and its denizens. Keep your head down, don't draw adverse attention to yourself, and you'll be fine."

They reached a door and he raised a finger to his lips before rapping on it. Then he turned and bowed to two approaching templars—one a woman with blond hair and eyes like ice, the other a red-haired man with what looked like the weight of Thedas upon his brow. The woman gave a curt nod before opening the door on the opposite wall, while the man returned Ruben's bow, catching Bethany's eye as he straightened up. He quickly turned and followed the woman into an office before closing the door.

"Who are they?" she asked.

"Enter!" called Orsino from his own office.

"That's the knight-commander and knight-captain." He pointed at Orsino's door. "You'd better go in."

"You sure you won't come with me?" she asked, and he smiled again.

"Not unless you want to see Orsino kick me out. But maybe you _would_ like to see that, I don't know."

She pulled a face, shook her head and leaned closer to Ruben. "What's Orsino like?"

"He's an excellent advocate and spokesman for the mages." He pushed the door open and held it for Bethany, who stepped forward. "Mistress Hawke to see you, First Enchanter."

Orsino rose from his seat. "Ah, yes. Welcome, Bethany. Please be seated." He glanced at Ruben. "Thank you, Knight-Lieutenant."

"Yes, thank you," Bethany echoed with a friendly smile.

Ruben stepped back and closed the door before turning and retracing his steps. On his way back, a junior colleague hailed him, passing him a sealed note.

"Ferry just brought the post in. You seen Kennedy? Alton? Campbell?" he asked, sifting through some more letters.

"Campbell was right behind me. Don't know about the others," answered Ruben.

"Thanks."

Ruben watched his colleague depart before tearing open the note, frowning when he recognised the handwriting.

 _I need to see you as soon as you get this. It's important. You know where I am._

_~A._

With a soft sigh, Ruben folded the note and tucked it inside his gauntlet, venturing a glance around before continuing on his way.

** Viscount's office **

"And now, to guard business," said Viscount Dumar, addressing Donnic and Bradley, who were seated in front of his desk, Seneschal Bran to his side. "Is there anything of import you wish to bring to my attention, Guard-Captain?"

Donnic had attended the daily meeting between Aveline and the viscount a few times before, and knew what was expected of him. The irony that he was now in Aveline's place—and Bradley in his—was not lost on him. He shifted his weight, none of this feeling real to him, but he'd learned over the past couple of days that he could be quite an accomplished actor when he put his mind to it.

"Yes, your Excellency. This morning five guards visited my office with the intention of 'talking me out' of offering the dwarves permanent positions within the regiment. When I made it clear I wasn't going to be dictated to, they gave me an ultimatum—get rid of the dwarves or they'd walk. You can guess the rest."

"I see," Dumar replied calmly. "And have the dwarven recruits given your men any reason for this churlish behaviour?"

Donnic shook his head. "None whatsoever. They're not afraid of hard work and they don't complain. They're straight-talking but none of my men or women are delicate hothouse flowers, and if they are then they shouldn't be in the job. As the dwarves are not accomplished riders I've put them on sentry duty until full training can be arranged, but that meant reassigning some of the humans. I think it ruffled a few feathers."

"But surely each guard knows that they are subject to reassignment at any time, depending upon the demands of the regiment?" Bran questioned.

"They know that very well," answered Bradley. "There's nothing but bigotry behind this."

"Aveline—" Donnic sat up straight and cleared his throat. "Guard-Captain Vallen encountered a similar problem when Corporal Fenris was put in charge of an investigation. I think it was four walk-outs and two no-shows."

Dumar nodded. "Do you anticipate this being a problem, Captain?"

"Only if more end up walking out. Most of the regiment welcomed Fenris but I've heard a few murmurs of discontent from a small minority, especially since the dwarves arrived. I'm not expecting everyone to embrace so big a change—after all, the Kirkwall guard has been a human-only institution until recently—but I _do_ expect them to work together and put their personal feelings aside. Times have changed, and people need to accept that."

"Well, quite," agreed Dumar. "What do you intend to do to remedy this situation?"

"A clear message needs to be sent out that _all_ are welcome in the guard, and that I won't submit to blackmail," Donnic said. "I think I'll put some recruitment posters up in the Alienage. With your leave, of course, Excellency."

One of Bran's eyebrows shot up while Bradley fought to subdue a smile.

"Risky," Dumar stated, steepling his fingers on the desk. "Are you a gambling man, Captain?"

"I've been known to have a flutter from time to time, yes."

"And what if there _is_ interest from the elves?" Bran asked. "What would you do with them? Save your 'walk-outs', the guard is now at capacity. Do you intend to create roles simply to accommodate the surplus? The city cannot entertain such unnecessary expenditure."

"It won't be unnecessary," Donnic replied. "Captain Vallen wanted to implement a reserve guard to be called upon in times of crisis. We've had very little interest from the human contingent of Kirkwall which, interestingly, makes up around eighty-five percent of all arrestees."

"That _is_ interesting," said Dumar. "Go on."

"Evan, you had some thoughts on this," Donnic prompted, and his second sat forward, addressing the viscount.

"Without meaning to generalise, elves tend to make natural archers and scouts, something the regiment _is_ short of. If the city's prepared to fund training for any interested parties, we could have them on standby, only paying them when they're needed. Any outstanding candidates would be offered a permanent position—as you said, Seneschal, we are short after the walk-outs. We really could have done with reserves when the poison gas was released in Lowtown. The captain—that is, Captain Hendyr—plus a few others were injured, and we struggled to find cover for those who'd been up all day and night."

"From what I heard, you _couldn't_ find cover," Donnic interjected, "meaning parts of Hightown were without a guard presence for days. There just weren't enough bodies. Evan himself was awake for nearly forty hours because he was the only one available with enough experience to lead. Pickpocketing, muggings and burglaries—crimes normally associated with Lowtown and Darktown—went through the roof. There was also a sexual assault, the first I'd heard of in Hightown since I joined the guard. That's completely unacceptable."

Bradley nodded his agreement. "That's right. It took us over a week to get straight. If we'd had reserves, it wouldn't have been an issue. We also had problems with the templars. We could have done with their help but all they were bothered about was apprehending two apostates who happened to save countless lives that night."

The viscount grunted, his expression grave. "Yes, I recall Guard-Captain Vallen bringing that matter to my attention. I wrote to the knight-commander expressing concern, but her reply was… rather concise." He sat up straight. "Very well, you've made your case. What are your long-term goals for this initiative?"

Donnic answered. "The dwarves can't ride, as I said, nor can they run very fast, but they _are_ intimidating. They'll eventually make up the majority of sentries at the Keep and can double up as bodyguards for you or any VIPs. The human contingent of the regiment will continue as they always have and will constitute the mounted patrols, while the elves will specialise in archery and scouting— _if_ they show any interest. That's the plan, although I'm sure there will be wrinkles to iron out."

"And who will train all of these people?" Bran queried.

"Fenris, Wainwright and Vonim—one of the dwarves—are two-handed specialists. Evan here already instructs in sword and shield, as well as Sergeant Grant, who is also one of our horse trainers. Sergeant Hunter and Corporal Hayes are accomplished archers and scouts. We're not short on trainers, Seneschal."

A slight smile appeared on Dumar's face. "Put your posters up, Captain. You'll have your funding."

Donnic dipped his head. "Thank you, your Excellency. Your support is appreciated."

"Now, was there anything else?"

Donnic and Bradley exchanged a glance, both men shaking their heads in unison. Dumar stood up, the other three men following. "Keep me apprised," ordered the city's leader. Donnic and Bradley bowed and turned for the door, almost colliding with the viscount's son, Seamus, as he swept into the office.

Father and son stared at each other for a moment. "That will be all," said Dumar in a low voice, dismissing Bran and the two guardsmen, who were already on their way out.

Waiting until the door was closed by Bran, the viscount folded his arms, disapproval written all over him.

"Well, Father? Don't you have anything to say to me?" Seamus demanded impertinently.

"What would you have me say? You've made your point quite clearly and seem hell-bent on humiliating me _and_ this office. I suppose you're here for money?" he asked, his voice tinged with disgust.

Seamus mirrored his father's posture and slowly nodded his head. "Money. That's what you think of me, is it? I've never asked you for money and I don't want it now. I came here to see if you'd become more open-minded since I last saw you, but I guess that was too much to hope for."

"No, _you_ are too much, Seamus!" hissed the older man, momentarily losing his composure. "You forget yourself. Few are fortunate enough to have enjoyed such a privileged upbringing. From the day you were born, you have been groomed to be my eventual replacement. Exclusive schooling, comportment lessons, introductions to the highest echelons of Kirkwall society—"

"And did you ever stop to consider that I might not _want_ any of those things?" retorted Seamus, his cheeks red with indignation. "Did it ever occur to you to let me make my own choices, and to accept those choices without looking down your nose at me like I'm one of the servants?"

" _Duty_ is not a choice!"

Seamus stepped closer to his father, his chest heaving. "Yes it is! And I choose to reject it! You've never once asked me what I want! While I was being 'exclusively schooled' by one of your hand-picked tutors, I used to look out of the window and see all the other children playing together, but I was never allowed to mix with them because they were beneath my station. _Your_ words, Father. Oh, and do you remember that girl I was rather fond of last year? The one you told me was not of 'correct stock'? Well, she's married, now. I just wanted you to know that because I'm reminded of what I lost each and every time I see her about town on her husband's arm!"

The viscount turned towards his desk, his hands tightly gripping its edge. "I have only ever sought what is best for you," he said wearily, slowly turning back to his son. "Why can you not see that? Why must you persist with this–this confounded rebellion?"

"I was a coward when I capitulated to you over Rosalind but I'm no longer that man. The Qun has given me clarity and a sense of purpose that you can only dream about, Father. This is no rebellion. This is what _I've_ sought. You're going to have to accept that I'm my own man and that I'm free to choose."

"Yes, yes," Dumar said bitterly. "While you're busy being your own man, have _you_ stopped to consider how your conversion to a heathen philosophy might reflect on me, on this office? Do you forget it was the Chantry itself that appointed me, that they indirectly schooled you and gave you meat and fish at every meal? That they afforded you a life of luxury and privilege, and now you are taking up with their sworn enemies? No, of course you can't see that. You're too busy being _your own man."_

"And what of love?" blurted Seamus. "Did your precious Chantry factor that in? Because I don't remember it while I was growing up and being raised by people who weren't you! Well, Father, you needn't worry about me and my heathen friends making you look bad. I'm moving into the compound. I won't trouble you again." He turned on his heel and went for the door.

"I am glad your mother did not live to see this day," Dumar said, his voice rough.

"I was wondering when you'd stoop low enough to mention her," replied Seamus quietly, his back to his father. "I'm also glad she didn't live to see this. It would have broken her heart."

He calmly opened the door, exited and closed it behind him.

The viscount moved to his window, his exhalations as tremulous as his hands, and looked out over Hightown, perceiving only blank faces, all of them heading his way. Want, want, want. Everyone _wanted_ something from him, but he lacked the power to give it to them. He was nothing but a figurehead, and one that had made a mess of raising his own son.

How, then, could he effectively govern a city when his own house was in such disarray? He felt as though he'd been cast adrift and was being buffeted here and there with no destination in sight. He hadn't been given the _choice_ Seamus so vehemently exercised. He hadn't had the time to be a father while his son was growing up—there were always servants and retainers to do that job for him. But that was the way people of his station had always raised their children. What other way was there?

Seamus was adrift, too, and had latched onto the Qun like a piece of flotsam, hoping it would keep him afloat long enough to bear him ashore. But the seas father and son drifted on were in different locations, different times, even; the gentle but insistent motion of the waves pulling them ever further apart.

Somewhere along the line Marlowe Dumar had lost sight of what was important. But there was no going back. There was only the inexorable passage of time—and, his dotage fast approaching, Dumar's was running out.

He caught the tear that slipped from his eye before it dripped onto his doublet, which would have left a mark. Always so ordered, so proper. Heaven forfend anyone witnessing him behaving like a human. And Maker take him before he had the courage to tell his son how dearly he loved him, and that Seamus—the image of his mother—would always be a two-year old with bright, adoring eyes to him.

It was Bran's knock at the door which snapped him back to the present, but the seneschal's distinctive rap was not as precise, or loud, as it usually was. Dumar closed his eyes. "Come."

Bran cautiously entered, the door shutting with a quiet click. "What do you need me to do, Excellency?" he offered, not needing to ask if things had gone badly.

"Have a message sent to the Arishok. I want a meeting at a venue of his choosing. Send for Hawke as well. No more intermediaries. No more _pandering."_

Bran resisted the impulse to clear his throat and took a further step into the office. "I'm certain you're aware of the potential ramifications a meeting between you and the Arishok could bring about."

"Fully aware, yes," the viscount replied, still facing the window.

Bran released a soft sigh, his concern for his employer outweighing his deference. "Marlowe… are you aware that Hawke is an apostate? Do you really consider him a suitable person to arbitrate such a meeting? You already risk the Chantry's wrath by—"

"Carry out my orders," said Dumar in a cold, clipped tone before he sighed, turning his head back slightly. "Your concerns are noted and appreciated, my friend."

"I'll have them ready for your signature within the hour." With a bow, Seneschal Bran left the viscount to his thoughts.

** Lirene's Fereldan Imports **

"You really need to stop coming in here wearing _that,"_ Lirene said, pointing at Ruben's uniform. "You're scaring the refugees away."

He glanced down at his attire. "But this is what I wear," he replied evenly. "Is he in residence?"

She sighed, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. "Yes, he's 'in residence'," she said, making air quotations with her hands. "Get the door," she ordered one of her staff, who kept a look out while Ruben moved the table and chairs aside, revealing the trapdoor to the clinic.

His heart heavy after such an unwelcoming reception, Ruben took the stairs, announcing himself before reaching the bottom. He found Anders seated at his desk, which was almost as messy as Fletcher's.

"Luka," he began with a hesitant smile. "It's good to see you."

Anders rose and walked up to his brother, offering a perfunctory handshake. "How've you been?" the mage asked, though he sounded far from interested.

"Well," answered Ruben warily. "You?"

"Oh, just peachy." Anders returned to his seat and watched Ruben, who was getting the distinct impression he was about to be accused of something.

"Your note said it was important?"

Anders sat back, folding his arms. "How well do you know the internal workings of the Gallows? I mean what _really_ goes on in there."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, how about I give you an example? Let's say someone I know has a child who resides at the Gallows. The child obviously hasn't been harrowed yet, but the threat of the brand hangs over its head."

" _Do_ you know someone like that, Luka, or are you playing games with me?" Ruben asked, feeling more than a little upset by his brother's cold demeanour.

"I never play games." Anders leaned forward, his palms splayed on the desk. "Do you know Ser Alrik?"

"I know the name."

Anders nodded. "Do you. And do you also know that he's been blackmailing the child's mother for information on apostate movements and, now that the information has dried up, he's claiming he has the power to make the child Tranquil to punish the mother for her lack of co-operation?"

Ruben licked his lips, the colour leeched from his skin. "Do you have proof of this?"

"Do you _need_ any? Isn't it enough to hear it from me?"

"I cannot do anything without proof," Ruben stated. "Me and my fellows are accused of misdemeanours on a daily basis. Why, only two days ago an apprentice accused me of touching her inappropriately simply because I grabbed her, moving her out of harm's way, when she had not adequately shielded herself against a flame spell. We are easy targets, and more vulnerable than people realise."

"And did you?"

Ruben blinked. "Did I… what?"

"Touch her inappropriately?"

Ruben's face slackened. Without another word, he turned and started up the stairs.

"Wait!"

Ruben halted, his heart beating rapidly, and turned to face his brother, who now wore an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I know you wouldn't do anything like that. I just… things get on top of me sometimes."

Ruben waited and, when no more words were forthcoming from Anders, he crossed his own arms, put on the defensive. "Well?"

Anders affected a frown that did not appear genuine to Ruben. "I need to know if you can look into this for me. You're a decent man, and I know you wouldn't turn your back on something like this."

"You're using me," accused Ruben, his voice deadly calm.

"And what else can I do? I can't just walk into the Gallows and demand action, can I? And the grand cleric's about as much use as a glass hammer!" He stepped closer to his brother. _"Are_ you going to do something about this or not?"

Ruben watched Anders for a minute, barely recognising the man who stood before him. Eventually, he sighed. "If there is truth in this, it must be brought to light. But I cannot simply throw wild accusations around. I need time."

"The child may not _have_ time. And this is the only case I know about. How many others are there?"

"I will do what I can. Now I must go." Ruben headed up the stairs but stopped before he reached the trapdoor. "Do not write to me at the Gallows again," he said. "I will contact you when I'm able. Are you aware that templars can detect the tiniest amount of mana residue on documents? If it became known that I'm corresponding with an apostate—"

"I used gloves. I'm not stupid," snapped Anders.

"Do not write to me again," Ruben repeated before flipping up the trapdoor, "unless it is to genuinely enquire about my wellbeing. I have written several such letters to you, but have received no answer."

"I've been busy!"

The trapdoor was dropped down, and Anders stared at it for a while before returning to his desk. Sitting down, he reached for a small pile of letters bearing Ruben's hand and spread them out over the desk. He screwed his eyes closed, thinking of Mallory and Hawke, two people who had used _him._

"What goes around comes around," he muttered before sweeping the letters off his desk with his forearm.

** Chantry courtyard **

After the meeting, Donnic decided to take advantage of his new position and go for a walk. Not a patrol, not an unannounced inspection of his guards, but a simple stroll to clear his head. He'd left the Keep with no clear idea of where he was going, but had found himself entering the chantry grounds, not remembering how he'd got there.

A few people milled about, but a lone figure, standing next to the space which now occupied Aveline's final resting place, immediately caught his eye. The man, dressed in smart clothing, was crouching next to the chantry steps and looked around furtively before laying a small posy on the ground. Then, standing unsteadily because one of his arms was in a sling, the man stared into space, lost in thought.

Donnic approached him obliquely, not wanting to startle him, and waited until Hawke became aware of him.

"Donnic," Fletcher breathed, caught unawares. "I was just—"

"Very nice," Donnic said with an approving nod.

"They're calla lillies," Fletcher explained. "Very expensive and showy. I doubt Aveline would have approved, but they were all I had."

A soft grunt left Donnic's mouth. "You're probably right. Marigolds would have been more to her liking."

"I didn't know where to get hold of copper ones," said Fletcher quietly, both men appreciating the joke, but finding they were unable to laugh.

"How's the arm?"

They each released a pent-up breath, glad of the change of subject. "Oh, not too bad. Getting better all the time, you know? At least today I haven't needed whatever it was Anders gave me yesterday. You probably heard about my outrageous behaviour," Fletcher replied with a rueful grimace.

"Hm. A few nobles have been in this morning petitioning to have you evicted."

"Can they _do_ that?"

Donnic shook his head. "They can petition all they want, but no, you can't be evicted from your ancestral home. Seneschal Bran told them all if they don't like Hightown, they're free to move elsewhere."

"Really? I would have thought he'd be the last person to stand up for the likes of me."

"I don't think it had anything to do with standing up for you, Hawke, but even he gets sick and tired of their complaints. He and the viscount have a lot going on and they don't have time to coddle the nobles at the moment. They're not a happy bunch."

"Then my work here is done."

Both men gave a hollow laugh, neither finding anything more to say. A lull took their conversation and Fletcher, disliking uncomfortable silences, racked his brain for something.

"I miss her," he eventually mumbled.

Donnic nodded and turned towards the chantry. "You going in?"

Fletcher sighed. "I don't know. The Maker didn't take my magic away when I asked Him to, nor did He stop Mother from crying when Father died. I haven't prayed in years. I don't see the point anymore."

"I prayed last night," admitted Donnic. "Never been a religious sort myself, but…" He shrugged.

"Did it help?"

"I don't know about that. I almost stopped myself halfway through because I felt daft for talking to someone who might not be there. I carried on, though… just in case. Didn't feel any different afterwards, but I did manage to get some sleep."

"Then I'd say it helped," Fletcher ventured.

"Maybe."

Fletcher pointed at the chantry doors. "Sebastian's inside. Saw him not long ago. Didn't see me, though."

"Want to go in?"

"All right, then."

They started up the steps, each one seeming to grow steeper as they ascended. When they reached the top, and just before Fletcher opened the doors, Donnic grabbed his arm before hastily releasing it.

"What's wrong?" Fletcher asked, coming to a stop.

Donnic looked across the courtyard, the blue skies, lush foliage and pink-tinged stone pillars and walls more like something out of a painting than unrelentingly-stark real life. "I know this is really, really inappropriate of me to ask, but you were the closest thing Aveline had to a friend."

"Ask away," invited Fletcher, and Donnic glanced down at his boots.

"It's just… well, did she ever… talk to you about me? I mean… I never really knew how she felt. We had some moments, but most of the time we clashed. We were both as pig-headed as each other and we always seemed to be on duty. There was never time for…" He sighed. "Did she ever say anything?" he asked hopefully, meeting Fletcher's eyes.

Fletcher held his gaze. "Yes," he answered, but didn't elaborate.

Donnic nodded, once again looking over the courtyard. "I understand. She would have sworn you to secrecy, wouldn't she? You're an honourable man, Hawke. I'm glad you were her friend."

"I—" Fletcher blew out a sigh. "I'll say one thing, but I don't know whether it'll make you feel better or worse."

Donnic looked at him, uncertainty in his eyes.

"She… she might have been married to Wesley, but _you_ were 'the one'. I know that for certain."

Without waiting for a reaction, Fletcher pulled the doors open and entered the chantry, leaving them open for the new captain. After a moment's pause Donnic followed, walking a few steps behind.


	109. Looking Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You think you can just waltz in here and use me to get what you want, don’t you? Well, it doesn’t work like that, friend. I’ll make you work for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No excuses, no promises. Just an update. Hope you enjoy it. :)

** The Gallows **

“Nice place you’ve got here.  _If_ you like creepy dungeons, cobwebs and the smell of brimstone, that is.”  Varric glanced up at his templar escort, who so far had not cracked even the tiniest of smiles at the dwarf’s witticisms.

“We’ll have to redecorate the place for your next visit, then, make it more to your liking,” he remarked with a sniff as they walked along another long corridor.

“You’re too kind, messere.  While you’re at it, think you could revise the route to the visiting rooms?  Not asking for myself, you understand, but for other dwarves who might patronise your charming establishment.  We’re great at standing still and looking sturdy, but walking miles upon miles and going up a whole bunch of steps?  Not so hot at that.  If you’d look into that, you’d have a fan for life.”

“You’re the only dwarf we get here,” muttered the templar.  “Not many dwarven mages in Thedas, in case you hadn’t noticed.  Thankfully,” he added in a quiet aside.

Varric slapped his forehead.  “How very obtuse of me!  Y’know, I don’t care what they say about you people outside these walls.  You’re not humourless, hatchet-faced goons at all!  Why, part of the reason I come here is to enjoy these little chats we have.”

The templar closed his eyes momentarily before continuing on his way until they reached a wooden door.  “You’ve got exactly an hour,” he said to the dwarf, pushing the door open.  “I’ll be waiting out here.  I’ll be coming in when the time’s up, no matter what you’re doing, so have a care.”

The dwarf bowed to his escort.  “Always good to meet someone who enjoys their job.  I mean you’d have to enjoy it, wouldn’t you?  All this standing around, wondering where your dreams and aspirations went?  I wouldn’t last a day.”

“Fifty-nine minutes.”

“Right, right.”  Varric stepped into the room and closed the door. 

Inside, Bethany rose from a small table with two chairs, wearing a bright smile.  “Oh, Varric!  I wasn’t sure you’d be able to come!   Mother said you had a lot of things on.”

He walked up to her and kissed her hand before they took a seat together.  “Sure, always, but what could be more important than this?  I’m just sorry I couldn’t come sooner.  You been okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said with sincerity.  “They’ve kept me very busy.  What with classes, orientation and getting to know everyone, I’m glad to finally sit down for a bit!”

“You mean that, Sunshine?” he asked in a serious tone.  “You’re not just telling me what I want to hear?”

“I’m making the best of it.  I wouldn’t have chosen to be here, but I’m here and there’s no point sitting around thinking about what I miss, is there?  What good would that do?”

He nodded.  “I guess.  So what are they like here?  Who’s Mr. Charisma?” he asked, thumbing at the door.

“Oh, that’s just Ser Martin.  He’s a bit of a stuffed shirt but he’s harmless.  Most of the templars have been very civil to me.  There are a couple who won’t even lower themselves to talk to the mages, but they’re in the minority.  As for the mages, they’re a mixed bunch, just like you’d get anywhere.  I’ve made a few friends already.  It’s better than I thought it would be.”

“Well, that’s great.”  They shared a smile, as well as a brief silence.

“What’s going on outside?” she asked.  “How’s Mother doing?  I know she puts on a brave face when she visits, oh and how’s Fletcher?  Fenris?  And poor Donnic…”

“One thing at a time, sweetheart,” he said with a fond look at her.  “Your ma’s doing fine as far as I can tell.  You know about the new housekeeper?”

She nodded.  “The lady from Darktown, yes.  I remember Fletcher mentioned her once, said she used to help out at the old clinic.  She won’t go blabbing to anyone that there’s another apostate in the house.”

“I met her today.  Seems a decent enough sort.  And that house is _gleaming.”_

“Good.  What about Fletcher?”

“Sends his love.  He’s at the clinic right now with Blondie.  Going to learn how to be a ‘proper’ healer.  Don’t know why, he seems pretty good at it to me.”

“He’s never been confident about his abilities, but he could really learn a lot from Anders.  I’ve only been here a few days and I can already see how inefficient my mana usage was as a self-taught apostate.  They teach you all kinds of things in the Circle and Anders was in one for half of his life.  Poor Fletcher’s head will be aching with all the new knowledge, but he’ll love it.”

“I’ll bet.  As for Broody, he’s tied up at the keep today with Grizzly.  They had an influx of elven applicants after the posters went up.”

“Did you say _elven?”_ she exclaimed.

He chuckled.  “Sure did.  Along with the dwarves from the mining operation, those two’ve got their hands full with trials and training and such.”

A sly smile bloomed across her face.  “I don’t imagine the nobles are happy about that.  All those non-humans running about the keep.  I bet they’re all reaching for the smelling salts.”

“They’re not happy at all.  Broody’s been appointed Head of Telling them to Sod Off.  Now _there’s_ real job satisfaction.  Was just talking with your templar friend about that.”

“But I thought Fenris was on the Wall as punishment?”

“Oh, he’s still doing that, but Grizzly needs him for the elves in the mornings.  Turns out none of his men know how to train elves in two-handed sword techniques.  I don’t know how they can even _lift_ the damn things.  That sword Broody carries?  Might be heavier than him.” 

“I can just see the look on Fenris’s face.”  Bethany’s smile evanesced into wistfulness and she sighed, venturing a glance at Varric, who was fidgeting.

“Look, Sunshine…”

“We need to talk, don’t we?”

 Varric lowered his eyes and slowly released a breath.  “You’ve been thinking about it too?”

“I don’t know if we’ve been thinking about the same thing or not, but… things have changed, haven’t they?”

Varric half-stood up and shuffled his chair closer to hers before sitting down.  “I want you to know that I’m happy for things to stay the way they are.  _You_ might not be, however.  It’s you who’s in this place, in a completely new situation.  You’ve got rules to abide by, people watching you, and a whole new set of friends.  After speaking with Blondie, I know how things work in these places.  You get close to people because they’re in the same boat as you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she protested.  “The thought hasn’t even crossed my mind.  I’m thinking of _you_.”

He reached for her hand and patted it.  “I know you are, sweetheart.  Listen, I don’t want to put all this on you, but I’m asking you how you want to proceed.  Like I said, I’m good with the status quo.  But I also want you to be free to make those new friendships, and whatever else comes your way.  The people here are here for you all the time.  I can’t be.  If you wanted to get close to someone in here—if it helped—then I won’t stand in your way.  I want the best for you.”  He sighed.  “I think… this _is_ for the best, if it’s what you want.”

“I know,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’ve been thinking about this since I arrived here.   If only things were different.”

He squeezed her hand.  “Ah, what I wouldn’t give for all of us to decide in advance how our lives are going to play out.  But if I’d been able to do that, I’d never have met you, or Hawke.  Sometimes… sometimes things have a way of turning out okay.  You never know, the love of your life could be right under this very roof.  And if that’s the case, I’ll be cheering louder than anyone.”

She sniffled and wiped away a tear.  “And the same applies to you, Varric.  Unless, of course, she’s a harridan, in which case I’ll have something to say.”

“That’s my Sunshine.  C’mere.”  They embraced and held onto each other for a minute or two.  She then drew back and kissed his brow, smoothing down a few stray strands of hair.  “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked her.

“No, this isn’t what I want.  But it is best for both of us.  That doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I understand,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat.  “Y’know, one of the best things I ever did was meet you and your brother and make friends out of you.  That’s the thing about friendships—they last longer than anything else.  You and I… what we had at the centre of everything was a real, true friendship.  I hope we’ll always be friends.”

“Best ones,” she insisted.

“You, dear lady, have got yourself a deal.”  He kissed her hand again and held onto it.  “How about I come visit with your ma?  She’s still finding her sea legs.  I swear that water gets choppier every time we come across.  Or… I can leave it a while if you need some time.”

She shook her head.  “No, visit whenever you like.  We are best friends, after all.”

“That we are.”  He leaned in and kissed her tenderly on the lips. 

“I think, um, you should probably go now,” she said, hanging her head.  “Just for today.  Give us both time to… you know.  Thanks for visiting me.”

“Of course.  Whatever you want.”  With reluctance he stood up, meeting her forced smile with his own.  “You… take care, okay, Sunshine?  I’ll see you soon.  And if you need anything at all…”

“I want you to know it’s been wonderful.  Every minute,” she said with a genuine, if pained, smile.

“Yes, it has.”  He bowed deeply to her and opened the door, his shoulders sagging.

Ser Martin immediately appeared outside.  “Leaving so soon?”  Not receiving the expected smart remark from the dwarf, he frowned in confusion before shrugging and pointing down the hall.  “One of the other templars will show you out.  That way.”

He watched Varric walk away, and then turned back to the room.  “Miss Hawke, I’ll show you back to your quarters now.”

She remained seated at the table.  “You said we’d have an hour.  I was wondering… is it allowed for me to stay here until time’s up?  Alone?”

Ser Martin looked completely flummoxed.  “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be allowed, but why would you want to do that?”  He then noticed how the light caught her eyes, and guessed she’d been crying.  He averted his own eyes and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling out of his depth.  “If that’s what you want to do, then… all right.”  He started to close the door but then changed his mind and once again looked into the room.  “That dwarf… he didn’t do anything untoward, did he?” he questioned sternly.

“Oh no, nothing like that at all.  Thank you, Ser Martin.  You’re very kind.”

“Right.”   He fully closed the door and assumed his post next to it, watching the torch on the opposite wall.

** Anders’s clinic, beneath Lirene’s Fereldan Imports **

They’d been at it for two hours, now, and Fletcher was starting to tire, which meant he was also starting to grow irritable.  He’d expected his first day under Anders’s tutelage to involve live patients—which he _already_ knew how to treat—not for him to have to recite the _Thedas Herbs and Spices Almanac for Purveyors of Medicine_ in its entirety.  In fact, if he didn’t know Anders better he’d suspect he was on some kind of power trip—‘Let’s show the backwater yokel what us folk with a proper education know and they don’t’.

Wait… he _did_ know Anders.  Didn’t he?  After Anders’s strange and, it had to be said, slightly creepy change of heart a few days before, Fletcher just didn’t know anymore.

“List all known reagents that contraindicate with borage.  In alphabetical order.”

Fletcher sat back and rubbed his eyes with his good hand.  His other arm was still strapped up following an operation to remove an arrow head from it.  “Is that really necessary?  How will listing them in alphabetical order make me a better healer?”

Anders, seated across the desk from Fletcher, let out a weary sigh and rested his head on a hand.  “I had to do all of this in the Circle.  You do want a Circle education, don’t you?”

“I want an education from _you._ I’m no herbalist and I’ve never claimed to be.  I just want to be a better healer.  Can’t we do some hands-on stuff?”

Anders glanced around the cellar.  “I don’t see any patients here, do you?”

“No, and that’s because you treated the three people that have already been in, and you wouldn’t let me touch them because I wasn’t ‘good enough’.  Did you really have to tell them that?”

“From what I remember, you came to me because you don’t feel you’re an adequate healer,” Anders replied calmly. “And you’re right.  I’m the one doing you a favour.  If you’re not fully committed then say so now.  Otherwise, we’ll just be wasting each other’s time.”

Fletcher could feel spikes of irritation stabbing at him.  What Anders was saying was perfectly reasonable but, as had happened before, he fancied he detected an undertone of something in his fellow mage’s words.  And that undertone was sneering and looking down its nose at him.

He drew a deep breath.  Since being with Fenris, he’d learned—or, rather, had made a conscious effort—to be more circumspect in his dealings with people, and not let his temper get the better of him.  Play the long game.  That’s how Fenris always did things, and it was infinitely more dignified than bawling at someone while his face turned red.

That was exactly what he felt like doing, and he didn’t know why.

“I think I’m just tired,” he explained to Anders.  “Can we leave it for today?”

Anders gave a disinterested shrug and smirked.  “Fine.  Your education won’t happen overnight anyway.  Just come back when you’re ready to learn.  Until then, you can continue to be the silent partner in the clinic while I get all the glory.  Suits me,” he finished with a charming smile.

“Okay, then.”  Fletcher stood up and started towards the steps.  “Might see you tomorrow.”

“You’re welcome, by the way!” Anders called after him.

“Oh, right.  Thank you.”  Fletcher ascended the stairs without looking back and flipped up the trap door.  Anders waited until it was closed before staring balefully at the top of the stairs.

“You think you can just waltz in here and use me to get what you want, don’t you?  Well, it doesn’t work like that, _friend._  I’ll make you work for it.”

He felt a chill in his bones and moved away from the desk to refresh the brazier but then stopped, blinking away the sudden blurring of his vision.  “What?  I can’t—” 

His head started to swim and he clutched the desk, clamping a hand over his eyes when pain stabbed into them.  Then, a sensation he couldn’t ascribe seemed to originate from within his own head, and agony ripped through his skull, sending him toppling backwards and hitting his hip hard on the desk as he slammed to the cold stone floor.

“No!  Why are you doing this?  P—please just _stop_!” 

His brain was boiling, like molten lava had been poured into his ears, his screams so shrill they exceeded the hearing range of any human.  A resident mouse popped its head out of its hole, but seeing nothing of interest, quickly scurried back into its den.

Abruptly released from his pain, Anders lay trembling and stifling his sobs, for a while too terrified to move or make a sound.

After what seemed like hours, he finally spoke.

“What did—what did I do?  Just… tell me what I did wrong.  Please.  I—I won’t do it again, whatever it was.”

If anyone heard his question, they failed to answer.

“Please, just talk to me.  Say something.  Anything.”

His face screwed up and he began to weep, the cold and silence offering no comfort.

** Hightown **

Running up the steps—well, running the first ten or so and then walking the rest—had expended a little of Fletcher’s pent-up tension, but not much.  After purchasing a comforting slab of pork crackling from the man with the hog roast in Hightown market, he munched on his snack on his way to the keep, making a quick detour through the grounds of the chantry first.

The chantry itself held little interest for him, but it had been almost a week since his friend Aveline was cremated, and he still felt the need to connect with her in some way.   The courtyard was the last place he’d seen her, and as the place now wasn’t crawling with templars, he felt safe paying his own silent respects.

After, he disposed of his food wrapper and waited in line for entrance to the keep.  The mood here had lifted somewhat since the previous week: the guards at the main gate had reverted to their usual games of stalling the most obnoxious visitors while allowing the more affable ones entry with little delay.  Fletcher approved of this and suspected Aveline’s lingering influence.  She never did have time for entitled little shits.

Fletcher was waved in and directed to the training grounds when he enquired after Fenris.

Upon arriving, he stood back and watched with pride as Fenris instructed his charges with both authority and patience.  Guard-Captain Hendyr was off to one side, also watching and occasionally speaking to one of his subordinates.  Fletcher remained where he was, not wishing to impose, but after a short while Donnic noticed and waved him over.

“Now _that’s_ how you teach people,” Fletcher commented, arriving at Donnic’s side.  “Morning, Captain.”

“Morning, Hawke.  Still not gainfully employed, I see?”  Although Donnic didn’t smile, Fletcher was delighted to see a hint of his sense of humour return.

“Actually, I was thinking about applying for the guard,” he joked.

 “You’ve come to the right place, then.   Want to go up against me or Fenris for your trial?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly humiliate you in front of your men.  I think we both know the outcome of _those_ particular match-ups.”

Donnic nodded, a faint glimmer in his eyes.  “We do, and as we don’t have a shovel handy, I’ll have to pass.  Pulverised mages in the training ring are bad for morale.”

The men shared a brief laugh before returning their attention to the trials.

“Something you need, Hawke?” Donnic asked after a minute.

“Two things.  First, Mother asked me to remind you about her invitation to supper tonight.”

“I forgot all about that.”  Donnic turned to Fletcher.  “Please tell her thank you, I graciously accept.  And sorry for not getting back to her sooner.”

“Of course, no problem at all.  You don’t need to confirm, I just wanted to remind you.”

“Thanks.  What was the second thing?”

“I was wondering how I get an appointment with Sam Verus?”

“The Viscount’s healer?”  Donnic frowned.  “You don’t, unless you’re the Viscount or one of his staff.”

“Does that include the guards?” asked Fletcher cheekily.

“It does, but Fenris’s entitlement doesn’t extend to you.  If you tell me what this is about, I’ll see if I can help.  Is there something wrong with you?”

They paused as Fenris halted the training session for a quick break.  He went to the trough for water and then, upon spotting Fletcher, approached him and Donnic.

“Fletcher?  Is all well?”

Fletcher resisted the temptation to make a lewd remark about Fenris’s bare, sweaty chest and huge sword, deciding to save it for later.  However, Fenris’s raised eyebrow reminded him that he was grinning like an idiot.  “Uh, morning,” he mumbled.  “No, nothing’s wrong.  I was just after the Viscount’s healer.”

“Is it your arm?” asked the elf before tipping the contents of his mug over his head and tossing his hair back.

“No, the arm’s not too bad today.  I just wanted to ask him a favour.”

“Make it quick then, Hawke.”  Donnic started walking away.  “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes, all right!  Have a good day,” Fletcher called after him before turning to Fenris.  “You bloody tease,” he whispered.  “You totally did that on purpose.”

“Hm?”

“The hair thing.  You know I can’t touch you here.”

Fenris laid a hand over his heart and gave Fletcher the Puppy Eyes.  “Who, me?  Tease my beloved by soaking myself and letting him watch the beads of water slowly negotiate their way down my sleek, taut chest?”

Fletcher gawked, slack-jawed at the elf, who let out a rasping laugh.  “What do you want the healer for, anyway?”

Fletcher blinked several times, deciding it best to think about other things than sleek, taut elves.  For now.  “Wanted to see if he could tutor me.”

Fenris crossed his arms.  “Was Anders not doing that?”  He groaned and rolled his eyes.  “ _Now_ what has he done?”

“Oh, nothing, just got a bit passive-aggressive for my liking, that’s all.  He pushes my buttons sometimes.  Maybe that’s more my fault than his, I don’t know.  Anyway, I don’t think it’s going to work.”

“Fletcher, believe me, Anders being passive-aggressive, or _aggressive_ -aggressive, is his nature.  It is no fault of yours.  I cannot deny I am pleased you are seeking alternatives.  I shall have someone fetch Enchanter Verus to speak with you.”

“Thanks, love.  How’s the training going?”

“Excellently.  So far, we have taken on three elven archers, one elven scout and _twelve_ dwarves—five as reserve guardsmen, three as bodyguards and a further four as engineers or stonemasons.  I do believe the Outraged-Nobles-ometer has expired due to overuse.”

“You must be so proud,” Fletcher said, laughing.

“You could say that.”

“Are you, uh, going to dress like that when you resume your shift on the Wall?” Fletcher asked hopefully.  “I might be able to see you from the house if you stand on tip-toes.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”  The elf winked and walked off towards one of his fellow guards.  “Wait there.  I will have Enchanter Verus sent for.  See you at home.”

“Thanks, Fen.”

The trials were quickly resumed so Fletcher stepped back into the barracks.  As much as he adored watching Fenris get hot and sweaty, he had no wish to embarrass him in front of his colleagues.

Presently, Sam arrived—without a templar escort—and sought Fletcher out.

“Hawke, it’s good to see you.”  They shook hands.  “How are you?  We haven’t spoken since that night.  How’s the arm?”

Fletcher glanced at his bandaged limb.  “Still a bit sore but… could have been worse, I suppose.  Thanks for asking.”

“Can you cast yet?”

“I think so, but I haven’t tried.  I’m trying to let it heal as much as I can first.  How are you doing?  Have they replaced Menzies yet?”

Sam quietly snorted to himself.  “They sent his replacement the following day.  I miss old Menzies.  He was a bind sometimes, but I got used to him.  This new one’s a real stickler.  A full knight, no less, fresh from the Gallows.  At least Menzies let me shit in private.”  He shook his head.  “I think Bran’s going to have a word, actually.  I’ve been with the Viscount for years and my position here is a trusted one.  I don’t need some snot-nosed tinhead twenty years younger than me knowing what my farts smell like.”

“He goes with you for ablutions?”

“That’s what they do in the Gallows, apparently.  You’re guarded even when you’re having a bath.  I came from Kinloch Hold and there was none of that there.  Probably all too busy having sex with each other.”

“But my sister’s in the Gallows,” Fletcher said with a note of alarm.

“Yes, I know.  Don’t worry, there has to be propriety.  She’ll have a female templar assigned for that sort of thing.”

“Oh, okay.”  Fletcher felt his heart sink at the thought of Bethany’s new life.  “Kinloch Hold, you say?  Does that mean you knew Anders?”

“Anders?”  Sam raised his eyebrows.  “Can’t say I _knew_ him, but I do remember him.  Cocky sort, never took anything seriously.  Managed to shag his way through most of the first floor, templars included.  Got one girl pregnant, but they, um, ‘dealt’ with it.  Kept escaping, then complained that the templars had it in for him.  Well, yes, they _would._ I don’t much care for his sort.”

“Are you sure we’ve got the same Anders here?” Fletcher asked in dismay.

“The one who was in Darktown, yes.  Do _you_ know him?”

 “I know _of_ him, same as you, really,” mumbled Fletcher, wary of saying too much.

Sam nodded.  “So what can I do for you?  I need to get back before Knight-Templar Pratt—and boy does he live up to his name—comes looking for me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.”  Fletcher glanced around furtively.  “I was wondering if you’d be interested in some private tuition?  For me?”

Sam brought a hand to his chin, intrigued.  “What particular area did you want to study?”

“Everything?  Except herbalism, I’m not really cut out for that.  I didn’t have a Circle education and sometimes… it shows.  You were a senior enchanter, weren’t you?”

“Yes, many moons ago.  You handled yourself well enough the other night, I thought, considering your injury.  Are you sure you need this?”

“I don’t know, I was hoping you’d be the judge of that.  It’s just sometimes I feel like a fraud.  There have been situations where I’ve doubted myself, hesitated, and that alone could put a patient at risk regardless of my skill level.”

“That’s true, I suppose.”  Sam considered Fletcher’s proposal for a moment.  “Do you know your letters?”

“I can read and write, my father saw to that.  Good at arithmetic, too.”

“That’s something.  I wouldn’t have time to teach you all that.  All right, then, you’re on.”  Sam led Fletcher to a more secluded corner of the barracks.  “We can’t do any practical work, obviously, because of Pratt.  We _can_ do some written theory with breathing exercises and meditation.  I didn’t want to say anything the other night, but I sensed your mana deployment was... unsophisticated, for want of a better word, while you were conducting your examination of the late captain. Your actual mana draw was lacklustre, too.  We can fix that.”

Fletcher was smiling from ear to ear.  “That’s _exactly_ what I need.”

“And you’ll do well.  You already know the basics, but your mana draw and casting methods mark you out as an apostate.  Circle mages cast within a narrow band of harmonics which all templars are familiar with.  If you master the techniques, you can pass yourself off as a Circle mage if ever you’re apprehended.  You’re Fereldan, so all you need to do is tell them you were at Kinloch Hold.  All the records and phylacteries there were destroyed, from what I hear.”

“That’s… that’s so much more than I hoped for.  Thank you!”  Fletcher reached for the other mage’s hand and shook it enthusiastically.  “I can pay you.”

“No, there’s no need for that, I’m paid well enough here.  This will actually benefit me.  It’s easy to slip into bad habits when you’re away from the Circle, so this will reinforce all those old lessons for me.  When do you want to start?”

Fletcher just about managed to hold back from kissing the man on the lips, but could not help bouncing a little.  “Whenever it suits you!  I’m just grateful you’re willing to take me on.”

A small smile graced the older man’s face.  “How about tomorrow, say eight bells?”

“In the evening?”

Sam nodded.  “I’ll meet you in the foyer.  I’ll tell the guards on the gate you’re expected.”

“That sounds perfect.  Thank you again.”

“I’m looking forward to it.  Now I really have to get back.”

They shook hands again, and Fletcher watched Sam depart.  Once he was gone, Fletcher clenched his fists and danced on the spot for a few seconds.  “A proper enchanter!  Teaching _me!"_

Then, remembering where he was, he straightened up and cleared his throat, seized by the sudden conviction that Fenris was standing behind him, arms folded, foot a-tapping.

Fletcher slowly turned around, exhaling and laughing to himself when he found no one there.  He then left the barracks, stepping into the main keep foyer.

“Serah Hawke.”

Fletcher looked up, spotting the odious Seneschal Bran perched over the balustrade like a rook, probably wanting to peck out the eyes of all the unwashed peasants who had the temerity to enter his domain.

“That’s my name,” Fletcher replied as he sailed past.

Bran jerked his head, indicating that Fletcher should ascend the stairs.

“Something wrong with your neck, Seneschal?”

Bran pursed his lips and crossed his arms.  “I would speak with you, Serah Hawke, on a matter of grave import.”

“Then why don’t you join me?”  Fletcher challenged, holding his ground.  “Instead of looking down at me,” he muttered under his breath.  “Had enough of that crap for one day.”

To Fletcher’s great surprise, Bran descended the stairs and drew next to him before sighing.  “As you appear unwilling to converse in private, we will have to deal with this here.”

“Deal with what?”

Bran stepped closer and lowered his voice.  “His Excellency requires your presence tomorrow morn, at a neutral location.”  He handed Fletcher a sealed document.  “You will find details within.  Do _not_ speak of this with anyone, including your family, on pain of arrest.  Do _not_ bring anyone with you.  Take this home immediately, memorise it and then destroy it.  Be certain this is _not_ a request.”  He turned on his heel and walked away.

“But… what is this?” Fletcher demanded.

“On pain of _arrest,_ Serah Hawke,” Bran repeated sharply over his shoulder.  “Your guard friends will not avail you should you deviate.  Therefore I strongly suggest you do not. Good day.”

Fletcher stared at the document, sealed with the Viscount’s crest.  He glanced back in the direction of the training grounds and then, thinking better of it, tucked the document beneath his tunic before hastening from the keep, his stomach turning over.

 


	110. A Citizen of Kirkwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What kind of leader would instigate a meeting and then quail from it? How is someone so meek charged with protecting and governing a city? Answer me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, you're not imagining things and no, hell hasn't frozen over... another update! My ridiculously gushing thanks to all who read the last chapter and left comments or kudos. You're all amazing. :D
> 
> This chapter contains some qunari lore from Inquisition which didn't exist (or wasn't known) in DA2. In the unlikely event you haven't played Inquisition yet, you may find the odd word/phrase unfamiliar but I've tried to keep it to a minimum. Translations in footnotes.

** The Hawke Residence, later that evening **

After supper, Leandra spent a little time with Fletcher, Fenris and their guest, Donnic, before retiring.  As Maggie, the new housekeeper, had gone home for the evening, Fletcher cleared away the plates and cutlery, making a mental note to lay the table later.  He could have left it for Maggie, but it had always been Bethany’s job and he wanted to continue it in her absence.

The men moved to the parlour, where Fletcher poured Brandy for Donnic and wine for Fenris.

“Not partaking yourself, Hawke?” asked Donnic, easing himself into a wingback chair.

Fletcher took a seat on a small settee opposite Donnic, Fenris parking himself at the other end.  “No, I’ve got an early start in the morning.”

Donnic chuckled and shook his head.  “For someone who doesn’t actually have a trade, you’re busier than I am.”

Fletcher gave a bland smile and rested his elbows on his knees, his shoulders rising and falling.

“Go on,” Fenris prompted.

Fletcher glanced at him and nodded before standing up.  “There’s something I need to show you, Donnic.  Back in a minute.”

Leaving the friends behind, he went to his bedroom, returning with the document Seneschal Bran had given to him.  He then closed the parlour doors and returned to the settee, where he examined the document for a moment.

“I trust that’s bad news?” Donnic asked cautiously.  “You were unusually quiet at supper.”

“Maybe.”  Fletcher sighed.  “This is from the Viscount.  I’ve been threatened with arrest if I tell anyone about it.”

Donnic started to rise.  “Then I’ll have no part of that, Hawke.  If you want to tell Fenris, that’s up to you.  I’ll take my leave.”

“No, I want you to stay.  Please.”  Fletcher gestured for Donnic to return to his seat, which he did, albeit reluctantly.  “I told Fenris as soon as he arrived home,” he went on, “but I think the captain of the guard needs to know about it as well.  The Viscount’s making a huge mistake and there’s going to be trouble.”

Donnic scooted forward in his seat, listening intently.  “Well?”

“He’s called a meeting,” Fletcher explained.  “It’s to take part tomorrow, at the Wounded Coast.”

“A meeting?” asked Donnic.  “Between?”

“The Viscount and the Arishok.  The problem is, the Viscount’s sending Seneschal Bran along as his representative and me as... I don’t know _what_ I’m supposed to be.”

“The Viscount will not be attending,”  Fenris stated with a sour twist of his mouth.  “As if he has not insulted the Arishok enough.”

“I’m sorry, I’m a bit lost here,” said Donnic.  “How’s the Viscount insulted the Arishok?”

“Fletcher became acquainted with the Arishok several months ago,” Fenris said.  “The Viscount heard of this and has asked Fletcher to speak with the Arishok on a number of occasions, a go-between, if you will.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” said Donnic.

Fletcher replied.  “I don’t shout about it.  The qunari are not exactly popular.  I’ve never had any real problems though, until recently.  Seamus Dumar has converted to the Qun.”

“You what?”  Donnic’s mouth gaped.

“The Viscount once again dispatched Fletcher to speak with the Arishok on the matter,” Fenris resumed, “who took it as a personal affront that the Viscount did not reach out in person.”

“He actually said that?” Donnic asked Fenris.

“He did not need to.  His disdain of the Viscount’s perceived cowardice was all too clear.”

Donnic raised his eyebrows.  “And now the Viscount’s called a meeting but won’t be going?”

Fenris held his hand out, taking the document from Fletcher and reading it.  “Seneschal Bran and Fletcher are to attend, along with a contingent of the Viscount’s personal guard.”

“That’s another mistake,” said Fletcher.  “You don’t take armed guards along to a ‘pleasant chat’.  That’s sending a very clear message, although I doubt the Viscount realises it.”

Donnic sat up straight.  “All right.  What do you think the Arishok will do?  Will you be in danger?”

“I do not believe the Arishok or any true qunari would attack an unarmed _bas_ without cause _,_ ” Fenris replied, “but the presence of the Viscount’s guard complicates matters.  Their attendance and the Viscount’s absence could be seen as a provocative move.”

“Maybe, but the Viscount’s in a difficult position here,” Donnic said thoughtfully.  “He’s allowed the qunari into Kirkwall and even made the old compound available to them.  We all know they’re not welcomed by the wider population, and if they’ve started ‘recruiting’ our people, that’s going to stir up a hornet’s nest.  And who better to recruit than the Viscount’s son?”

“It is not ‘recruiting’,” Fenris pointed out.  “Once a bas has converted, they are known as viddathari, and are bound by the Qun for life.  Seamus apparently did this of his own volition, as have many other denizens of Kirkwall.  They do not appear to have been coerced.  They _are_ qunari now.”

“Why won’t the Viscount go if his guards are going?” Fletcher asked the elf.  “He should be safe enough, shouldn’t he?”

“Because the Viscount answers to the Chantry, sworn enemies of the qunari.  He cannot risk openly meeting with them in public.  I would imagine that, in some quarters, the fact he has not ejected them from the city is already considered to be ‘coddling’ them.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Donnic,” but the qunari are in _our_ city.  They can practise the Qun all they want in their compound, but they need to understand that we do things differently here.  And the Arishok needs to understand the position the Viscount’s in.  If they don’t like our ways, they don’t have to stay.”

“Actually… they _do_ have to stay,” Fletcher said heavily.

Donnic noticed a look pass between the couple and sat back, folding his arms.  “All right, what do you know?”

“The qunari’s holy book, the Tome of Koslun, was stolen and is believed to be in Kirkwall,” said Fenris.  “Although… that may no longer be the case.”

Fletcher sighed and scrubbed his face.  “Maker.  To think I actually had it in my hands at one point.”

“I take it you know who stole it, then?” Donnic questioned.

“We do, but all attempts to find her have run to naught.  We’ve had Varric looking into it, but his contacts don’t know a thing, or so they say.  It’s possible they _do_ know, but are keeping quiet because they’ve either purchased it or fenced it.  The Tome was entrusted to the Arishok and he and his men can’t return to Par Vollen without it.  He’s in a difficult position, too.”

“Sounds like you’re on his side, Hawke.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side, but I do sympathise with him.  He’s stuck here because one of _our_ people stole his people’s holy book.  If he returns home without it, not only will he be killed, but disgraced, which is even worse.  From what Fenris has told me, it’s likely the qunari would then invade Kirkwall.  Let’s face it—they’d eat us alive and shit us out.”

“In his own way, the Arishok is preserving the peace,” said Fenris.  “He has limits, however.  I have accompanied Fletcher on each occasion and it is clear the Arishok’s patience is at an end.  The Viscount’s unintended snub has done nothing to ease that.”

“Has he threatened you?” Donnic asked Fletcher, who shook his head.

“It is my belief that the Arishok harbours a grudging respect for Fletcher,” Fenris commented.  “Fletcher has visited the compound, unarmed, on a number of occasions, with only a small number of companions.  The Arishok believes the Viscount to be a coward, but not Fletcher.”

“If I turn up tomorrow with a load of armed guards, that might change,” Fletcher added.  “I’ve started to understand the Arishok a little bit, with Fenris’s help.  I believe him to be an honourable man who’s caught in an impossible situation, in a city he hates and whose ways are perverse to him.  The pressure on him to find that book must be immense. The Viscount’s doing what he thinks is best but he’s obviously not studied qunari culture.  If he fails to turn up for that meeting it’ll confirm we have a coward for a leader.  The Arishok might decide we need a new one.”

Fenris nodded his agreement.  “He will consider it his duty as a servant of the Qun.  We are not condoning this, only stating it as a possibility.  Perhaps a strong one.”

Donnic finished his brandy and stood up, moving to the drinks trolley where he poured another tot.  “I think I can see what you’re getting at.  I’m glad you told me about this, Hawke, but there’s very little I can do without putting you at risk.”  He studied his drink for a moment.  “What I _can_ do is set my people on the trail of this book.  If it’s gone underground we might not have much luck, but we have to try.”

“Thanks, Donnic.  It’s something.”

“As for tomorrow,” the captain went on, “you need to tell Bran—or the Viscount if you can—what you’ve told me.  Make them see how important it is that the Viscount attends.  Maybe leave out the ‘Arishok might decide we need a new leader’ bit, though.”

“And what if they won’t listen to me?”

“Then refuse to go.”

Fletcher and Fenris glanced at each other.

“They can threaten you with arrest if they want, and maybe they’ll even follow through, but if you _are_ arrested it’ll come to my attention.  That means I can get involved.  You won’t be in the cells for long, I’ll see to that.  The Viscount obviously wants to keep this under the table but he’s supposed to inform the guard about anything that poses a risk to Kirkwall’s citizens.  If you believe he’s placing you in danger, you have every right to say no.  Say you’ll take it to the magistrate.  Bran’ll soon back down.”

“That’s fair enough,” Fletcher said, “but we can’t just not turn up.”

“I agree.  _Someone_ needs to turn up, but it doesn’t have to be you.  I’m pretty annoyed they’ve involved you in this, actually.  You’re no negotiator.”

“Fletcher has, inadvertently, gained the Arishok’s trust,” Fenris said.  “There are few _bas_ who can claim as much.  He has also taken the time to understand the Qun and its pull on the Arishok.  Were this not so, he would not have survived previous encounters.  The Viscount recognises this and is taking full advantage of it, as any shrewd statesman would.”

“So you’re happy about him traipsing along to the Wounded Coast tomorrow, unarmed, with only Bran for company?”

Fenris let out a soft sigh.  “I am not happy, no.  But it is my belief that Fletcher will not be harmed _provided_ your advice is heeded.”  He turned to Fletcher.  “I wish I could accompany you, but I agree that the fewer people, the better.”

“But unarmed?” Donnic interjected.  _“I’m_ not happy about that.”

“I don’t need a weapon to defend myself,” Fletcher said to Donnic.  “I’m no match for a qunari, let alone a delegation of them, but I should be able to protect myself long enough to get away if things turn sour.  At least it won’t be at the compound, where there’s only one exit.  If the Viscount attends and leaves his guards behind, there won’t be a problem.  If Bran refuses to co-operate, then so will I.”

Donnic knocked back his drink and stared at the fire for a minute.  “I want you to know you’ve got my support, Hawke, but for now it’ll have to be from the sidelines.  Are you _sure_ you know what you’re doing?  See, I could send some of my scouts to tail you, but I might be putting you in more danger doing that.  I want to help but I don’t know what I can do until I’m ‘officially’ aware of this situation.”

“Just find that book, Donnic, or at least try.”

“Will do, Hawke.  Fenris, got an hour to spare?”

The elf rose.  “Of course.”

“Good.  You can give me full details on the way.  Hawke, we’ll go back to the barracks now and I’ll get some people on it.  They can start making enquiries around the taverns.  I’ll use our new elven scout but I’ll have someone accompany her in case she gets any lip.  Should be good experience for her.”

“Thank you.”  Fletcher also stood up.  “Do you think Seneschal Bran will still be at the Keep?”

Donnic nodded.  “He lives there.  Might be better to speak to him now than in the morning.”

Fletcher blew out a breath and held his fluttering stomach.  “Okay, I have an appointment with Sam anyway.  I’ll just let Mother know we’re going.”

** Viscount’s Keep **

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Bran demanded of the lackey who’d disturbed his supper.  “Who wants to see me at such a late hour?”  Upon stepping into the main Keep, he spotted Fletcher at the top of the stairs.  “Leave us.”

With a bow, the aforementioned lackey departed.

Bran approached Fletcher wearing what Bethany would have described as a thundercloud over his head.  “I take it you read the document?” he hissed, arriving next to the mage.  “You are to meet with me in the _morning.”_

“Oh, I’ve read the document, all right.”  Fletcher waved it in front of Bran’s face, which became devoid of all colour.  “You _do_ know the Viscount’s sending us to our deaths, don’t you?”

“In here!”  Bran grabbed Fletcher’s arm and pulled him into his office, firmly closing the door behind them.  “What are you blathering on about?”

“You might have told me at the time that the Viscount has no intention of attending this meeting!” challenged Fletcher.  “I assume he asked for me because I’ve had dealings with the Arishok and I know him a little?  Well, yes, I do know him—and this,” he said, waving the document again, “is a heinous insult to the man.  If you or the Viscount had taken the time to study the qunari people, you would have known that.”

“Insult?”  Bran’s posture shifted from hostile to wary.  “In what way is this an insult?”

“His Excellency sent me to speak with the Arishok when Seamus converted to the Qun.  The Arishok was disgusted that the Viscount didn’t have the nerve to show up himself.”

“If you are suggesting his Excellency is a coward—”

“I’m not.  I know what a tricky position he’s in.  But the qunari don’t like subterfuge.  The Arishok _expected_ the Viscount to speak with him about something so personal.  According to your document, the Viscount won’t be accompanying us to a meeting he arranged himself.”

“This is the way things are done,” Bran explained, slowly, so an oaf like Hawke would understand. 

“Yes, in Kirkwall, in human society.  It’s not the way qunari do things.  Do you know the Arishok has more respect for me than the Viscount?”

“You?  You are nothing but an intermediary,” Bran pointed out, his nose high in the air.

“An intermediary who’s walked into the qunari compound and stood in front of a man who is, quite frankly, terrifying.  The Arishok knows he could snap me in half, and he knows I’m scared of him.  But he respects that I visit him in spite of that.  The Viscount has extended him no similar courtesy and hides behind his walls and advisors.  The Arishok’s words, not mine.”

“And you didn’t think it important to inform his Excellency of this slur?”

“In case you hadn’t heard, Seneschal, I’ve been rather busy trying to keep my mother from being butchered by an insane blood mage.  She’s alive, by the way.  Thanks for asking.”

Bran’s face dropped and he circled his desk, taking a seat behind it, though he didn’t invite Fletcher to sit.  “Let us have one thing clear, Serah Hawke.  The Viscount _cannot_ attend this meeting.  He has his position to consider, his standing with the Chantry.”

“Fine.  Then you and I will go.  But the Viscount’s personal guard needs to stay here.”

Bran gave Fletcher an incredulous look.  “You are in no position to dictate terms!  You have been ordered by Kirkwall’s leader to attend this meeting because of your unique relationship with the Arishok.  Many would consider it an honour.”

“I _would_ consider it an honour _if_ you or the Viscount had done the tiniest bit of homework on the qunari instead of going into this with your bloody eyes closed!”

“Remember who you are speaking to, Serah Hawke,” Bran said imperiously, rising from his seat.

Fletcher folded his arms tightly across his chest, more of a defensive show than a hostile one.  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten, believe me.  And I _am_ going to dictate terms.  If the Viscount’s guard goes to the meeting, I won’t be.  If that’s the case, I strongly advise you to put your affairs in order first because you won’t be walking away.”

Bran rounded the desk again, standing directly in front of Fletcher.  “I have already made it quite clear what the consequences will be should you disrupt these highly sensitive and secret negotiations.  You have no right—”

“I’m exercising my _rights_ as a citizen of Kirkwall.”

Bran raised his chin, rudely pointing at Fletcher as he spoke.  “You are no more a citizen of Kirkwall than the Arishok is.  You are a refugee, one who came into means by suspect methods and believes he can stroll into _this_ office and tell me how to conduct delicate negotiations with a foreign power.  Who do you think you are?  You should be grateful your betters are affording you such an opportunity.”

Fletcher took a step closer to the seneschal, his expression dour.  “Fuck you.  Have a nice death.”

He turned on his heel, opened the office door and wafted in the direction of the barracks, cupping a hand to his mouth.  “Guards!  It’s Hawke!  I’m here!  Clap me in irons!  Save this paper shuffler the trouble!”

Hearing rustling from behind, Fletcher turned and watched Bran running towards him, although it appeared Bran had probably never run anywhere in his life, and didn’t quite know how to do it properly.

“There is no need for such coarse behaviour!” Bran said through clenched teeth, arriving in front of Fletcher and blocking his path.

“Seneschal?  Everything all right?” a bored-sounding guard called from below.

“Yes!  Yes,” he panted.  “As you were.”

“Right.”

Bran turned back to Fletcher, his demeanour more conciliatory than it had been a minute earlier.  “You cannot expect us to travel to the Wounded Coast unarmed _and_ without an escort, surely?  There are bandits, all manner of ne’er-do-wells, and as for the qunari…”

“The qunari _won’t_ hurt us,” Fletcher insisted, “and I’m a mage.  I can keep us out of harm’s way.”

“How can you be so certain the qunari will not harm us?”

“Firstly, because we’re ignorant _bas_ who don’t know any better.  Secondly, because they’re three times the size of us and we’d provide no sport.  Thirdly, because we’ll actually be showing up.  The Viscount’s the one who needs to be worried here, not us.  The Arishok will give us a message to take to him, then dismiss us as the insignificant peons we are.  This is not the leader of a mere city we’re dealing with, but the leader of an entire race and ideology.  Remember that and show him some respect.  Or don’t.  But you needn’t expect me to hang around if you put your foot in it.”

Bran watched Fletcher for a few moments.  “You say his Excellency should be worried.  What will the Arishok do?”

“I don’t _know_.  I wouldn’t dare speak for him.  He won’t be pleased, I can tell you that.”

Bran sighed, the worry weighing upon him showing in his eyes.  “Then we will extend all the respect he is due.  I have dispensation to speak on behalf of the Viscount.  Let us hope that will be enough.”

“Fine.  I’ll meet you here in the morning at six bells.  It’ll take us a few hours to walk to the coast.”

“Walking will not be necessary,” Bran sniffed.  “Do you ride?  As in horses?”

“Yes.  And the Viscount’s guard will _not_ be attending?”

Bran’s shoulders drooped and he sighed again.  “They will not.”

“Good.  Just so you know, if the guard puts in a ‘surprise’ appearance here or on the Coast, I’m leaving, pain of arrest or not.  And _don’t_ talk down to the Arishok—he’ll swat you like a fly.   It’d almost be worth it just to see you cut down to size, but I’ve no interest in angering him further.  Unless you’re a complete fool, you won’t, either.”

Bran’s nose returned to its natural state of elevation.  The impudent refugee had him over a barrel, and he knew it.  “Noted. _I_ am no fool… Serah Hawke.”

“If you say so.  See you at _seven_ bells.”  In a determined frame of mind, Fletcher took his leave of the seneschal and went in search of Fenris and Donnic.

He found them in Donnic’s office, going over the following day’s rota. 

The new captain looked up from his desk, beckoning Fletcher closer.  “Hawke, I’ve despatched some of our newer recruits to all the local taverns.  Their faces aren’t known so they might hear something a regular guard wouldn’t.  We’ve got a few smuggler informants on the books and I’ll have my people make contact in the morning.  I don’t want to commit any more resources until this is an official guard investigation, which at the moment it isn’t.”

Fletcher reached for Donnic’s hand and shook it.  “I appreciate anything you can do.”

Donnic lowered his voice.  “How’d you get on with Bran?  Any luck?”

“Sort of.  The Viscount won’t be attending but neither will his personal guard.”

Fenris positioned himself in front of Fletcher, a slight crease in his brow.  “Not ideal, but I suppose it’s better than nothing.  And will _you_ be attending?”

Fletcher nodded.  “As much as I dislike Bran, if he goes on his own he’ll piss off the qunari even more.  I’m hoping my previous conversations with the Arishok will stand me in good stead, but…” He grunted, unable to maintain the illusion of confidence.

Fenris moved closer to Fletcher and rubbed his arm.  “Courage.  The Arishok will have some harsh words to impart, I have no doubt, but what would he gain from harming you?  As he does not appear to be here to invade or convert us, you have nothing to fear.”

“I know.  But thanks for saying it.”  Fletcher forced a smile for his beloved, making sure his eyes crinkled for effect.  “Well, I’d better not be late for Sam.”

“Enjoy yourself.  I will wait here and we will go home together.”

“Thanks, love.  See you both in a bit.”  With a quick nod, Fletcher left for his first lesson with the Viscount’s healer.

“Worried?” Donnic quietly asked Fenris, who responded with silence, his eyes locked on the departing mage’s back.  Donnic slapped the elf’s shoulder.  “We’d better keep you busy until Hawke’s ready to go home.”

Fenris sat at the desk with his friend, knowing he wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night.

** The Wounded Coast, the following morning **

It was a bright if chilly morning, something Fletcher was grateful for.  Visibility was good and the ground was dry, meaning their mounts were at ease, affording both men a comfortable journey.  It also meant his injured arm, which he’d unstrapped as he didn’t want to appear incapacitated, suffered no bumps or jolts.  Before leaving home he’d taken a small preparation of analgesic powders but not too much—he needed his wits about him.

He also guessed the Arishok wouldn’t appreciate a repeat of his half-naked display when he’d been high on Anders’s painkillers.

Fletcher rode slightly ahead of Bran for two reasons: first, they obviously didn’t care for each other, and as a result their limited discourse had been rather stilted.  Second, as a mage, Fletcher possessed an ability Bran didn’t.

Although Bran wouldn’t normally have passed the time of day with someone of Hawke’s social standing, he was curious about this ability.  He was also growing more apprehensive the closer they drew to the meeting place, so decided to break the awkward silence.

“So… you are able to detect the presence of nearby lifeforms?”

“Mm.”  Fletcher kept his gaze ahead and spurred his horse into a trot.  “There’s something a short distance to the east.  Let’s divert.”

They turned south, and Fletcher said no more for a short time.

“How is this accomplished?” Bran asked.  “Do you know what it was in the east?”

Fletcher shrugged.  “Could have been a wild animal, could have been a person.  But it was only one.  It wasn’t the Arishok, anyway.  I doubt he’ll be alone.  Whoa.”  He suddenly drew his horse to a stop, Bran following.

“What is it?”

Fletcher pointed ahead.  “There’s a small group, about five hundred metres forward, behind that big dune.  Could be bandits, but this _is_ roughly where we’re supposed to meet.  There are also a few others scattered farther out.  Possibly qunari scouts.  They might be looking for us.”

“How should we proceed?” Bran asked. 

Fletcher fidgeted, perspiring heavily in the leather armour Fenris and Donnic had insisted he wear beneath his clothing, the thought occurring that perhaps his itchy arse crack shouldn’t be at the forefront of his mind in this situation.  It was _really_ itchy, though.  To distract himself he touched his pocket, checking his lyrium potions and bundles of healing herbs were still there.  Despite the fact he’d repeated Fenris’s words of advice countless times under his breath like a mantra, he felt uneasy and wanted to be prepared for anything.

“We’ll announce ourselves.  Walk on, girl.”  He clicked his tongue, his borrowed steed following his command.

“You are proficient with a horse,” observed a surprised Bran.  “Where did you learn—”

“Quiet.” 

After a few minutes Fletcher again called a halt.  “They’re close enough to hear us now,” he whispered.  “Here goes.”  He took a deep breath.  “Kost!” he called out in a loud voice.  “Shok ebasit hissra.  Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra.”

“What are you saying?” Bran demanded, but was silenced with a glare from Fletcher.

They waited, Fletcher hoping he’d memorised the salutation correctly, and was not in fact telling the Arishok to fuck himself.  “Wait… someone’s moving away from the group.  Let’s meet them.”

“And if it’s a bandit?”

“I’ve got that covered.” Fletcher fingered the smoke bomb, courtesy of Varric and disguised as a pomander, that hung from his belt.

Presently, a lone ashaad emerged from behind cover and waited for the mounted men to approach him.

“Is that the Arishok?” Bran whispered.

“No.”

“Where is your viscount?” asked the qunari scout as Fletcher and Bran dismounted.

“I speak for his Excellency,” Bran said, straightening his tunic, “and have the authority to treat on his behalf.”

“Do you, now?”  Ashaad sneered before turning his gaze to Fletcher.  “And what are you?”

“I’m his associate.  We’ll speak with the Arishok now,” Fletcher answered, remembering Fenris’s admonition to show strength at all times, though he felt far from strong.

“This way.”

They followed Ashaad around the large dune, coming upon a further five qunari, four of them adorned in the familiar _vitaar._   The fifth, older and larger in build than his kin, was dressed in full battle mail.

“Here is the Viscount’s emissary,” announced Ashaad, addressing the larger qunari.  “His ‘Excellency’ has not seen fit to grace us with his presence on this occasion.”

“Arishok,” Bran greeted with a formal bow.  “Vernon Bran Seward, at your service.  For all intents and purposes, I _am_ the Viscount and speak with his authority.  I am honoured to make your acquaintance and thank you for the trust you have shown in the diplomatic process.  It is my hope that we may reach some middle ground today, and that this will be the first of many dialogues between our peoples.”

The large qunari gave no response, not taking his eyes off Bran for a second.

Fletcher gulped but held his ground, his heart racing.  Whoever the large qunari was, he _wasn’t_ the Arishok.  Fletcher could still sense the presence of a further six lifeforms spread further out, and wondered if the qunari leader was among them.  Whoever they were, they were drawing closer.

“Why is your viscount not here?” demanded the man Bran believed to be the Arishok.  “Why does he send a bas saarebas and an effeminate redhead to do his bidding?”

“We like redheads,” one of the qunari at the back of the group said, an unwholesome laugh accompanying his words.

“Parshaara!” snapped the large man, turning back to Bran, who’d started to perspire.  “What kind of leader would instigate a meeting and then quail from it?  How is someone so meek charged with protecting and governing a city?  Answer me!”

“Wait!”  Another qunari standing at the rear of the group stepped forward, locking eyes with Fletcher.  “You are Hawke.  You were not expected.”

Fletcher’s stomach dropped.  He recognised the qunari, one of the soldiers who frequently guarded the gates to the compound.  “Shanedan, Karasten,” he said in greeting.

“He knows, Vasaad,” Karasten muttered to the larger qunari.  “He has spoken with the Arishok on many occasions.  This charade is over.”

For a moment, all eight men wordlessly stared at each other, six feet or so separating Fletcher and Bran from the qunari delegation.

Then, Vasaad reached over his shoulder for his maul.  “Vinek kathas!”

“You said they would not attack us!” Bran backpedalled away from the group as the other qunari brandished their weapons and advanced upon them.

In the few seconds he had to think, Fletcher deduced he had nothing left to lose, as they were about to die anyway.  One final show of strength to make Fenris proud.

“Coward!”  He raised his good arm and back-handed Bran across the face, sending the stunned seneschal stumbling backward.  He then grabbed Bran by the lapels and pulled him close.  “Shut up and listen to me if you want to live!” he hissed in his ear.  “They need to see that _one_ of us is in control and not panicking.  Stay quiet and let me do the talking!”

He roughly pushed Bran away, his insides liquefied as he turned back to the delegation.  “This man is weak and unworthy of treating with you!” he declared, fear for his life fuelling his harsh tone.  “I demand to be heard!”

Karasten—the qunari who knew Fletcher—held out an arm to prevent his kin from advancing.  “Shanedan, Hawke.  Make it good.”

Fletcher maintained a stern expression, fighting off the urge to beg them for mercy, his trembling hands stuffed into his pockets.  “I understand the Arishok’s message to the Viscount.  Allow me to deliver it in person, as I assume was his wish.  Or kill me, and let the warning go unheeded.  _Then_ tell your leader you defied him!”

Karasten and Vasaad looked at one another, communicating with their eyes.  After a fraught moment, Vasaad gave a single nod.

“You will live, Hawke.  For today.  Go… deliver your message.”

“And what of this worm?” said Karasten, waving a huge sword at Bran, who was cowering behind Fletcher.  “Allow me to snuff out his miserable existence.”

“That’s not your place!” Fletcher bellowed, his face red.  _“I’ll_ deal with him.  Now go about your business and let me do the same!”

Karasten moved closer to Fletcher until they were almost touching before suddenly feinting a lunge.  Fletcher sprang back, believing he’d sealed his fate by showing cowardice, but was astonished when Karasten grinned, showing a mouthful of grey, broken teeth.

Fletcher then felt a tingling sensation in his extremities as he sensed the proximity of the six lifeforms that had surrounded the dunes.  “Someone’s here,” he said breathlessly.  “Did you bring anyone—”

“Teth a!” roared Karasten, shoulder-charging Fletcher to the ground as a hail of arrows slammed into him.

“No!  No!” Fletcher cried out, crawling away in Bran’s direction.  “Get down!  Get to cover!  Just _hide!”_

“Nehraa Koslun!”

“Ataash Qunari!”

“Ebost issala!”

The battle cries of five qunari warriors rang out as they took off, leaving a traumatised Bran and Fletcher pressed against a rock, where they watched the quivering body of Karasten from several feet away.

Fletcher willed himself to concentrate on the environment surrounding them, ascertaining that the mysterious party of six had scattered in the wake of their qunari pursuers.

“I have to help him!”  Ignoring Bran’s protestations, Fletcher returned to Karasten’s side, fumbling for his herbs.  “Maker, how do I… six… _seven_ arrows?  Shit, I… fuck!” He dropped to his knees beside the dying warrior.  “Karasten, listen to me.  I’m going to try to… I don’t know, make it less painful.  Just hold on.”

A huge hand grabbed Fletcher’s wrist, a dire warning in Karasten’s eyes.  “No.  Leave me be.  Asit tal-eb.”

“But I can’t just leave you here in pain!”

“Then don’t.  Speak for me as I...” He started to cough, blood spraying out of his mouth.  “As I return to the Qun.”

Their eyes met and instantly, Fletcher understood.  Karasten was now a broken tool, nothing more than a hindrance, a burden to his brothers.  Although it went against everything Fletcher believed as a healer and human being, he knew this man was beyond saving and it was now his task to minimise his suffering.

To hasten his return to the Qun.

“I… I don’t know the words,” he mumbled, his voice breaking as he produced a sprig of deathroot from his pack.  “I’m no Tamassran.”

“You know them.”  Karasten’s grip on Fletcher’s wrist loosened.  “You have already… spoken them… Bas…ugh.”

“I’ve already spoken them?  Okay, okay.  Hold still.  This is going to be really painful, but just for a few seconds.   But you can handle that, can’t you?  Of course you can.  You’re qunari.  You’re strong.”

Karasten gasped, his eyes rolling in his head, and Fletcher knew he had to act fast. 

He crushed the deathroot between finger and thumb, releasing its oils, and crammed the leaves into Karasten’s mouth.  “Chew!” he ordered, closing his eyes against the cruel scene.  “Um… Sh—shok ebasit hissra.  Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra.  Anaan esaam Qun.”

“Anaan… esaam Qun,” repeated Karasten before swallowing the deadly poison.

No longer hearing sounds of battle or shouting, Bran ventured out of his hiding place and watched as Fletcher held down the imposing qunari warrior, whose muscular frame was jolted by a series of spasms until it finally stilled.

“It is fortunate the Viscount did not attend,” Bran said quietly, dusting off his tunic as he approached Fletcher, who still had his hands on Karasten’s chest.  “Assassination was their plan, and look what it has cost them.”

Quick as a flash, Fletcher jumped to his feet and rounded on Bran, his eyes fierce.  “You really are blind, aren’t you?  This wasn’t the qunari!  They were aiming for _me!_ He saved my life!  He’s dead because of your and the Viscount’s ignorance!”

Recognising how overwrought Fletcher was, Bran wisely decided this was _not_ the time to call attention to his insignificance and low social standing.  “Then who?  What purpose would killing you serve?  You are—”

“Nobody?  That’s right!  And killing me would have left the Viscount’s emissary at the mercy of the qunari!  Both sides would have believed the other was to blame.  You would have been killed or captured as a trophy, which is exactly what these people wanted!  You _do_ know the qunari could have killed us right here with one swing of their hammers?  Why would they need assassins?  Think about it!”

Bran glanced down at Karasten and groaned before looking back at Fletcher.  “Although what you say is plausible, we are not in possession of the facts.  We do not know anything for certain.”

“I can’t sense…” Fletcher stepped away from Bran, looking out over the dunes and rocks.  “I can’t sense the qunari anymore.  They were heading in a specific direction and now there’s just… nothing.”  He looked at the seneschal, fear in his eyes.  “I think… I think they’re dead.  They must be.” 

“And what of the others?”

“They’re getting fainter, too fast to be walking.  They must be on horseback.”

“We are ill-equipped to pursue them,” urged Bran.  “We must return to Hightown forthwith.  They may return for us, whoever ‘they’ are.”

Fletcher ventured a final glance at the qunari who’d saved him, intimidating even in death.  Fletcher didn’t know qunari funeral rites, if they even had them, and decided it was best to leave Karasten where he was to be collected later.  “Right.  Where are _our_ horses?  Have they bolted?”

Bran looked around before slowly walking away from Fletcher, his eyes fixed on one particular spot.  “Hawke…”

Fletcher followed him, stopping beside the seneschal.  “Oh, no.”

Both horses were dead, their bodies riddled with arrows.

“We were never meant to leave this place,” Bran murmured.  “How do we know the Arishok did not orchestrate this?  Sacrifice his men for his own ends?”

Fletcher covered his face with his hand, shaking his head.  “He _wouldn’t._   If you knew anything about the qunari you’d understand that.”

“Are you so well-versed in qunari societal norms that you have surety?” Bran challenged.  “And just what is this ‘message’ the Arishok would convey to his Excellency, without even being present?”

Fletcher uncovered his face and looked in the direction of Hightown.  “Remember what I said to you at the keep last night?”

“You had a lot to say for yourself last night, as is your wont.”

 “All right, I’ll give you a clue: it consisted of two words. _There's_ your message.”

Bran snorted, completely unsurprised that the refugee had reverted to his usual crass nature.  “Then it is _entirely_ possible the Arishok devised this travesty to garner sympathy for his heathen cause!”

“You’re a complete imbecile, aren’t you?”

Bran’s face flushed, his irate visage appearing almost comical to Fletcher.  “You will _not_ address me in such a manner.  When we return I shall recommend the Viscount remove you from these proceedings entirely.  We do not need your kind muddying the waters.”

“And I’ll be speaking to the Arishok.  Tell the Viscount to go ahead and ‘remove’ me.  I’ve had just about enough.”

“Wh—?  Are you quite mad?” squawked Bran.  “Do you have a death wish?”

“No, but _you_ must have.  And if you continue to treat the qunari with such suspicion, it’ll be granted.  Has it even occurred to you that a third party’s involved here?  One with a vested interest in making the qunari out to be villains?”

“Come back!” Bran commanded as Fletcher turned away from him.  “You will accompany me to the Keep as was arranged!”

“No I won’t!” Fletcher retorted over his shoulder.  “As you reminded me last night, I’m not a citizen of Kirkwall.  Which means you don’t get to order me around.  You can have me arrested if you like, but _someone_ needs to try and make things right with the Arishok.  I don’t see you volunteering.  Your administration’s not fit for purpose.”

 Bristling and indignant, Bran watched the upstart walk off before realising he needed Hawke’s sensing ability to get home safely.  Keeping his distance, he followed, but did not intend to follow Hawke to the qunari compound.

** Viscount’s Keep, guard barracks **

“They should have returned by now!”  Fenris paced his captain’s office, a hand plastered to his brow.  “Ego numquam dimitte me!”

Donnic watched the elf from behind his desk, his own concern growing.  Fletcher and Bran had departed the Keep more than six hours ago, and if the talks were being held with a race other than the qunari, he’d surmise they were going swimmingly.

The qunari, however, were not known for their garrulous natures or drawn-out conversations.

“We must do something, Donnic,” Fenris urged.  “Let me go.  The Viscount will not know, I swear it.  I will feign ignorance if questioned.  Perhaps… perhaps I could undertake a single patrol along the Coast.  Anything.  Please.”

“You can’t ride a horse.  You’d take forever to get there.  And you’re not going on your own.” 

“Donnic!”  Fenris sighed.  “Captain.  Forgive me.”

“It’s all right.”  Donnic rose from his chair.  “You’ll ride with me.”

“But I could not ask—” Fenris stopped himself, wretched hope and fear wracking his insides.  “The risk is too great.  If the Viscount was to discover—”

Donnic grabbed his sword and shield, hefting them onto his back.  “To the Void with that.  I’m teaching you to ride a horse along the Coast.  Let’s go.”

Fenris’s brow creased as he fought to master his emotions.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

As they left the barracks, Fenris spotted a bedraggled Bran making his way up the stairs and nudged Donnic.  Both men rushed to the seneschal’s side, no longer caring for consequences.

“Where’s Hawke?” Donnic questioned Bran, noting fresh swelling to the man’s cheek.

Bran stopped on the stairs, his eyes narrowed.  “I see Serah Hawke did not honour our agreement.  I am not at all surprised.  He is currently consorting with a potential enemy of Kirkwall against the express orders of the Viscount’s office.  You will place him under arrest and bring him here immediately.”

Donnic rolled his eyes, his tone impatient.  “I said, ‘where is he’?  I can’t very well arrest him if I don’t know where he is, can I?  And what am I arresting him for, exactly?””

“You will no doubt find him at the qunari compound.  I forbade him from going but he foolishly paid me no heed.”

“He’s there _alone?”_ Fenris demanded.  “Why did you not accompany him?  Have you no stomach?” 

Ignoring the elf, Bran looked at Donnic.  “Carry out your orders, Captain.  Your friend is in serious trouble.  While you’re at it, I’d advise you to instruct your soldiers in the correct way of addressing his Excellency’s staff.”

Bran continued up the stairs, leaving Fenris and Donnic pondering the meaning of his words.  “We’ll sort it out, whatever’s happened,” Donnic assured the elf.  “First things first.  Let’s make sure he’s safe.”

They hurried to the stables as quickly as their armour would allow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun: Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun. ~ Extract from the Qun from Qunari Prayers for the Dead. Fenris used this as a salutation in DA2 so I've had Fletcher use it as such, as well as a prayer for Karasten.
> 
> Bas: Non-qunari.
> 
> Kost!: Peace!
> 
> Parshaara!: Enough!
> 
> Shanedan: A greeting (literally, 'I'll hear you').
> 
> Bas Sarebaas: Non-qunari mage.
> 
> Vinek kathas!: Kill them/seize them!
> 
> Teth a!: A vocalisation of warning, maybe along the lines of 'duck!' or 'move!'
> 
> Asit tal-eb: It's meant to be/it's the way things are.
> 
> Ego numquam dimitte me!: I will never forgive myself!


	111. One Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You invite death by this admission. Your viscount is a fool but I had not thought you such until this moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortish update here, probably the last for the next month or so. In just over two weeks I'll be embarking on the holiday of a lifetime to the sunny USA! I *do* intend to continue updating on a semi-regular basis--just wanted to give a heads-up that there might be a delay this month. My sincere thanks to all who've stuck with Fletcher and Fenris through their journey so far!
> 
> Special thanks as always go to CCBug! Get those margamarias on ice, baby!

** Kirkwall Docks **

Fletcher twisted his Ring of no Significance Whatsoever around his finger, watching the karasten who guarded the gate from a distance.  Only it wasn’t the karasten who’d saved his life on the Coast—it was another, one who’d slotted into his deceased contemporary’s place without actually _knowing_ he was deceased. 

So how should Fletcher differentiate them?  Name them Coast Karasten and Compound Karasten?  To him they were individuals, worthy of consideration on their own merits.  To the qunari, however, they were merely tools.  Those who were defective were discarded or ‘fixed’ for the good of the whole.

Of all the Qun’s teachings, Fletcher struggled with that one in particular.  His family, friends, all the people he knew, were free to live their lives and make their own decisions and mistakes.  Even captured apostates—even Fenris during his incarceration at Danarius’s hands—were allowed their own _thoughts._ Those who died were remembered and honoured.

Coast Karasten wouldn’t be.  There’d be no family to recall fond memories of him, no grandchildren who would listen, awestruck, to tales of their grandfather’s heroic (and possibly exaggerated) exploits.  No friends to raise a tankard in the local tavern once a year to their fallen mucker.  No commendation to a god, ‘heathen’ or otherwise. 

Fletcher wasn’t even sure he believed in the Maker but that didn’t mean He didn’t exist.  What if He did?  What if there was a qunari Maker?  What if there was some ancient horned chieftain up in the sky, sitting on a giant cloud throne and twiddling His thumbs for millennia, wondering where the heck everyone else was?

Well, that was just silly.  No qunari, god or otherwise, would stand for being messed around like that.

“I’ll remember you, Coast Karasten, even if they won’t.”

Fletcher sighed.  He knew he was stalling, knew he’d have to face the Arishok sooner or later.  In all likelihood, the qunari leader had already been apprised of events at the Coast and was making preparations to raze Kirkwall to the ground, no doubt blaming the Viscount for the deaths of his kin.

In that event, Fletcher would die anyway, so why delay the inevitable?

But there were no signs of activity within the compound.  The palpable aura around it, which always seemed to radiate outwards in a semi-circle of intimidation and mistrust, was as quiet and watchful as ever.  Compound Karasten was aware of Fletcher’s presence and glanced his way on occasion, but seemed unconcerned.  Why would he worry?  Fletcher was hardly a warrior of renown, even when he _wasn’t_ caked in sand and sweat and fear.

One foot forward.  Then another.  There was a finality, a poignancy, to Fletcher’s halting journey.  He had a feeling there would be no going back from what had happened today, and that made him sad.  The Arishok had answered the Viscount’s insult with one of his own.  Only, something told Fletcher the word ‘stalemate’ wasn’t in the qunari vocabulary.

The qunari were different, and many humans didn’t like that.  But elves were different too, as were dwarves.  With some exceptions, humans had learned to coexist with other races.  So why wasn’t there room to gather the qunari to the humans’ slightly standoffish bosom?  _Besides_ the fact they were very big?

And what did Fletcher, a bumbling, pudgy, oftentimes witless farmer from Lothering have to offer the Arishok?  What could he possibly say to avert the coming crisis?  ‘I had the Tome of Koslun, knew exactly how important it was, but gave it back to the thief instead of returning it to you, its rightful owner.  Then I forgot about it for ages.  Oh, and the thief’s an acquaintance of mine.  Well, cheerio!  Have a good one!’”

His scattered thoughts accompanied him to the gate, but before he could address Compound Karasten, a hand roughly slapped his shoulder from behind.

“Maker!  Watch the arm!”  Protectively clutching his injured limb and spinning around, the irony not lost on him that he’d just invoked the Maker’s name when he wasn’t sure there even _was_ a Maker, he came face-to-face with someone he didn’t particularly want to talk to.

“There you are, Hawke!  I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Anders, this _really_ isn’t the time,” Fletcher said shortly, his nerves in tatters.

“Just—just hear me out,” Anders pleaded, a note of desperation in his voice.  “I know I was a shit yesterday.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know why I… just… give me another chance.  We can go to the clinic now.  I’ve got patients ready to be seen.  Anything you want!”

Fletcher brought a hand to his brow and shook his head several times.  “I don’t have time for this.”

He started to walk away, but Anders followed until they were in earshot of Compound Karasten and grabbed Fletcher’s arm.  “Please!  Just listen to me!”

“You’re hurting me!” growled Fletcher, shrugging off his fellow mage’s hand.  “What are you playing at?”

“I’m sorry!”  Anders backed away, his hands held up, his voice trembling.  “I’m not thinking straight!”

“I can see that!  Whatever game you’re playing this time, I’m not interested!  Now get lost!  Can’t you see where I’m going?  Important things are happening!  Not everything revolves around Anders!”

“I’ll come with you!”  Anders blurted out.

“Piss off!” Fletcher hissed through clenched teeth, knowing a visibly nervous, neurotic, _possessed_ mage was the last person the Arishok needed to meet.

“Not until we’ve talked,” declared Anders, standing his ground.  “I’m staying right here.  Just be careful in there.”

“Fine!” 

Amused by the spectacle, Compound Karasten sneered as Fletcher approached. 

Riled by Anders’s appearance, Fletcher was in no mood for it.  “Just do your job and open the bloody gate.  I’m sure the Arishok’s expecting me.”

Anders gawked at Fletcher’s bold display and watched as the gate was slowly pushed open by the qunari sentry.  Then, when the sentry’s glower turned upon him, he moved away, wrapping his arms around himself to stem the chill that had settled in his bones.

“I’ll talk him round, all right?  I’ll think of something,” he mumbled to himself.

A short distance away a whinny was heard, and several loiterers cleared a path as a mounted guard entered the docks.  “Make way!  Guard business!”

Anders quickly moved aside, the horse drawing to a halt in front of the compound gates.  Then he noticed there was not one, but two guards atop the horse: Guard-Captain Hendyr and Fenris, whose green eyes were fixed on Anders.

Fenris quickly dismounted and made a beeline for him.  “What are _you_ doing here?” he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion.  “Where’s Hawke?”

Anders, put on the defensive, crossed his arms.  “What I’m doing here’s my business.”

“Answer the question.”  Donnic dropped down, holding the horse by its bridle.  “Is he here yet or has he gone?  Quickly!”

“He just went in.”  Anders pointed to the gates of the compound, the guards exchanging a stony glance.

“Fenris, tether Nereid,” Donnic ordered, passing the reins to the elf.  “It’s about time I introduced myself to the Arishok.”

Fenris closed his eyes, his shoulders drooping.  “No.”

“No?  What do you—”

The elf shook his head, his eyes slowly opening.  “Forgive the insubordination, Captain, but we are too late.  For us to enter the compound now would greatly weaken Fletcher’s position and sully the Arishok’s opinion of him.  Fletcher… Fletcher must do this alone.”  Fenris let out what sounded like a moan, looking forlornly at the gates.

“Captain?  Everything all right?” asked a passing guard, jogging up to the small group.

“Send your partner here and round up all dock patrols,” instructed Donnic.  “Might be trouble.”

“What about the factory, Captain?  The smuggling ring?”

 _“All_ of them.  And tell them to hang back—don’t want to spook the guard on the gate if this turns out to be nothing.”

“Right away!”

Donnic returned to Fenris and Nereid, joining the elf in his vigil.  “Looks like it’s up to Hawke now.  Maker watch over him.”  He glanced upward.  “You as well, Aveline.”

~o~O~o~

The compound was unusually crowded.  Fletcher observed almost twice as many qunari standing around than usual, all appearing nonchalant, but all watching him.  Where had they come from?  Had they been recalled in preparation for something?

Was the Arishok protecting them, or readying his people for aggressive action?  Fletcher guessed the qunari didn’t take lunch breaks, so what other explanation was there?

Strangely, their presence didn’t intimidate Fletcher any more than usual.  In his heart, he felt the qunari were the wounded party here, and his sympathies lay with them.  But he was also greatly sympathetic to the idea of Kirkwall not going to war or being conquered.  He was torn, and didn’t know what the right thing was anymore.

He also didn’t know how the hell a human apostate from the wrong side of the fence had ended up here, attempting to talk down a man whose beliefs and ideals were as far from Fletcher’s comprehension as higher mathematics was from a dog’s.

Well, maybe a human approach wasn’t going to work this time.  Maybe he needed to not just _act_ like a qunari, to _pretend_ to be one like Fenris had counselled so many times.

He neared the dais, finding an empty throne.  An almost imperceptible nod passed between the two qunari flanking it, and one of them disappeared through a rear door.

“You will wait, Hawke,” the other uttered.

Fletcher answered with a curt nod.  His mind went back to his time as a youth, to the plays he, Beth and Carver had staged for their parents during the Satinalia celebrations.  Happier times.

Fletcher could act, could take on the persona of another, when circumstances demanded it.  Today, he’d decided, he would honour the memory of the man who’d saved his life.

He would _be_ Coast Karasten.  Forthright, fearless, economical with words, brutally honest.

Ignoring the voice in his head that told him how fucking stupid that was, he straightened up as the fearsome qunari leader emerged, taking his time to sit upon his throne and adjust his posture.

“Shanedan,” Fletcher said.

“Serah Hawke.  Are you here with more cordial greetings from the Viscount?”

A derisory laugh went up around the compound and Fletcher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“No,” he answered steadily.  “I’m here for my own reasons.”

“Which are…”

“Vasaad and his delegation are dead.”

The Arishok displayed no emotion, his squint red eyes boring into Fletcher’s.  _“You_ were not invited.”

“Irrelevant.  The fact is, I was there.  An attempt was made to kill me but Karasten saved me at the cost of his own life,” Fletcher went on.  “It’s my belief that a third party intended my death to be the catalyst for blame between both sides.”

“Where is your proof of this?”

“I have none, but I wouldn’t waste your time with petty speculation.”

“And where is this… ‘third party’?”

“They fled like the cowards they are.  We were unable to follow them as they’d killed our horses.”

“My emissaries would have pursued them and would _not_ have easily been cowed.  How _exactly_ do you know of their fates?  Did you see their bodies with your own eyes?”

Fletcher paused briefly, deciding not to inform the Arishok that he’d helped Coast Karasten on his way.  He also recalled that he’d never been armed when visiting the compound, and didn’t know whether the Arishok was aware he was a mage.  He certainly didn’t want to reveal his sensing ability, thereby giving any nearby Arvaarads the perfect excuse to sew his mouth shut and stick a leash on him.  “I’ve answered your questions, Arishok.  You’ll either accept my account or you won’t.”

The Arishok leaned forward, resting a hand on his knee.  “You have not lied to me so far.”

“I… yes, I have,” admitted Fletcher, feeling like he was going to be sick, but he was determined not to show it outwardly.  “By omission of the facts, I’ve been lying to you.  Not about this, but something else.  I’m here to finally tell you the truth.  You deserve to know.”

The qunari leader didn’t move, but Fletcher felt the presence of several other qunari directly behind him.  He was being hemmed in.  Trapped.  No escape.  If there _was_ a Maker, he silently offered thanks that he was wearing dark trousers because his left leg suddenly felt very warm and wet.

Coast Karasten wouldn’t have done that. 

“Speak, then,” the Arishok said softly, in the same way molten lava was _soft._   “Enlighten me with your ‘truth’.”

Fletcher opened his mouth but his breath caught, his lips and tongue bone dry.  No.  No.  Not now!

Then somewhere in the depths of his mind, the thought occurred that the qunari wouldn’t _need_ to surround him to kill him.  Was this a test of his mettle?

Remembering Coast Karasten’s sacrifice, he called upon his deepest, most hidden reserves of courage, gulping first.  “I know who stole the Tome of Koslun.”

A commotion erupted.  “You will not speak his name, Basra Vashedan!” the qunari to the left of the Arishok roared, surging forward, weapon drawn.

The Arishok raised a hand and utter silence fell over the compound like a blanket.  “Take your place,” he commanded his guard, who froze on the spot before returning to his post.

The Arishok then rose and walked down the steps, positioning himself in front of Fletcher, standing at least eighteen inches taller than the mage.

“You have known this all along,” he said as a statement, not a question.

“Not all along, no, but when I did learn of it, I kept it to myself.  I did nothing.”

“As do all of your kind,” the Arishok commented, lips curling in disgust.  “You invite death by this admission.  Your viscount is a fool but I had not thought you such until this moment.”

“Forget the Viscount.  Forget whoever’s trying to turn Kirkwall against you and your people.  Let’s talk about you and me,” Fletcher said, looking up, unable to see the sun for the huge shadow cast over him.  “I’m not of the Qun.  I’m weak and I make mistakes.  But I know what it’s like to be unable to go home.  Of the thousand things that divide us, one unites us.  I can never go home because it’s no longer there, but I want _you_ to be able to.  You can’t return to Par Vollen without the Tome.  Give me one chance to find it.  Let me atone for my mistake.”

The Arishok bent a little, bringing his face close to Fletcher’s, his breath like blood and fire.  “There is no more time for chances, for atonement.  Bring the thief to me.  _Now._ They _will_ answer.”

Again, Fletcher gulped, feeling he’d shrunk.  “I don’t know where they are but I’ll find them.  The captain of the guard is with me.”

“She would defy the Viscount?  Her loyalties are as thin as her grasp of ‘order’ in this mire you would call a city!”

“ _She_ happens to be dead and I’ll thank you not to speak of her in that way!” shouted Fletcher, genuinely angry.  “She was my friend and I won’t have her memory insulted by someone who didn’t even know her!  I don’t care _who_ you are!”  He clenched his trembling hands into fists, feeling the spectre of death at his back.

A growl rumbled through the Arishok’s chest and he stood tall, allowing Fletcher some breathing space.  For a moment, both men stared at each other, Fletcher’s indignation forcing him to meet the Arishok’s eyes, though terror pulsed through his body. 

“And does her replacement have your heart?”

“He has the heart of an ox,” Fletcher answered, hoping he hadn’t misinterpreted the question, though his tone remained hostile.  “He gives nothing less than his all.”

“But will his ‘all’ be enough to save him?” the Arishok said ominously.  “ _One_ chance that would not be given to another, Serah Hawke. _You_ will deliver the Tome _and_ the thief before the moon grows full.  If you are late, consider that your _final_ mistake.”

He started up the steps and entered the inner compound without looking back, leaving Fletcher feeling like an ant among the giants that surrounded him.

“Let me pass!” he barked at them.

** The Hanged Man **

It wasn’t often that the happy-go-lucky Varric got the bit between his teeth, but when he did, Corff knew better than to stand in his way.  Half of his pub had been turned into a temporary command centre, its tables pushed to the back where the regulars grumbled for want of space, but did little else. 

They were paying customers and that was the main thing.  Whether Corff would see anything from Varric in the way of compensation for lost business was another matter.

The dwarf was like a stumpy whirlwind, flitting from person to person, not always waiting for them to finish speaking before he moved onto the next.  Corff knew Varric had contacts, but had never seen so many all in the same place.  He didn’t like the look of some of them, but kept that to himself.

“So we’ve had possible sightings in or around the Journey’s End, the Slug and Lettuce, and that place in Farrier’s Row that burned down, got rebuilt and has yet to be given a new name?”  Varric asked no-one in particular.  “Did they re-name it yet?  Is it open?  Somebody find out!  This is important!”

A shady-looking man wearing an eye patch dipped a nod at the dwarf before slipping out through the door.

“And are these _actual_ sightings or just reports of dark-haired women being drunk in taverns?  Granted, you don’t see that many also flashing their coin around, not that I thought she _had_ any coin,” he went on, apparently to himself, “but I need real evidence.  I need dates, times, not a hazy, ale-fuelled account of a grope out back with a dusky, well-endowed beauty who in fact turned out to be Two-Toothed Meg from Darktown when the beer goggles came off.  What am I paying you people for?  Get moving!”

As one, Varric’s contacts shuffled towards the door amid murmured conversation.

“And don’t come back until you have something I can actually use!” added the dwarf in exasperation, slumping against the bar.  “Exhausting business, hunting a fugitive,” he grumbled.

“Funny, that,” remarked Corff as he filled Varric’s tankard, “I don’t see _you_ doing any actual hunting.”

“How old are you?” questioned Varric.  “Have you really gotten this far in life with such breath-taking naivety?  _Someone_ needs to co-ordinate all this, not to mention stay here in case our fugitive shows up.”

“You mean Isabela?”

“Figured that out all by yourself, did you?”

Corff shrugged.  “Well, no.  I heard the guard-captain mention her name when he swept in here for all of ten seconds not long ago.”

“Right.”  Varric drank deeply from his tankard, setting it down with a belch.  “That’d do it.”

“Y’know, if you’re looking around the local taverns, you might want to start by asking their landlords if they’ve seen her recently.”

Varric looked up, hope springing in his heart.  “And have you?”

“Can’t say I have, no.”

“Why do I even—” Varric shooed away Corff with a flick of his hand and rubbed his brow, hoping to banish the start of a headache. 

He’d had the book in his hands, damn it!  How could something so big and weird-looking just disappear?  How could someone who looked like Isabela just disappear?   Was Hawke also about to disappear, crushed under the Arishok’s heel?  How was Varric going to break the news to Sunshine, to Ma Hawke?

And what would Broody do if anything happened to Hawke?  Would he storm the qunari stronghold, valiantly holding his own against five, maybe six qunari before he was chewed up and spat out, his bones used as the Arishok’s personal supply of toothpicks? 

Next, the guards would go in.  Grizzly would be the last to fall, but fall he would.

And then, when there was no one left to fight, the qunari would…

Trip over the pile of bodies and crack their heads open if Varric had anything to say about it, but this wasn’t one of his stories.

His morbid musings were interrupted by the clattering of the tavern door.  He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the hooded patron holding a letter with disinterest.

“Master Tethras, this is for you.”

“If this isn’t about Isabela I’m not interested,” replied Varric, adjusting Bianca in preparation to leave.

“But this is urgent.  It’s from Tantervale.  I was told to—”

“Did you say _Tantervale?_   Well, what are you waiting for?  Hand it over!”

“But you just said—”

Varric plucked the letter from the hand of the bewildered newcomer and tore it open, stepping away from the bar, his stomach turning over as he read the scrawled message twice, then a third time.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.  “This day just gets better and better.  How old is this information?” he demanded of the messenger, who upon closer inspection appeared to be a teenage elven boy, hence the hood.  Varric sighed.  “Listen, kid.  Don’t mind me, it’s been that kind of a day.  Who gave this to you and how long ago?”

“I’m the third out of Tantervale, Master.  They got word about a week ago.”

“So this information’s a week out of date?”

“Give or take, yes.”

“Well, all right, then.”  Varric exhaled and reached into his pocket, retrieving a sovereign, which he pressed into the youth’s hand.  “Here you go.  Watch yourself on the way back, okay?”

“I will, Master.  Thank you.”

“You’re kinda new to all this, aren’t you?” asked the dwarf.

“This is… yes.  It’s my first job for, you know.  You-know-who.”

Varric beckoned the lad closer and lowered his voice.  “Word of advice.  That ‘master’ stuff might work in Tevinter, but keep a lid on it while you’re this side of the Minanter*, okay?  Those slavers up in the hills _love_ to hear the word ‘master’.  Nice hood, though.”  Answered with a nod, he slapped the boy on the back and headed for the door.  “Corff!  Get this kid something to eat and a bed for the night.  Put it on my bill.”

“Are you actually going to settle that bill anytime soon?” asked Corff, but Varric was already gone.

** The Docks **

“It’s gone very quiet in there,” observed Donnic, standing at Fenris’s side.  “I wish I knew how many were in there.  We’ve got a dozen guards on standby and us two.”

“It will not be enough,” Fenris said in a flat tone, his dark, unblinking gaze upon the gates.  “But if they have harmed him… no numbers will be enough to deliver them from _me.”_

Donnic laid a couple of halting slaps on the elf’s back, wishing he could assure his friend that the qunari wouldn’t hurt Hawke.  But he couldn’t.  He didn’t know whether Hawke had been invited for tea and scones with the Arishok, or if he lay bleeding on the ground, his head caved in by a qunari war hammer.

He shuddered, willing himself to concentrate on what his eyes, and not his imagination, could see.

After several long moments, Compound Karasten reached across to open the gate.  Donnic and Fenris tensed, their breaths held in.

Out walked one human, skin clammy and pale, eyes glazed over, mumbling something under his breath.  “When the moon’s full.   When the moon’s _full._ Yes.  Must be.  The day after… _no,_ the day after _that._   Definitely.”

“Fletcher,” Fenris breathed, rushing to his side.  “Are you—”

“We’ve got three days,” the mage declared in a rough voice, “and then we’ve had it.”

Donnic immediately sprang into action, assembling his guards and issuing orders.

Fenris, recognising that Fletcher was in a fragile state, led his mage to a small recess behind some crates where they could enjoy privacy.  “You are shaking like a leaf,” he said in concern, clasping Fletcher’s arms tightly.

“I—I’m not crying, though,” claimed Fletcher, a treacherous tear slipping free, the stress and fear of the day’s events proving too much.  He pulled at his left trouser leg.  “This is, um, sweat.  I think—I think I’m beginning t—to toughen up a bit.” 

Fenris groaned, reaching up to gently stroke the mage’s cheeks, smudging the tears away.  “Do something for me.  _Never_ toughen up.  I love you just as you are, soft heart, weak bladder and all.”

Fletcher half-chuckled and half-sniffled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.  “Didn’t believe it was sweat, then?”

“Sorry.”  Fenris gave the mage a bright smile and then weaved his arms around Fletcher’s waist, resting his nose against his beloved’s neck, just breathing him in.  “Soft heart notwithstanding, you are courageous beyond measure.”

 _“Courageous?_   Look at the state of me!  I—I mean it’s lovely of you to say that, but…”

“Listen to me.”  Fenris drew back and waited until Fletcher looked into his eyes.  “A man who knows no fear and walks blindly into danger is a fool.  One who _is_ afraid, who _is_ aware of his own mortality, yet meets that danger head-on regardless, is courageous.  You _are_ that man.  You are _my_ man and I have never been prouder of you.”

Fletcher gave a self-conscious shrug, his insides tickled.  “So that time I jumped through the roof of the stables, oh, and when I swam through the tainted water and tackled the ogre single-handedly I was courageous?”

“No, you were a fool,” Fenris said with a puckish smile.  “But not today.”

A genuine laugh gusted out of Fletcher and he buried his nose in the elf’s hair, pulling him close and blowing out a shaky breath.  “So what happens now?”

“What happens now is the province of others.  You have bought us time.  For now, your part in this is over.  Donnic has orders to arrest you but believes he can reason with the Viscount.  And by ‘reason with’, I mean ‘call on the carpet’.”

“Oh.  That’s good of him.  I hope he won’t get in trouble.”

“No.  He has the right of it.”

Fletcher drew a deep breath and straightened his posture, looking down at the elf.  “But what happens right now, at this minute?”

“You go home and rest,” Donnic said from the other side of the crates, having heard part of their conversation.  “Report to the barracks first thing in the morning.  I haven’t seen you today,” he said truthfully.  “Guardsman Fenris, you’ll watch him until then in case he tries to abscond.  Double shift tomorrow.  We’ll be burning the candle at both ends.”

“Yes, Captain.”

The sound of Donnic’s footfalls grew fainter as he walked away.

“He’s just given you the day off,” said Fletcher in surprise, wiping the last remnants of moisture from his eyes.

“Quite the opposite.  I will carry out his orders to the letter and watch you like a hawk… Hawke.”

Fletcher nodded his approval of the quip.  “That’s actually pretty good for you.”

“Thank you, I thought so too.”  The men emerged from the alcove, watching as Donnic mounted Nereid and set off.  “You should also obey the captain’s orders and go home.”

“And you’ll watch me?”

“For most of the time, yes.  I believe I will prepare dinner this evening.  Something supremely unhealthy for the master of the house, to offset the toils and trials of the day.”

“Fenris, I’ve already nearly died _once_ today.  I doubt my luck will hold out a second time. _I’ll_ cook.”

A slender eyebrow rose.  “I think I preferred you terrified and weeping.”

“You mean ‘courageous’, surely?”

Fenris’s cool stare thawed into a warm smile.  “Of course.  Easy to confuse the two.”  He nodded ahead and they started their journey home.

“Wait… where’s Anders?”  Fletcher asked, looking around.  “He said he was going to wait here.”

“He departed while Donnic and I were discussing Isabela.”

Fletcher came to a sudden stop.  “D’you think he knows where she is?”

“It’s possible, but not your concern.  Donnic will have him questioned.”

“Maybe _we_ should ask Anders first?”

“No.”  Fenris pointed in the direction of Hightown.  “I have orders to escort you home.  There is already a warrant for your arrest.  Fortunately for you, the captain has not ‘seen’ you.  Yet.”  He glanced down at Fletcher’s trousers.  “Besides, you need a bath.  You have been… perspiring.  Somewhat profusely, it has to be said.”

For once, a witty comeback or lewd remark eluded Fletcher.  “All right, Fen, you’re the boss.  Let’s go home.”

“Take heart, my dear,” advised the elf.  “For today at least, our troubles are over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Minanter River, which divides the Tevinter Imperium and the Free Marches.


	112. Acquiescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The qunari have no interest in the 'little' people. They'll be coming after the Viscount... and his staff."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to CCBug for giving the chapter the once-over and for her idea about the latter part of the chapter (spoilers withheld). :)

Varric’s mind was processing a dozen different things as he stomped up the steps to the affluent quarter of Hightown.  So preoccupied was he that it wasn’t until he’d reached the top of the steps that he realised his legs were about to fall off.  He stopped, bracing his hands against his thighs and drawing several breaths.

Not only did he feel personally responsible for allowing the Tome of Koslun—and consequently Isabela—to slip through his fingers, but he had some pretty serious tidings to deliver to Fenris.  The letter the elven messenger brought from Tantervale had provided Danarius’s movements, documented in great detail by the network Varric had set up along the Imperial Highway.

According to Varric’s information, Danarius’s entourage had last been sighted near the Nevarran border, where they’d left the Highway.

The problem was, that information was a week old.  Furthermore, Varric had no idea how quickly the entourage was travelling or what route they were now taking.

His network had done well to deliver the news to him so quickly, but he hated that he could only give a vague account to Hawke and the elf.  Varric dealt in information and hard facts, and his reputation was on the line here.

More importantly, the life of one of his friends was at stake.

He huffed a sigh, swept the sweat out of his eyes and started towards his destination, but halted again when he spotted a familiar raven-haired man striding up to him.

“Chuckles!  Fancy meeting you here!”  He reached for Nathaniel’s proffered hand and shook it, his greeting met with a nod.  “So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

Nathaniel walked at the dwarf’s side as he resumed his journey.  “Visiting someone.  You?”

“So am I!  Maybe we’re headed in the same direction?”

“Maybe we are.”

Varric rolled his eyes at the warden’s taciturn nature.  “Y’know, I’m thinking of renaming you _Blabbermouth._ Can’t get a word in sideways here.”

Nathaniel made a quiet snort, a whisper of a smile ghosting across his features.  “I’m known to be quite chatty when enjoying engaging company.  I say _when_.”

“Ouch!”  Varric chuckled.  “Well, I’m on my way to Hawke’s place.  How ‘bout you?”

Nathaniel frowned and stopped in his tracks.  “So am I.  What—?”

“Why?” the dwarf asked.  “Something about the mining site?  Did a dragon come say hello?”

“No, nothing like that.  My reasons are personal, although…”  Nathaniel clasped his chin and studied Varric for a moment.  “Perhaps _you_ could also help.”

His curiosity piqued, Varric gave an enthusiastic nod.  “Anything I can do, you know that.   What’s this about?”

The tall warden glanced around.  “I prefer not to discuss it here, but it involves a friend of yours.”

“Not a friend of _yours_ , then?”

“That would be pushing it.  I used to know him, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“You mean Blondie, don’t you?”  Varric asked soberly, wondering what the mage had got mixed up in this time.

“That’s precisely who I mean.  Shall we?”  Nathaniel gestured towards the Hightown Estates.

“Right after you, Blabbermouth.”

** The Hawke Residence **

“Ser Fenris?  May I bring you a snack?  A drink?”

The elf squirmed in his seat and briefly looked at the Hawkes’ new housekeeper before directing his eyes to his feet.  “No, thank you.  I am more than capable—”

“A pot of tea would be lovely, Maggie,” Fletcher interrupted, “and a few of your delicious oat biscuits wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

“Right away.  I’m glad you like them, ser.”  With a dip of her head, Maggie left the parlour, closing the doors behind her.

“She’s not a slave,” Fletcher reminded Fenris.  “She’s the housekeeper and she’s paid quite well to bring us things.  You _are_ allowed to ask something of her.  It’s her _job._ She thinks she’s offended you because you keep saying ‘no’ to her all the time.”

“She said that?”

“She asked me if she’d offended you and how she could correct that.”

The elf’s cheeks flushed, his mouth working for a few seconds before he finally spoke.  “That was not my intent.  I merely… ugh.”

“I didn’t mean to fluster you,” commented an amused Fletcher, angling for a response.

“I am _not_ flustered,” the elf argued, his colour and demeanour indicating otherwise.  “I am unaccustomed to dispensing commands to one who is in service.  Mock me if you will, it will change nothing.”

“In _service_.  Not servitude.  There’s a difference.”

Fenris gave the mage a morose look and tightly folded his arms. 

“Why don’t you compliment her biscuits or something?” suggested Fletcher.  “I’m sure that would make her day.”

“I do not care for her biscuits.  I will not compound my folly by deceiving the woman.”

“You’re impossible, you know that?”  Fletcher shook his head, giving the elf an indulgent smile.

A few minutes later a knock came at the door and Fletcher called for the visitor to enter.  It was Maggie, carrying a tray.

Fenris leapt up and took the tray from her, setting it down carefully.

“Thank you, ser,” she said before turning to Fletcher.  “Ser Hawke, you have two visitors.  I’ve shown them to the library.  One of them is Varric Tethras, the other a gentleman who preferred not to give his name.  Said he was a friend.”

 _“That_ sounds mysterious.  All right.  Please show them in here when you have a minute.”

“Of course.  I’ll fetch them now.”  Maggie went to depart, but before she left, Fenris loudly cleared his throat and approached her somewhat gingerly.

“Do you know how to make shortbread?” he asked her.

“Why, yes, ser.  Should I prepare a batch for you?”

He held his hands up. “No.  I was merely asking.”

“Fenris, stop being so bloody polite,” Fletcher piped up.  “Maggie, he’d love some shortbread.  Wouldn’t you, dear?”

“I, um… ahem.  I suppose so, but only if there is time.”  Fenris glanced up, finding Maggie smiling at him.  He reciprocated awkwardly, her own smile blooming into a delighted grin.

“In that case, I’ll make two batches.  I’ll have your visitors shown in, ser.”

“Thank you,” called Fletcher, again shaking his head for dramatic effect as Fenris—doing a poor job of affecting animosity—returned to his armchair.

Presently, Varric arrived with Nathaniel in tow.  Pleasantries were exchanged, more refreshments were arranged and the men settled on couches and chairs.

“Aren’t I the popular one?” joked Fletcher.  “Well, who wants to go first?  I’ll start the bidding at a bottle of brandy.”

“No bidding necessary,” said Nathaniel, gesturing to Varric.  “I believe you were ahead of me when we met.”

“Uh, actually, Blabbermouth, I’ll go second.  I’m gonna need to speak to these two in private.  No offence.”

“None taken, though your relentless bastardisation of my name _is_ somewhat grating,” Nathaniel quipped before sitting up straight and considering his words for a moment.  “What’s going on with Anders?” he said to Fletcher, wasting no time on small talk.  “I observed him leaving the dockside earlier today.  I followed him to Lowtown, a walk of approximately twenty minutes.  He talked to himself for the duration.”

Fletcher exchanged a glance with Fenris before releasing a soft sigh.  “He’ll do that.”

“Why did you follow him?” enquired the elf.

“Because he appeared distraught and I’m rather nosy.”

“He and I had a few words earlier today,” Fletcher explained, his eyes glazing over.  “More than a few, actually.”

“From what I understand,” Varric said to Nathaniel, “you and Blondie aren’t exactly drinking buddies.  Why do you care?”

“I don’t.  Call it morbid curiosity.”

“He is an extremely disturbed man and a parasite,” Fenris muttered, not mincing his words.  “Your time and energy would be better expended elsewhere.”

Fletcher leaned across and lightly touched Fenris’s arm before addressing Nathaniel.  “He’s troubled, that’s for sure.  Unfortunately I don’t have time to keep an eye on him.  There are things going on in Kirkwall that are bigger than him and he doesn’t seem to understand that.”

“I thought the two of you were friends,” said the warden with a frown.  “You went to great lengths to protect him when Warden-Commander Surana discovered his presence here.  As you’re both apostates I assumed a natural kinship would exist.”

“It used to, but now… oh, I don’t know anymore.”  Fletcher shrugged and sat back, studying his tea and saying no more.

“Gentlemen,” Fenris said, his tone firm, “Fletcher has endured an exceedingly trying, and tiring, day and is still nursing an injury.  If there’s nothing urgent, I would respectfully ask that this conversation resume at a later time.”

“Fen, there’s no need to—” Fletcher began, but Nathaniel had already risen.

“I will not allow Anders to hinder your recuperation,” said the elf sternly.  “He has taken much from you yet you make excuses for him each and every time.”

“This can wait,” Nathaniel assured them with a small bow.  “I’ll take my leave.  My best wishes for your continued recovery, Serah Hawke.”

Fletcher called a weak thank-you as the men left, knowing Fenris was being his usual over-protective self and that arguing was futile.

Fenris and the two visitors then convened in the vestibule where they spoke in hushed tones.

“How about I undertake some discreet reconnaissance?” Nathaniel asked the elf.  “All I’m doing here is co-ordinating with the wardens at the mining site to ensure there are no more incursions.  I have a lot of time on my hands for the moment.  Anders, despite his claims to the contrary, is still a Grey Warden and I won’t have him disgracing the Order any more than he already has.”

“Be my guest,” replied Fenris.  “Beware, though—he is skilled in manipulation and duplicity.”

“Not with me he isn’t.”

“Why don’t I keep tabs on him as well?” offered Varric hastily, concerned that this was turning into a witch hunt.  “I know he’s got issues but he’s a good kid at heart.  Maybe needs to get out more, feel the sun on his face, I don’t know.  I’ll buy him a pint or two, set up a game of Wicked Grace.  He just needs a little fun.  As a matter of fact, I can think of a couple of other people who could use some fun, and they’re not a thousand leagues away from me.”

“’Fun’ to me is ensuring my friends and loved ones are kept safe,” Fenris stated.  Nathaniel nodded his agreement.

“Like I just said,” Varric mumbled to himself in resignation.

“I’ll be in touch.”  Nathaniel nodded to the elf and dwarf, who watched him depart, forgoing unnecessary niceties.

Fenris watched Varric for a moment and, when it became apparent the dwarf wasn’t going to follow Nathaniel, he asked pointedly: “Is there something more?  Shouldn’t you be devising whimsy for abominations?”

“Later.”  Varric loosed a harsh sigh and nodded towards the library.  “Let’s talk.  You and me.”

Fenris followed him in and closed the doors, watching as Varric checked the windows.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure our conversation doesn’t leave this room.”  Varric glanced at the elf, who was staring at him with an expression of suspicion and intrigue.  “I’ve got some news.  You might want to sit down for this.”

In a matter of seconds, Fenris’s face and posture transformed into something Varric recalled seeing when they first became acquainted: those of a wounded and cornered animal which _might_ whine and submit in the face of whatever danger loomed, but which might also tear out the throat of whoever was unfortunate enough to provoke it.

Varric unconsciously took a step back as Fenris rushed towards him.  “Is this about… tell me everything you know,” the elf ordered breathlessly.    _“Everything.”_

“I got a letter from my contacts in Tantervale.  Danarius has entered the Free Marches.”

Fenris’s eyes lowered and he turned slightly away, his voice almost a whisper.  “How long.”

“Difficult to say,” admitted Varric with a sigh.

The elf turned back to him, his eyes hard.  “Guess.”

“Can we?”  Varric pointed to a settee in the corner of the room.  Fenris paused for a moment before taking a seat in silence, his posture rigid.  Varric joined him but did not sit down, instead lounging against the far arm of the settee.  “Here’s the deal.  Danarius and his entourage were sighted crossing the Nevarran border a week ago.  That’s where we lost them.  My people are situated along the Imperial Highway and he’s no longer on it.”

Fenris stared ahead, his hands meshed tightly together in his lap.  “Then he intends to take the most direct route to Kirkwall.”

“Not necessarily.  The way I see it, he’s got three options: First, let’s say he _does_ take the most direct approach.  That’d put him somewhere near Wildervale right now.  He’s still got the mountains to negotiate so unless he’s in a hurry, we’re looking at him being maybe ten days out.”

“He will not hurry,” Fenris spat.  “He will need to rest—from what, I do not know.  He will have pavilions of Orlesian silk erected each night where his slaves will feed him peeled fruits and ‘service’ him.  Why would he need to hurry?  In his mind, my capture is inevitable.  The arrogance of the man is breath-taking.”

“Right.”  Varric nodded, keeping a concerned eye on the elf.  “Second option is the toughest _and_ longest.  Just because he left the Highway doesn’t mean he’s not still following it.  Let’s say he decides to go incognito and traverse the Planasene Forest.  I gotta say, though, he’d need to be a complete idiot to do that.  It’s out of his way and will hold him up by weeks, not days.”

“He is many things, but not an idiot.  He will not take that route,” Fenris said confidently.

“Got it.  Third option, he heads along the Minanter River before turning south.  It’s indirect but the easiest for his horses and however many people he’s bringing along.  My contacts say about a dozen including him.”

“Most of them will be _servus privatus_ ,” said Fenris, “the lowest of slaves, there to provide blood to power their master’s spells when he confronts me.  He will consider the welfare of his horses, but not theirs.  _Their_ condition does not matter so long as they bleed.”

“Actually, my sources tell me he has some guy riding with him who’s wearing pretty fancy armour.  Didn’t look like your typical slave.  Unarmed, of course, but not in foot irons dragging his ass along behind the horses like the rest.  This guy’s _on_ a horse.”

“Elven?” asked Fenris.

“Yep.  The fact he was dressed like a fortress and riding his own horse got my people’s attention.”

“That would make sense.  He is Danarius’s Scutum Primus.”

Varric blinked.  “Come again?”

The elf sighed, his posture slouching a little.  “Forgive me.  At one time, I held the position of Scutum Primus in Danarius’s household.  Loosely translated, it means ‘principal shield’.  I had my own room with a bed where I was kept in chains, naturally, but did not have to sleep in a pigsty like the others.  I had custom-made armour, trained with real weapons, albeit under guard, and was permitted to eat meat three times a week.  Compared with others, I was treated… relatively well.  Can’t say I was ever given a horse, though.”

“So this guy’s what?  Head bodyguard?”

“Correct.”  Fenris stared into space for a short time.  “Tell me… does this elf have any unusual markings?  That your spies noticed?”

“No.  One of my people got a good look at the head of the entourage and made no mention of that.  They told me pretty much everything else down to how many times a day Danarius takes a piss, so they wouldn’t have missed something like that.  The elf’s blond and... weird-looking from what they tell me, and by that, they mean he looked kinda vacant.  No-one at home, if you can understand that. ”

Fenris nodded, appearing weary. “Only too well.  At least Danarius did not inflict the procedure on him.”  He fell quiet, then, finally facing the dwarf when he’d cogitated everything.  “Varric… I’m grateful for all you’ve done.  I’m in your debt, truly.”

“Sure.  You okay?”

It took a while before the elf replied.  “Not exactly, but thanks to you I have advance warning of his arrival.”

“I just wish I could give you more.  We’ll know once he’s past the mountains, which won’t be for at least another week, but that’ll give us one, two days’ notice, tops.”

“Please.”  The elf held up a hand.  “You have given me more than you know.  Now I can prepare mentally _and_ physically.  I have made many friends and acquaintances during my time in Kirkwall.  I am no longer alone.  I feel… determined, not afraid.”

“And glad I am to hear it.”  Varric pushed away from the settee and straightened his tunic.  “Let’s go tell Hawke.”

Fenris glanced at the closed doors and shook his head, bringing a finger to his lips.  “Not yet,” he whispered, drawing alongside the dwarf.  “He will only fret on my behalf and has enough on his mind as it is.  From what you have told me, we have some time.”

Varric raised an eyebrow.  “Pardon me for saying so, but I recall a certain witch taking residence up in the mountains a while back—Hadriana, right?  Hawke decided not to tell you at the time because he didn’t want to worry you and he also wanted to get some people together to fight her.  From what I remember, you didn’t take the news so well, especially the part about not being told right away.”

“I have not forgotten,” said Fenris with a faint groan.  “In time, I saw the merit of his decision.  I was… a different person then.  I _will_ tell him, just not today.  He will understand.  He has always been a more reasonable man than I.”

“All right, you know best.”  They left the library and stepped into the vestibule, Fenris first checking that Fletcher wasn’t around.  “Don’t worry about anything for now,” Varric reassured the elf.  “We’ve already got our hands full with the Isabela/Arishok situation.  We’ll get together sometime tomorrow and make plans.  _After_ you’ve told Hawke.”

“Understood.”  Fenris reached for Varric’s hand and they shared a firm handshake.  “Again, you have my undying gratitude.  If ever there is anything I can do, you have but to ask.”

“Stand me to a pint of Amaranthine Amber one of the days and we’ll call it even.”

“I’ll do better than that, my friend.  I’ll buy you an entire cask.”

Varric released the elf’s hand and clapped his shoulder.  “Now we’re talking.  You go enjoy the rest of the day with Hawke and leave the details to me, okay?”

“Very well.  Until tomorrow.”  Fenris managed a small smile before closing the door behind the dwarf.

He looked down at his hand which still held the door knob, his eyes lingering on the swirls and curves that scarred his arms.  Closing his eyes against the memories they elicited, he thought of Fletcher, his family, his friends, his job.  His new life as an _almost_ free man.

There was only one obstacle to true liberty remaining.  And he was under no illusions that removing that obstacle could cost him—and worse, those he loved—everything.

“Fen?  Are you lost or something?” called Fletcher from the parlour.  “Do I need to send out a search party?”

“Coming, dear,” Fenris answered, blowing out the breath he’d been holding.

** Viscount’s Keep, Viscount’s private chambers **

“I don’t believe it’s disrespectful to tell the truth, your Excellency,” Donnic said to the city’s leader, standing in front of an ornate desk where the Viscount was seated.

“You forget yourself, Captain,” said Bran, standing behind Donnic.

“Yes, I imagine a lot of people ‘forget’ themselves in _your_ presence.”

“I will remind you that part of your remit is to publicly support his Excellency,” retorted the seneschal.

Donnic looked over his shoulder, careful not to turn his back on the Viscount.  “Yes, _publicly._ I don’t see any of the people I’m charged to protect in here, do you?  The very people the inaction of this office has put in harm’s way!  Are _you_ going to defend them against the qunari?”

“That will be quite enough.”  Viscount Dumar rose, elegantly rounding the desk to stand between the bickering men.  “No matter the perceived action or inaction of this office, we find ourselves in an invidious position.  What do you need from me, Captain?”

“Well, diplomacy’s obviously failed,” Donnic replied, resisting the urge to look directly at Bran, “so while the investigation’s ongoing, I believe pre-emptive action is called for.  I recommend we start evacuating key parts of Hightown and fortify the Keep, because this is where the Arishok will come if the investigation turns up naught.”

“That will be highly disruptive,” commented Dumar.

“It will, and I make no apologies for it.  Better to be inconvenienced than dead.”

“Indeed.”  The Viscount briefly considered Donnic’s proposal before nodding.  “Make the necessary preparations.  What of your investigation into this missing Tome?”

“I have everyone on it, including the new intake and a few ‘consultants’.  So far, nothing.”

“Have you posted ‘wanted’ notices around town?”

Donnic shook his head.  “I believe that would be counterproductive, your Excellency.  If Isabela isn’t already in hiding—assuming she’s still even _in_ Kirkwall—her face plastered on every store front isn’t going to scare her into ‘fessing up.  She’ll disappear quicker than a coin purse in Darktown.” 

“But surely the public at large would be alerted?”  Bran said, “therefore a reward for information might yield results.  A beggar in Lowtown may be privy to things a guard is not.”

Donnic turned to the seneschal.  “That’s a good point, and one I’ve considered, but so far the public at large isn’t aware of what’s going on under their noses.  My guards are stretched to the limit with this investigation and the last thing we need is a panic on our hands.  I’ve weighed up the pros and cons and I’ll forgo a titbit of information which may or may not be reliable to ensure the safety of the greater population.  My people _will_ come through.”

Bran held the captain’s gaze for a few seconds before nodding once.

“Agreed,” said Dumar, “but the nobles will want to know why they’re being moved from their homes.”

“I’m sure they will, but the Viscount’s office doesn’t need to explain a thing.  All you need to do is tell them.  If they want to stay, it’s their funeral.”

“Bran, have an executive order drafted to that effect immediately,” ordered Dumar.  “No explanations, but do emphasise that it’s for their own safety.”

“And where are they to be moved?”

“Lowtown,” replied Donnic.

“That is _closer_ to the qunari compound!” Bran spluttered.  “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“The qunari have no interest in the ‘little people’,” said Donnic.  “They’ll be coming after the Viscount… _and_ his staff,” he added with a menacing look at Bran.

“I fear the captain speaks true,” Dumar agreed.  “Carry out my orders.”

“At once.”  Bran moved to the door but then paused, facing the Viscount.  “Excellency… what of Hawke?”

“What of him?”

“He has not been detained as I instructed,” he replied, looking at Donnic.

The captain laughed in his face.  “I’ve often wondered how you landed a job like this but now it’s all too clear—you’re a tactical genius!  I should lock up the one man who could be pivotal in turning around this entire mess?  Brilliant.”  Donnic then pressed his hands together and proceeded to applaud the seneschal.  Slowly.

“He assaulted me like a common thug!”

“You, sir, are a prat of the highest order!  Do you have any idea—”

“I said that is _quite_ enough!”  thundered Dumar.  “I do not intend to repeat myself again!”

Donnic and Bran desisted their exchange and straightened up while Dumar finished.

“If Bran believes a legitimate claim exists against Hawke, it will be dealt with _after_ the investigation has concluded,” decreed the Viscount, “and after whatever consequences it has wrought come to bear.  You both have business to attend to.”

The men bowed to the elderly statesman, Bran leaving first.  Before Donnic departed, the Viscount spoke again.

“Captain.”

“Yes, Excellency?”

Dumar faced the window, his shoulders hunched as he let out a forlorn sigh.  “I would ask something of you.  A personal favour.”

“You only have to name it.”

“Find my son.  I should like to make peace with him before…”  He turned his head back slightly but said no more.

“I’ll do what I can, Excellency.  I can’t promise any more than that.”

“Thank you.”

Donnic closed the door of the chambers, leaving the Viscount to his thoughts.

** The Hawke Residence, later that evening **

“I don’t know how we ever managed without Maggie,” Leandra said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin before setting it down.

Fenris and Fletcher, seated around the dining table with her after enjoying a hearty meal, grunted their agreement.

“In fact,” Leandra went on, “she was telling me her husband is also seeking employment.”

From his mother’s tone of voice, Fletcher suspected something was afoot but said nothing and reached for another bread roll.

Leandra cleared her throat.  “All residences in Hightown employ a husband and wife domestic team at the very least.  I was thinking…”

“There are three of us living here,” her son pointed out.  “Isn’t two domestic staff a little extravagant?  Not to mention unnecessary?”

“I don’t see why,” she argued.  “We _are_ of noble birth, after all, and now we’re established here I think it’s about time we started—”

“Being pretentious?  Because _I’m_ not of noble birth.”

Fenris started to rise.  “I should leave you to discuss this in private.  If you’ll excuse me.”

Fletcher pointed to Fenris’s chair.  “Sit down.  You’re part of this family and your opinion counts.”

“As you wish.”  The elf lowered himself down, having no intention of making his opinion known, not that he actually had one.

“I agreed to have Maggie employed because Beth’s no longer here and running this house is too much for you alone,” Fletcher said to Leandra, “and she’s a great help.  I’ve no wish to do her husband out of a job, but we don’t _need_ an extra person.”

“So we are to be the only family in Hightown without a proper staff?”

“Since when have we cared what our neighbours think?” Fletcher exclaimed, his voice rising in volume.  “In case you’ve forgotten, there’s an apostate refugee _and_ an elf living under this roof.  We’re not exactly the darlings of Kirkwall society, are we?”

“Maggie shouldn’t be expected to do all the heavy work.  I would have thought you’d consider that.”

“She _doesn’t_ do the heavy work.  Fenris and I help out when we have deliveries.”

“That’s exactly my point,” said Leandra.  “ _You_ shouldn’t be doing manual labour, either.”

“Why, because of my arm?”

“Not only that.”

Fletcher’s mouth gaped and he looked at Fenris, who refused to meet his eyes.  He returned his gaze to Leandra.  “I’m a farmer!  Putting a couple of sacks of flour in the larder is hardly back-breaking work!  What’s this _really_ about, Mother?”

“If you’re worried about money, Fletcher, then I’ll pay the man out of my allowance,” said Leandra with a tenacious edge to her voice.  “I know _you_ give me that allowance but I have a right to use it as I see fit.”

“This has nothing to with money!  It has everything to do with status and social climbing, something the Hawkes have never been about!  Father would have had plenty to say—”

“I’ll thank you not to bring your father into this.”

“And why’s that?  Because you know _he_ would never have tolerated this keeping-up-with-the-Joneses crap, either!”

“I’ll have no child of mine use such common language at the dining table, Fletcher Hawke!  Your father and I raised you to be better than that!”

 _“Now_ who’s bringing Father into this?”

“Fletcher, Leandra,” interjected Fenris, keeping his tone mild.  “When two people start shouting at one another, the shouting and wounded pride are all they remember, and the original point is lost.”

Mother and son exhaled.

“Thank you for reminding us of that, Fenris,” Leandra said tightly as she rose, both men following suit.  “I can’t see this being resolved tonight.  I believe I’ll retire now.  Perhaps when we’ve slept, Fletcher, we’ll be able to discuss this sensibly.  Both of us.”

“Yes, Mother.  I’m sorry.”

Fenris could tell Fletcher was nothing of the sort, but his words had a mollifying effect on Leandra.

“For being as stubborn as I am, you mean?” she ventured, sharing a rueful smile with her son.  “Well, goodnight.  We’ll continue this after breakfast.”

Both men bade Leandra a pleasant sleep, remaining standing as she closed the door behind her.  Fenris then looked at Fletcher, knowing his unusual show of petulance (these days, anyway) was the product of his worry over the Tome of Koslun.  The elf began gathering cutlery, keeping his thoughts to himself as Fletcher paced.

“Where did _that_ come from?” the mage demanded.  “She’s never given a fig what the nobility thinks!  She dumped the Comte de Launcet for my father, for crying out loud!”

“I… have a theory,” Fenris said quietly from the opposite side of the table.

“Then please share it with me, love, because I haven’t the faintest idea what that was about.”

Leaving his task unfinished, the elf re-took his seat and waited for Fletcher to join him at the table.  “Your family—excuse me— _our_ family recently suffered a harrowing trial which resulted in the death of a close friend.  Your mother made choices without knowing their outcome, but I imagine all she can see is that those choices ultimately placed her children in peril.  You were seriously wounded, while Bethany fought a demon at great risk to her life, and is now a ‘guest’ of the templars.  Leandra stated that she blamed herself for my incarceration at the hands of Quentin, so be certain she also blames herself for what happened to you, Bethany and Aveline.”

“Shit.”  Fletcher covered his face with his hands, slumping forward a little.

“Your mother’s life was also in danger.  Perhaps I speak of matters I know little about, but is it possible she is considering what would have transpired had she _not_ survived?  Her legacy to her children, for example?”

Fletcher looked up and waited for the elf to continue.

“This is pure speculation on my part, but your mother was raised as a noble, her life’s path already laid out before her, her future children’s wealth, security and status assured.  Then she fell in love with an apostate and could not help but follow her heart.  Understandably,” he added with a smile, which Fletcher returned.  “You, Bethany and Carver were raised in a loving home and wanted for nothing, even though you struggled financially at times.  As a result of this upbringing, _you_ care little for money, prestige or titles.”

“But Mother wants more for me,” mumbled Fletcher.

“Yes.  You have wealth, but the bulk of it is tied up in this estate.  She wants your future to be a secure one.  Friends in high places, influence and respect are important aspects of that future.  To you and me, they are fanciful, meaningless, without substance.  But she was raised in a world where they _matter._   She regrets nothing, but wants to leave this realm knowing her children will never endure hardship or obsolescence.  That’s how I see it.”

“You see a lot more than I do.”  Fletcher rested his face on his hand and gazed at the elf.  “When did you become so wise?”

“You’re kind to say that, but as a recent inductee into the Hawke family, I find myself in a unique position.  I care for you and your mother a great deal, but am able to maintain a degree of objectivity, at least when I am not directly involved.”

“Surely you’re not saying _you,_ of all people, _lose_ objectivity when dealing with personal strife?” Fletcher teased.

The elf shrugged, levity in his eyes.  “I’ve been known to… waver from time to time, I can’t deny that.”

They stood up and Fletcher lightly touched Fenris’s arms, laying a soft kiss on the elf’s cheek.  “I’ll speak to Maggie in the morning, see if I can arrange a chat with her husband.”

“A small gesture, one that means little to you, but much to your mother.”

“Thanks.”  Fletcher thumbed towards the parlour.  “Let’s crack open a bottle of wine.  Or two.”

“And you say _I’m_ the wise one.”

Side by side they walked in, Fenris moving to the drinks cabinet while Fletcher plumped up the cushions on a comfy settee, retrieving a book from among them.  He then sat down and waited for the elf, silently taking his filled glass as Fenris made himself comfortable beside him.

“So, um, was there anything you wanted to tell me?”  Fletcher asked nonchalantly, sipping at his wine.

“Hm?”  There was a shot of adrenaline to Fenris’s gut but he ignored it and glanced at the book in Fletcher’s hand.  “Shall I read to you?”

When no answer came from the mage, Fenris looked up, finding Fletcher’s steady gaze on him.

“Do you want to read to me or do you want to talk?”

“Talk?”  Fenris reached for the book but Fletcher’s hand covered his own.

“Yes, talk.”

“What about?”  Fenris averted his eyes, unable to look at his lover, dread gripping his insides.

“Anima Mea, it’s all right.  I know.”

The elf squeezed his eyes closed, feeling Fletcher’s fingers sifting through his hair.  “You… heard something?  How?”

“I had my ear pressed against the door.  I came to ask Varric something trivial and heard the word ‘Danarius’ from inside the library.  So I listened.”

“Oh.”  Fenris’s body seemed to turn to liquid in Fletcher’s arms.  “I see.”

“So what’s the plan?  I decided to skedaddle before I heard that part.  You know, in case you caught me eavesdropping.”

“You’re not angry because I kept it from you?”  Fenris met the eyes of his mage, his question already answered.

“Angry?  Not with you, no.”  He slipped an arm around Fenris’s slender shoulders. 

Of _course_ Fletcher had reacted like that.  It was one of the countless reasons Fenris had fallen so hopelessly in love with him.  The elf experienced a rush through his chest, becoming acutely aware of what he stood to lose should Danarius prevail. 

The scatter-brained, gluttonous, recklessly impulsive, funny, sexy apostate was his everything.

“I won’t let that bastard touch you again,” averred Fletcher, his voice deadly calm.  “Not one fucking fingertip, you hear me?  You don’t belong to him.  You never did.”

Fenris buried his head in Fletcher’s neck, giving his most basic senses dominion over his mind.  Fletcher’s smell, warmth and voice were, at that moment, all that mattered to him.  “Tomorrow,” he murmured.  “We will… tomorrow.  For now, I’d very much like to read to you.”

“I’d like that too.”  Fletcher gently pushed the book into Fenris’s hands, drawing the elf close and kissing his temple.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anima Mea--'My soul' in Latin, which I've used as 'Tevene' in this story.
> 
> Scutum Primus--from my own head canon. 'The first shield' in Latin.
> 
> Servus Privatus--extrapolated from canon. The codex refers to _Servus Publicus_ , meaning slaves owned by the state, so I've assumed _Servus Privatus_ are privately-owned (ie, by magisters). Whoever owns them, they're about as low on the rung of Tevinter society as is possible to be.


	113. Give and Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Won't you think of that tender moment we shared in the bushes? Didn't it mean anything to you?"

** Southern Wildervale, Free Marches **

Vionet stood at the edge of camp and looked up at the Vinmark Mountains, illuminated by a brilliant star field, their foothills no more than a day’s travel away.

A diaphanous mist wove itself around the highest peaks, a phenomenon Vionet found strangely calming to behold.  He was capable of experiencing few emotions these days—he’d been dead inside for a long time now, but the thought that his physical shell would soon find eternal rest imbued him with a semblance of… _something._   And that something was as ephemeral and dreamlike as the shroud of fog that caressed the mountain range ahead.

A survival instinct, perhaps?  Did he possess such a thing?  Was the knowledge of his impending death spurring him on, to live so he could meet that end?  How he would laugh at the irony of that, if only he was capable of laughter.

He ventured a furtive glance over his shoulder at his master’s tent.  Danarius was asleep, and had not tethered Vionet this evening—he’d been pleased with the young elf’s ‘service’ after supper and had indulged him on this occasion.

There was no chance of Vionet attempting escape, Danarius knew that.  Even if Vionet had the wherewithal—if there was still a spark of rebellion left in him—there were many eyes following his every move.  Lower-ranking slaves who owed Danarius no loyalty, but gaining their master’s favour by betraying one of their own might prolong their pitiable lives a day or two.

Even a magister’s head bodyguard was guarded.

The others were scattered around the camp, shackled and tied to one another, their eyes glinting in the dark when the firelight caught them.  Unlike them, Vionet was unfettered and walked around freely.  He knew the others despised him for that, so chose to pretend they didn’t exist.

They’d be dead soon anyway, most likely at Vionet’s hands to satiate the bloated monstrosity that was Avida, Danarius’s favourite demon, when they found and confronted Fenris.

Still facing the mountains, Vionet sat with difficulty upon the ground.  He was bleeding again—he knew that as soon as his bottom made contact with the cold stone.  He’d been leaking blood for weeks; some foul venereal disease at best, though he suspected consumption or tumour.  But it didn’t matter anymore because his days were numbered.  Gritting his teeth against the pain, he reminded himself that he was still alive.  While that was the case, he had something to do, though his hopes of accomplishing it dwindled with each step closer to Kirkwall.

Delmar—the apprentice whose life Vionet had stolen in service to Danarius’s demon—had approached him months earlier while their master was not around.  Through veiled hints and suspicious half-answers both men had determined they wanted the same thing: an end to Danarius.

They each had their own reasons: Delmar was an ambitious, opportunistic man who craved Danarius’s position and all the chattels and prestige that went with it.  He would have support, too—there were those in the Magisterium who felt the old man was past his prime and rapidly becoming an embarrassment.  Danarius’s obsession with his lyrium-etched slave was well-known in Minrathous, and his experiments publicly derided as profane and excessive.

Privately, though, the very magisters that disparaged Danarius’s methods also coveted them, and saw Delmar as a malleable replacement for him—one who would share the secrets of the lyrium procedure that had almost killed Scutum Primus Fenris, that which Danarius had sworn he would never repeat.

What those magisters didn’t know was that Danarius _had_ attempted the procedure a second time, having learned from his mistakes when bestowing his ‘gift’ upon Fenris.  Vionet was the recipient this time, the benefactor of his master’s perfected technique.  The procedure had been no less agonising, but this time, there were no tell-tale markings left on the subject’s skin.  What was more, Vionet’s memories—before, during and after the procedure—remained intact.

How he wished they didn’t.

The moon, peering like a curious, mischievous child over the mountain range, came into his view, and for the first time in a long while he felt a kinship with something.  They were both beautiful and bright, too unique and ethereal for this world, but ultimately removed, unknowable and so very, very lonely. 

Vionet’s reasons for wanting Danarius dead were more mundane than those of Delmar, but ultimately they were altruistic.  He no longer hated Danarius with the zeal he had in his younger days—back then, every cut of his master’s knife, every life he’d been ordered to expunge, every bite, every slap, every time Danarius’s hand had clamped over his mouth from behind to stifle his whimpers, every stinking, slimy, marrow-freezing kiss had taken something from him.

But now, at the tender age of 24—a number that belied his worldliness—there was nothing left of Vionet _to_ take.

The reason he wanted his master dead was because Fenris was his friend, his brother in all but blood.  They’d shared duties at Danarius’s estate, had eaten together and slept close by, either man ready to pounce should their brother suffer a nocturnal threat of any kind.  Fenris had been the wise, wily one—and Vionet in return could always make Fenris laugh.  Back in the days when he knew how, of course.

Somewhere, almost buried in Vionet’s ravaged psyche, was the desire to be a man of honour.  He remembered the happier times with Fenris, when they’d talked long into the night, had tended each other’s wounds, had covered for each other when working in the fields and one had succumbed to fatigue.

Vionet no longer knew how to love, how to care about anyone or anything, but he repaid his debts.  He owed Fenris, who’d always been there with a back slap or dry witticism to jolt the youngster from his melancholy.  He’d been there one night when Vionet, no longer able to cope with his master’s excesses, had attempted to eat the foxglove leaves he’d collected over several weeks and had methodically dried and crushed.  Fenris—Leto—had wrested those very leaves from his hands, struck him about the face and called him a despicable coward.

He’d then stayed awake all night, watching over Vionet, and in the morning had, with trembling voice, apologised for hitting him.

That was the first time anyone had shown Vionet care of any kind, even though violence was a party to it.  Now _he_ was Danarius’s scutum primus, Vionet could see that Leto, at the time, had employed the one meagre scrap of power he possessed—his fists—in order to drive his message home.  But Leto paid a heavy emotional price for utilising that power because he was not a naturally violent man. 

It was at that moment Vionet saw exactly what Danarius had done to Leto, exactly how much he’d taken from him.  And, at that moment, Vionet abandoned his plans of self-harm for Leto’s sake.

However little Vionet’s life was worth, he owed it to Leto... to Fenris, and he intended to make good on his debt.

But his and Delmar’s plan to poison their master’s tonic had failed, at the cost of Delmar’s life.  Danarius had worked it all out—of course he had—and had punished Vionet by sparing him, by prolonging his wretched existence.  Danarius knew Vionet had nothing left to lose, and planned on using that fact to destroy Fenris. 

Having Vionet slay Fenris would be too banal, too predictable.  Danarius probably knew Vionet would refuse to anyway, welcoming his resulting death.  No, the capricious magister would have some other fiendish ploy in mind, something that would steal Fenris’s will to fight, that would be the talk of the Magisterium for years to come and would restore Danarius’s former position of respect in the Senate.

Danarius no longer merely wanted Fenris dead; he wanted his last moments to be as painful and horrifying as possible.

What was Vionet to do?  Simply strolling into Danarius’s tent and crushing his heart was out of the question—his powers were supplied by his master’s demons, one of whom would undoubtedly appear to protect the source of their ghastly feast.

Was he to single-handedly orchestrate a slave uprising, then?  Could he liberate each of the _servus privatus_ around the camp and guide them into the hills?  In the Vinmark Mountains, where every self-respecting slaver was ensconced?  They wouldn’t last a day before capture.

He could reach into his own chest and end it all.  He’d fantasised about doing that so many times, but on each occasion Fenris had appeared in his mind’s eye and reminded him there was still some good left in this realm—and that Vionet needed to return something after taking so much.

There was only one thing for it: he’d have to wait until they were in, or very near to, Kirkwall.  A province of that size must surely house an alienage where an elf, even an escaped slave, could blend in and find some way to alert the authorities of Danarius’s arrival?  He’d heard there were templars in the Free Marches, _proper_ templars who could nullify magic, unlike the ones back home who were just for show.

But how would he get away?

“Scutum Primus!  The master stirs and calls for you!”

Mechanically, he turned around, finding the _servus_ on their feet and looking busy.  He walked to Danarius’s tent and threw back the flap, dropping to one knee.  “What is your bidding, Danarius?”

A week to Kirkwall, maybe a little longer.  He just needed to hold on until then.

** The Wall, Viscount’s Keep **

“Darren!  Fenris!  You as well!  All duties are suspended including those of you here for punishment!  Get to the captain’s office!”

The night staff sergeant called her instructions out before descending the stone stairs into the Keep.  Fenris and Hunter exchanged a quick nod, for now eschewing a smile at being released from their tedium: if Wall duties had been cancelled for _everyone,_ something serious was afoot.

While they waited in line for access to the stairs, Fenris watched the moon, so beautiful and bright, and marvelled at the ghostly light it bathed the ancient structure in.  Only free men were afforded such wondrous sights, a fact he would never take for granted.  He wondered if anyone else was sharing the spectacle with him at the same time, but remembered that Fletcher, the only other person he knew who would appreciate such a thing, would be safely tucked up in bed, snoring his head off and drooling into his pillow.

Only, poor Fletcher’s slumber was about to be disrupted.  The Hawke residence was one of many in Hightown due to be evacuated that night.  Fenris had only learned of this a few hours earlier and, without a chance to warn Fletcher, hoped he wouldn’t answer the door naked when the city guard called (although a small part of him hoped Fletcher _would)_.  What a hue and cry that would cause!

Smiling inwardly at the thought, he shuffled forward as the line began to move.

Upon arrival at the barracks, the friends noted that the usual sentry detail had been dismissed, the new intake of dwarves replacing them.  “They must need a lot of riders,” commented Hunter.  Fenris responded with a frown.

They had to squeeze past several of their colleagues outside the captain’s office, where Lieutenant Bradley was quickly issuing orders, sending small groups of his charges away with precision.

“Fenris.”  Upon spotting the elf, Bradley waved him inside, Hunter following.  Standing next to the desk was Sergeant Grant, one of the regiment’s horse trainers.  “I’m pairing you two up.  Here are your orders.”  He handed a sealed missive to Hunter, who tucked it under his arm.  “At first light you’ll ride for the Coast, co-ordinates provided with your orders.”

“What’s going on, Lieutenant?” asked Hunter.

“The qunari are on the move.  Whether they’ve left the compound or more of them have appeared from somewhere, we’ve had reports of a presence along the Coast at key points.  They’re getting ready for something.  You’re to lie back from one group’s position and undertake discreet reconnaissance.”

“Understood,” Hunter said.  “Any of them in Hightown?”

“There’ve been sightings of scouts sniffing around, but they haven’t taken any hostile action so far.  They must have noticed by now that we’ve started evacuating Hightown.”  Bradley looked at Fenris.  “Your horse training’s to begin tonight.  Grant, I want him competent by morning.”

“That can’t be done!” Grant exclaimed.  “Apart from the basics, he needs to establish a rapport with his animal, not to mention muscle memory!  You get him riding a tear to the Coast while he’s so green, you’ll rip his thighs to shreds!”

“I have every confidence in you,” Bradley replied in a tone that would suffer no argument.  “Have him ready by sunrise.  We need all the riders we can get.”

“But that’s four hours away!”

“Then you’d best get started.”

“For the love of—” Grant sighed.  “And just where are all these extra horses coming from?”

“I’ve requisitioned the nobles’ stables and staff.  Old covenant between the military and civilian population made during the Blessed Age states that during times of duress or siege we can take whatever we need.  I’ve stretched it a bit, and the nobles are up in arms, but sod ‘em.  Not like they were doing much with their horses anyway, other than prancing around looking haughty.  You still here?”

“We’re going.”  Grant beckoned to Fenris.  “Come on, then.”

“Want me to wake the captain?” Hunter asked Bradley once the pair had left.  “Looks like you could use the help.”

“No, let him get some shut-eye while he still can.  You too, Darren—get your head down for a few hours.  Once you’re settled at the Coast, let Fenris take his turn.  Oh, and on the way there, you’re to give him a crash-course in survival and tracking.”

“Why don’t I teach him stealth while I’m at it?” said Hunter wryly.  “Only took me twenty-odd years to get it right.”

“If you could?” Bradley quipped before straightening up.  “Read your orders before you go to sleep.  I need you two to hit the ground running in the morning.  And be careful.  Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.  And get some sleep yourself when Donnic’s—uh, when the captain’s awake.”  He bowed and turned to leave, almost colliding with the next group awaiting their deputy’s orders.

** Central Lowtown **

“Thanks for letting us get changed first,” Fletcher said to Corporal Filbert, who was escorting him and Leandra through the closed market in the dead of night.  Bringing up the rear were Tufty and Sprinkles, the latter on a makeshift leash fashioned from the cord on Fletcher’s housecoat in case the deaf nug decided to wander off.

“Well, you _were_ half-naked when you answered the door.  Wouldn’t want to start a panic amongst the gentry, would we?” commented the guardsman with a note of amusement.  “You sure you’ve somewhere to stay?”

“Oh, yes.  My uncle will be _delighted_ to see us at this time of night.  Actually… I might stop off at the Hanged Man first,” Fletcher mused, thinking it best to warn Varric of the heightened security in Lowtown.  “And the alienage… and Lirene’s.  Mother, you’d best carry on to Gamlen’s.  Take the boys with you?”

“If I must.”  Leandra received Sprinkles’s leash and tapped her thigh to draw Tufty’s attention.  “So long as they don’t start… _doing things,”_ she ended on a whisper.

“No, they’ve already… um, I mean they’re a bit tuckered out,” said Fletcher with a boyish grin.

 “I’m sure they are.”  Rolling her eyes, Leandra then addressed Filbert.  “Guardsman, will my son be safe roaming Lowtown at such an hour?”

“Yes, Ma Hawke, Lowtown’s as safe as you’ll get for now.  The guard presence here has been doubled for the foreseeable future.  Templar patrols are still the same, but don’t go near the docks.  They’ve just established an outpost there on _this_ side,” he added in a quiet aside to Fletcher, receiving a solemn thumbs-up from the mage.

“I do wish you’d tell us what this is all about,” mumbled Leandra.

Fletcher gently pushed her forward.  “No need to concern yourself with that, Mother, just get to Gamlen’s and I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Why do I get the feeling you already know?”

“Because you’re a very suspicious person.  Now please go with Filbert.  I’m sure he’s got better things to do than listen to us bickering.”

With a doubtful look at her son, Leandra reluctantly went on her way with the guardsman at her side.  Once they were out of sight, Fletcher made for the Hanged Man, which was a short walk away.

No sooner had he reached the place, it occurred to him that the time was about three bells… in the morning.  Going to a pub and expecting it to be open in the middle of the night was a textbook Fletcher Thing to Do.

And yet… it _was_ open.  Every lantern within was lit, and judging by the animated silhouettes behind the shabby drapes, it was packed to the rafters.

“Strange,” he muttered, pushing the door open and bumping into a drunken man who was pissing up the wall behind it.  “Take it outside, will you, mate?” Clutching the man’s arm, Fletcher steered him outside before re-entering and gingerly stepping over the steaming puddle.

His ears were immediately assailed by countless protests and complaints, aimed at whoever was nearest whether they wanted to hear them or not.  Fletcher knew the noise well: it was the soundtrack of the Viscount’s Keep.

The place was full of bloody nobles!

“Oh, I can’t be doing with this.”  Edging around the inner wall, occasionally receiving an errant, elegantly-attired elbow to the ribs, Fletcher finally made it to the private rooms and rapped on Varric’s door.

Almost immediately, the door was pulled open.  “Hawke!  Am I glad to see you!”  Varric practically dragged his friend inside.  “Am I to assume the arrival of our esteemed guests is connected with the imminent qunari tail-whipping of Hightown?”

“That’s what I’m guessing, but the guards won’t confirm anything.  Fenris is on duty tonight and might be able to tell me more when I see him… if he’s allowed to.”

“He’ll tell you anyway.”

“Yes, I know.  I don’t suppose there’s any news on Isabela?  The city guard’s drawing a blank.”

Varric moved to the door which he quietly closed before leaning against it.  “Yes _and_ no.”

Fletcher quickly took a seat.  “What do you mean?”

“We know where Isabela is.  Kinda.”  Varric held a hand up at Fletcher’s intake of breath.  “I’m sorry, Hawke, but she doesn’t have the book.  Sold the damn thing.”

Fletcher placed his head in his hands and howled in frustration.

“I already sent a message to Grizzly,” Varric went on, “and he’s put his people on it, but can’t commit too many of them.”

“Because they need to prepare for an invasion,” said Fletcher soberly, uncovering his face.

“Right.  So _my_ people are lending a hand, unofficially, of course.  Got a few to spare since they lost Danarius’s trail.”  Receiving no answer from Fletcher, Varric walked to his bed and sat on the edge.  “Scared?”

Fletcher half-shrugged.  “I just hate all the waiting, feeling powerless, you know?”

“I know.”  Varric then stood up.  “So what’s our next move?  I’m guessing neither of us is getting any sleep tonight, so what can we do right now?”

“I was going to pay Merrill a visit, let her know what’s going on.  Anders, too.”

“Sounds like a plan.  Care for some company?”

Fletcher looked up at the dwarf, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.  “I’d care very much for it.  Thanks.”

When they arrived at the alienage, Merrill was not at home.

** Lirene’s Fereldan Imports, basement **

“So let me get this straight.”  Anders rounded his desk and sat down while Ruben leaned against the cellar’s supporting pillar, crossing his arms.  “You only came to see me because you’re stranded on the mainland?”

“I’m not stranded, I’ve already explained this,” said Ruben, his patience with his brother waning.  “Some of us have been posted over here because there’s a lot of guard activity at the docks.  The guard-captain met with Meredith yesterday but I don’t know all the details.  I’m here to observe, nothing more.”

“Observe what?  Apostates?  Because you won’t find many in this neck of the woods.  Besides me, that is,” said Anders with a challenging look at Ruben.

The templar shook his head, his nostrils flaring.  “As usual, you turn everything towards yourself.  Do you not know what is happening in the world above ground?  Do you choose to ignore it because it doesn’t directly involve _you?”_

Anders was hurt by his brother’s astute observation but expressed it with a belligerent smirk.  “So why don’t _you_ tell me what’s happening, considering you don’t actually _know_ anything?”

“I’m here to locate saarebases, report back, but not to apprehend them at this time.  The qunari have their own brand of templars, a karataam unit, and guard-captain Hendyr has assured Meredith that they show possessed mages no mercy whatsoever.  A mage who is even separated from their karataam is put to death immediately.”

“That’s right.”  Anders stood up, a hand at his chin.  “The qunari?  This must be something to do with what happened at the docks… but I thought we had three days?”

“The protectors of this city are not going to stand idle in the meantime,” warned Ruben.  “I came to tell you to be on your guard.”

“And what about Mallory’s daughter?  Did you uncover anything about that?”

Ruben stared at his brother, barely recognising the self-centred man in front of him.  “You’re welcome,” he snapped, immediately ashamed by his lapse.  He steadily blew out a breath.  “I visited the apprentice’s wing and, although the children are heavily guarded, they are well cared for.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it!  What about Alrik threatening to make her Tranquil?  Or have you forgotten about that?”

Ruben pushed away from the pillar, bringing himself in front of Anders’s desk and splaying his hands across it.  “I’ve found no evidence to support your claims.  Alrik isn’t even allowed in the children’s dormitory.”

“Wait, he isn’t _allowed?_ Why not?”

“There was an… incident of some kind before I arrived at the Gallows.”  Ruben straightened up and turned away slightly.  “I don’t know the details.  I asked Captain Cullen about it but he became irate and told me to drop it.  I don’t think he was angry with my asking questions, but the mere mention of Alrik’s name vexed him.”

“Maker, you don’t think…?” Horrified by the potential implications, Anders slumped into his chair.  “Ruben, you’ve got to find out more!  Get hold of his records or something!  You must be thinking the same thing as me!  You _can’t_ drop it!”

“I don’t intend to.”

Anders looked up, hope in his eyes.

“I had arranged a meeting, in secret, with Orsino before I was posted to the mainland,” explained Ruben, “with the intention of gaining the mages’ perspective of this ‘incident’.  But from what I hear, Orsino may be sent here shortly, along with more of his kin, to meet the qunari threat should it escalate.”

“So you’ll be able to talk to him then?”

Ruben nodded.  “That’s my hope.  I know you think me ineffectual, Luka, but care must be taken in matters such as this.  I’m not going to ignore it—I just need to be careful.  It might not be as sinister as it appears.”

“I _knew_ you’d come through for me.”  Overjoyed, Anders rose and went to Ruben, clasping his arms, but his brother gently extricated himself, leaving Anders cold and bereft.

“I must return,” said Ruben in a measured voice.  “You should prepare yourself for casualties over the coming days.”  He moved to the foot of the stairs.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to stay safe?” asked Anders.

Ruben glanced over his shoulder.  “Were you going to extend that sentiment to me?”

Anders merely looked at him, closed and uncertain.

“I thought not.  I’ll be in touch, if I have the time.” 

As Ruben departed, the trap door slammed with enough force to jar Anders’s bones.

“Prepare for casualties.  That’s what I’ll do.  Prepare for casualties,” he mumbled, going to his stocks of dried herbs.

** Darktown, lower level **

“There you are.”  With a jaunty wiggle of her hips, Isabela approached the group of brigands who were holed up in a recess housing a sewer inlet grate.  “I had to pay good coin to find you lot.  Where’s your leader?  If you can call him that.”

The five men and women stepped aside, revealing an aesthetically-challenged man known locally as Wall-Eyed Sam.  “You’re brave to come ‘ere alone, Isabela.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”  She twirled a lock of hair around a finger.  “Do you really think I’d come all the way down here, to this rat-infested shithole, all by my lonesome?  You’re as adorably naïve as you are repulsive.”

“What do you want?” demanded Sam.  “I ain’t got all night to trade insults with the likes o’ you.”

The pirate snorted under her breath.  “Look me in the eye when you say that.  Oh!  You can’t.  Sorry.”

“’Look me in the eye’?  Yeah, I remember you saying that when I was ‘umping your brains out last week,” Sam retorted, pleased with himself as the others whooped and jeered.

 _“Were_ you?”  Isabela’s brow creased.  “I do recall some inept fumbling in the bushes along Barrows Walk but I was paralytic.  Call it humping my brains out if it lets you sleep at night.”  She then addressed one of the females in the group.  “If you’re next in line, remember he’s a grower, not a shower, so you mustn’t be disappointed on first glance.  At least I _assume_ he’s a grower—couldn’t feel much of anything, myself.”

“That’s probably ‘cause ‘alf of Kirkwall’s ‘ad the pleasure of your company!”  A clearly flustered Sam pulled his knives out, assuming an aggressive stance.  “Now say your piece or skedaddle.  I ain’t got time for this.”

“And I was just starting to enjoy myself… unlike last week.”  Isabela gave a quick smile, cleverly hiding the fact she was a nervous wreck.  “Thing is, I might have sold you a little trinket.  Well, I’ve changed my mind.  Woman’s prerogative and all that.  I want it back.”

“Oh, you mean that tatty old book?  The one you couldn’t wait to get shot of?”

Isabela nodded enthusiastically.  “That’s the one!”

“Not gunna ‘appen.  Piss off… sweet’eart.”

“Look, I’ve half of Lowtown breathing down my neck and now the city guard’s after me!  Won’t you think of that tender moment we shared in the bushes?  Didn’t it mean _anything_ to you?”

“Always got to ‘ave the last word, ‘aven’t you?”

“Yes, well, I thought it only fair as _you_ finished first the last time we met,” she said, hands on hips.  “I’m prepared to be reasonable.  I’ll pay what we agreed on, plus another ten sovereigns for your trouble.  You won’t get a better offer than that.”

“No, I won’t, ‘cause it ain’t for sale.  Now I don’t think I made myself clear.  _Piss off._   Men!”

With a melodramatic sigh, Isabela watched as the ragtag group circled her, weapons drawn.  “Don’t say I didn’t try to be accommodating.  Merrill?”

“We’re not going to kill them, are we?” asked a meek voice from the shadows behind the pirate.  “You said there wasn’t going to be any killing.  These clothes are clean on!”

“No!  Just wave your arms and do that… spooky thing we discussed,” whispered the pirate. 

“Oh, that!  Got it.  He-hem.”

The criminal gang scattered, wailing and pleading, as a gigantic flaming skull materialised out of thin air and ripped through them, setting their clothing aflame.  Isabela leapt clear just in time to see Sam and his cohorts running for the sewers, frantically slapping their arms and legs.

“That was a close one!  I would have wet my knickers if I actually wore any!”  Isabela beckoned the tittering Merrill to her.

“What do we do now?” asked the blood mage.

“We ransack their stuff!  Over there!”  Isabela pointed ahead to a couple of bedrolls and several bulging sacks.  Normally, she would have a fitting double entendre to impart, but time was of the essence.  “We’re looking for a book.  Very old, very battered and very bloody problematic.”

“With gold pages?”  Merrill called out, rummaging through the first sack she came across.

“Well, yes, the edges are g—” Quickly, she ran to Merrill’s side, taking the ancient tome from her.  “You’re just my little lucky charm, aren’t you?”  She clasped Merrill’s cheeks and planted a firm kiss on her lips.  “Mwah!  For that, _you_ get the ten sovereigns.”

“Oh, I didn’t want anything!  You know me, I like to be helpful,” Merrill protested, jumping back.

“Which is exactly why you deserve to be rewarded.  Now let’s get out of here before they come back… covered in sewage and very, very cross.”

“Urgh!  I wouldn’t want to fight them like that, all smelly and everything!”

“Neither would I.”  Isabela scooped up another two sacks, handing one to Merrill.  “Bonus prizes!  Let’s go!”

** Gamlen Amell’s residence, the Slums, a few hours later **

After giving his nephew a piece of his mind during the night for not only waking him, but for having the temerity to seek safety with a family member (who Fletcher had made financially comfortable following the expedition), the crotchety Gamlen had finally gone back to bed.  Leandra was also sleeping in.  Fletcher had stolen maybe an hour’s restless sleep in an armchair and now, as the sun rose, he stepped outside to clear his head.

“And so ends day one.”

Some of the neighbourhood kids were about already, playing in the dirt while their mothers, always up at the crack of dawn, took their linen to the washing dollies and tubs at the end of the square.  Later that day, after hours of backbreaking work, that linen would be pegged onto the lines, snapping in the breeze, the welcome smell of soap and lye obscuring the usual ordure and human filth.

Fletcher watched the Spencer twins, Amy and Emily, almost six years old, as they staged an invisible tea party at the foot of the steps leading to their hovel.  Their innocent minds were unable to assimilate the possibility of war and its long-term ramifications.  It was quite possible that, over the coming days, those girls would lose their parents, if not their own lives, or at the very least be forcibly converted to a philosophy not their own.

Maybe— _maybe_ —they’d be young enough to forget some of it, or at least block it out.

Fletcher was itching to visit the Keep and speak to Fenris, but this was not the time to burst into the barracks with a paper bag full of hot pastries, a daft grin and a sly plan to get Fenris alone for a sneaky kiss.  Fenris’s shift had ended a while ago but Fletcher guessed he hadn’t even noticed.  Kirkwall was readying itself for war, and there was no busier institution than the city guard.  There was also no institution at greater risk.

These were the serious times, and Fletcher had never been comfortable with serious.

He could do nothing.  He could have no part in chasing down the book; that was best left to people braver and smarter than him.  His turn would come if and when the book was found—he, alone, would return it to the Arishok, gaining all the credit and plaudits when the entire city had been working around the clock.

Fletcher Hawke, of all people.

Well, while he was here, busy being useless, there was something he could do _._ Something small that would make a difference to _someone_ small, while taking his mind off everything… or so he hoped.

He headed down the steps and sought out the twins’ mother, who was already elbow-deep in a foaming tub and sweating profusely.

“Ma Spencer?  Would you like me to give your girls some breakfast?” he offered.  “I was about to make my own and I always have some left over.  They can have a bath as well if they like.  Mother will be up soon and I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“Aw, go on with yer, ‘Awke.  I know my girls are safe with you.  They're old enough to bathe themselves anyhow. Let me grab their soap and washing things.”

“Oh, it’s all right, I have some bubbling oil.  Not the fancy kind or anything, but I’m sure they’ll like the smell.  Just leave them some clean clothes outside the door when you have a minute.”

“Ha!  Bubblin’ oil now is it?  That’ll go down a proper treat with ‘em!  You’ve a good ‘eart, ‘Awke.  Girls!” she yelled, and her daughters came running over.  “Messere ‘Awke’s going to see to your ablutions and brekkie.  You be good for ‘im, you ‘ear?”

“Yes, mum!” Emily bobbed a curtsey, while Amy made it very clear she didn’t like porridge, sticking her tongue out and pulling a face for effect.

“You’ll just have to make do with bacon and eggs then, won’t you?” Fletcher teased, smiling when the girls’ faces lit up.

“I s’pose we’ll ‘ave to,” answered the cheeky Amy, who painfully reminded him of Bethany.

Just as Fletcher was leading them up the steps, he spotted the familiar glint of a guard’s uniform rounding a corner.  His heart leapt for a second but it soon became clear that the guard was of human build, not elven.

He crouched next to the girls as the guard neared.  “Are you two tall enough to set a table?”

They squealed in the affirmative, both girls standing on tiptoes to prove it.

“Go on in, then, and make a start.  You’ll find everything in the kitchen on the shelves.  If you’re quiet enough, you won’t wake old misery guts.  I won’t be long.”

Sniggering as they realised who ‘misery guts’ was, the girls entered Gamlen’s house, closing the door very quietly behind them.

“What tidings from Hightown?” Fletcher asked the guard, who came to a stop at the foot of the steps and removed his helmet.  It was Filbert.

“Hawke, I can’t stay long and I’m afraid I can’t tell you much.  Here’s a letter from Fenris.  He’s all right, but won’t be coming home today—been assigned somewhere.”

“Oh.”  Fletcher took the letter and turned it over in his hands.  “Thank you.  Are you going to get some sleep now?”

“I bloody wish.  Maybe later?  But I’m not really tired, probably won’t be until I sit down.  Got more evacuations this morning, some of the most stuck-up wank—uh, I mean I might encounter some resistance.  Did all the nice people during the night, you see.  Still, I’ll have the captain with me.  He won’t take any crap.”

“That’s for sure.  Listen, if any of your men or women are assigned around here, tell them they’re welcome to pop in for a bracer or a bit of food.  Whatever they need.”

“Your uncle going to agree to that, then?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Filbert slapped Fletcher’s arm.  “Thanks, Hawke, I’ll be sure to let them know.  Gotta go.”

“You take care, now.”

“Will do.”              

With worry on his brow, Fletcher opened the letter, reading it at least half a dozen times:

_Dearest Fletcher,_

_I fear I will not be joining you for breakfast this morn.  I am to ride for the coast immediately with Darren, where we are to remain for an indeterminate period of time.  We will be quite safe and will not be engaging qunari forces at this time._

_I shall send word to you as soon as I am able.  Please do not worry.  Oh, and when I said ‘ride’, I now have my own horse and am proficient at riding it... officially, anyway.  She’s a most intuitive, experienced steed and very patient with me, having corrected me numerous times with grace.  So again, do not concern yourself._

_Please keep you and your mother safe until my return._

_PS. Darren assisted me to write this letter, particularly with some of the spelling._

_PPS. Darren did not see this part of the letter: I love you, Lux Mea.  KEEP YOURSELF SAFE._

“I love you too.”  Fletcher pocketed the letter, the tips of his fingers still making contact with it.  “So it’s begun,” he said quietly to himself, turning back to the house.

He couldn’t do any of the important things: help his lover or the city guard, but he _could_ give two deprived little girls—one of them cheeky, the other as sweet as a nut—a fun morning before the word 'tragedy' entered their vocabulary.  And perhaps he’d even enjoy doing so.

For now, he’d take the small things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merrill's spooky giant skull is my tribute to the wonderful Dorian Pavus, who tragically won't be appearing in this story. I'm going out on a limb and guessing the Entropy and Necromancy schools of magic are pretty similar anyway--they both have Horror, hence the giant skull. ;)


	114. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, well. The rubbish you find in these old chests."

** The Hanged Man, early afternoon **

Fletcher’s favourite hangout was now mostly free of bothersome nobles, the majority of whom had taken off in search of an establishment that sold edible food for their luncheon.  Some of those who remained gave the regulars a wide berth, and those stupid enough to complain about their temporary dwellings were silenced by a ‘Shut up or I’ll do something unspeakably violent and uncouth to you’ look from Fletcher.

They weren’t all bad, though—a small number seemed grateful to have a roof over their heads at least, and had taken residence in one corner of the pub where they held meetings or played dominoes after Corff had lent them a set.  They said please and thank you, and one of them, a neighbour of Fletcher’s, had greeted him with a stiff ‘Hawke’ as he walked by. They were also making a brave stab at eating the Hanged Man’s (in)famous stew, which even Fletcher found hard work.

He didn’t mind that kind of noble.  People like that had _class_ and not just money.  For now, they were on equal footing, and Fletcher was prepared to treat them as such so long as they reciprocated.

They didn’t even seem to mind when an elf—heaven forfend!—burst through the doors and gawked at them as though they’d each grown an extra head.

“Over here!” Fletcher called out, waving to her.

“I thought this place had gone all posh and upmarket then for a minute,” she whispered as she approached, though Merrill’s whispers somehow managed to find their way to the farthest reaches of the lounge.  “I got your note.  What’s up?”  She sat on a chair next to Fletcher, still looking at the well-dressed people in wonder.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.  “I called for you last night and you weren’t home.  It was really late.”

“Oh!  Just… um… I was probably asleep at some point.  Once I’m off, there’s no waking me.  Sorry if you had a wasted journey.”

“Don’t worry about it.  I was up anyway.” 

“Oh.  That’s good, then.”

Merrill was a rotten liar at the best of times, but today she was particularly distracted.  Fletcher briefly considered pressing her in case she was in trouble of some kind, but knowing Merrill, she’d blurt it out anyway if he took a softly-softly approach.

“I just wanted to let you know what was going on,” he began, nudging her elbow.

Her head snapped around to face him, her eyes wide and expectant.  “Going on?  What do you mean?”

“The city guard’s evacuating the residential quarter of Hightown.  There might be some trouble with the qunari.  I wanted to warn you to stay in the alienage.  I seriously doubt the qunari will bother anyone there.”

“All right, then,” she said casually.  “Thanks for the warning.  Have you been moved out?  Is that why you’ve got an expression like a wet weekend?”  Her face dropped.  “You’re not staying at your uncle’s, are you?”

“I am, and _he’s_ got an expression like a smacked arse.  Which would you find preferable?”

She thought about that seriously for a minute.  “No, I can’t find anything good about looking like a smacked arse.  A wet weekend might be all right, though—rain can be pretty, especially if you’re not out in it.  I like how everything feels fresh the next morning when it’s rained during the night.  That smell of damp earth and mould.  Reminds me of the Brecilian Forest.”

“I like lying in bed at night and listening to it,” Fletcher said, his attention wandering.

“Makes you appreciate how warm and cosy you are.”

“That’s right.”  He reached for his tankard and took a half-hearted sip.

“Hawke, what’s the matter?” she asked kindly.  “If you’re worried about your house—”

“I couldn’t care less about the house.  They’ve sent Fenris off somewhere.  I don’t know what he’s doing or where he is.  I’m worried about _him.”_

“Oh, that’s right, he’s a guard, isn’t he?”  She moved her chair a few inches closer to his.  “Do you think he’s in danger?”

He shrugged.  “He wrote me a letter saying he wouldn’t be, but how do I know that’s true?  Not that he’d lie to me, but who knows what he’s going to run into?  Maker, we could have prevented all this,” he finished bitterly, apparently to himself.

“Prevented what?  And who’s ‘we’?”

“Nothing.  It doesn’t matter.  How are _you_ keeping, anyway?”

Merrill wasn’t the most observant of people but even she could tell Fletcher’s question wasn’t a genuine query, just a way of moving the conversation along.  She hadn’t seen him experience a black mood like this in months, not since he’d started courting Fenris. 

“I know what you need,” she began.  “I’ve tried my hand at baking.  There’s an apple pie with your name on it at my house.  Might even be a bit of cream to go with it.  How does that sound with a nice pot of tea?”

Despite the way he felt, he couldn’t help smiling.  “Since when do you bake?”

“Since… well, now-ish.  It’ll put a smile on your face one way or another.  You’ll either like it or laugh at it.  Hopefully you won’t choke on it.”

They started to rise.  “I’m sure that won’t happen.  I’m looking forward to it.”

“That is, if Isabela hasn’t eaten it all by the time we get there.”

Fletcher’s heart thudded momentarily and his cheeks burned, but he made a conscious effort to look nonchalant as he and Merrill pushed their chairs in.  “Isabela, you say?”

“Mm, she’s staying at mine for a bit.  Well, not _staying_ exactly, more like hiding, but I’m...”  She leaned closer to Fletcher, lowering her voice.  “I’m not supposed to tell anyone but you’re all right, aren’t you?  We’re friends, after all.”

He slowly nodded, deliberately softening his voice.  “Yes, we’re all friends.  I can’t _wait_ to see her.  It’s been quite a while.”

** Merrill’s house, the alienage **

“Ta-da!  I’ve got a new lock.  Varric fitted it for me.  It’s quite a fancy one.  Isn’t the key shiny? I like new things.”  Unlocking her door, Merrill waved the key in Fletcher’s face, which by now was a picture of nothingness.  He’d endured her wittering during their short walk with at least an attempt at looking interested, but it was time to put on his serious act. 

Only there would be very little acting required on this occasion.

“Yes, lovely,” he mumbled, entering after her and waiting patiently while she locked the door.

“I’m home!” she trilled, to silence.  “Helloooo!  Isabela?”

“Done a runner, has she?” Fletcher guessed, his angry tone taking Merrill unawares.  “How very unexpected.”

“A runner?  What for?”  She went to her dining table, a small frown forming on her brow.  “Where’s her stuff?  She had a bag on here.”

“I don’t suppose it had a book in it?”

“How did you know th—?”

Hearing a soft thud, Fletcher quickly held a hand up, cutting her off mid-sentence, and pointed to the wall on his right.  He then pressed a finger to his lips and entered the neighbouring room, which housed a bed, side table and large trunk in the corner which he made a beeline for.

He flipped up the lid, finding Isabela within, contorted into an almost impossible position.  “Well, well,” he said flatly.  “The rubbish you find in these old chests.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the pirate struggled to right herself and rather inelegantly pushed herself up, “sometimes you’ll find a hidden gem or two if you’re lucky!”

He nodded, his eyes locked with hers as he stepped closer to her, and she almost fell backwards over the trunk before deftly sidestepping it.  “Sometimes.  But not today.”

“I see you brought a friend home,” Isabela said to Merrill as she dusted herself off.  “After we specifically agreed you _wouldn’t.”_

“It’s only Hawke,” protested the elf.  “Maybe he can help out with those people who are after you?”

“But he _is_ one of the people after me!”

“Don’t blame Merrill for this!” Fletcher backed Isabela further against the wall.  “She was trying to do me a good turn, cheer me up.  That’s because she has a kind heart, a concept as alien to you as moderate attire and regular bathing!”

“That’s a bit strong!”  Isabela squeezed past Fletcher, unable to maintain eye contact.  “What’s the matter with you?”

“Where’s the book?”

“Book?  _What_ book?”

“No more games!” he thundered, Isabela’s expression sobering in response.  “This city’s about to go to war because of you!  Do you have any idea what that book is, what it represents?  It was written by Koslun!  It’s the qunaris’ most sacred text and _you_ stole it!”

Merrill let out a small exclamation.  “You didn’t, did you?  Why would y—”  Sudden realisation hit her like a slap to the face.  “Oh, no… _that_ book?  In _this_ house?  Creators!  You didn’t tell me it was that important!”

“You brought _her_ into this?” demanded Fletcher.  “And I didn’t think you could stoop any lower!”

Isabela held up her hands, her eyes darting from side to side as she attempted a disarming smile.  “I didn’t know exactly what it was, not until recently, anyway.  It was just a job, all right?  Remember the thug we disposed of that night in the chantry—Hayder?  The slaves who escaped from my ship?  They belonged to someone called Castillon.  Hayder was one of his lackeys, that’s why he came after me in the first place.”

“Get to the point,” Fletcher ordered, blocking the doorway in case she tried to run.

“I am.”  She sighed, running a hand over her hair.  “Castillon demanded recompense for the money he lost on the slaves, so told me to get hold of the book.  But I… sort of double-crossed him and sold it because it looked valuable.  Castillon found out and now everyone’s after me!  But I— _we—_ got the book back last night!”

“And now you’re going to give it to me.”

A look of regret came into the pirate’s eyes.  “I can’t do that, Hawke.  This is my one chance to get Castillon and his men off my back.  Can’t you see that?”

“No, this is your one chance to avert the destruction of Kirkwall!  Think about it!  The qunari will eat us alive and when _they’ve_ finished, the Chantry will move in to deal with them!  Cue the next Exalted March!  One little thing you can do right now will stop all of that!”

“And what do you suppose will happen to _me_ if I just hand you the book?  Do you think I’ll be let off with a slap on the wrist and a ‘don’t do it again’?  Have you even considered that?”

“No, I haven’t, because _I’m_ not a selfish bitch!”

“Ha!  You’re not selfish, I’ll give you that!”

While they were arguing, Merrill was turning her small home upside down looking for the book.  “It’s not here!” she shrieked above the other two.

Fletcher took his eyes off Isabela for a second.  “What do you mean it’s not here?”

“She’s going for the door!  Look out!”

Fletcher concentrated on the doorknob and it glowed red hot just as the pirate reached for it. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she warned Fletcher, her hand shrinking away from it.  “The templar patrols are due about now.”

“That’s fine.  _I’m_ willing to put the safety of my home--and the people living here--above my own,” he declared, tiny red flames dancing on his palms.  “You’re going to take us to the book.  Now.  Don’t make me do this.”

“You’d better do what he says,” Merrill said grimly, reaching for her staff.  “He doesn’t want to hurt you, not really.  Neither do I.  But I will if I have to.  This is really wrong, Isabela.  Think of all the people who are going to die over a sodding book!”

“I’m _sorry_.  Both of you.”  Quick as a flash, Isabela’s hand went to her belt and before the mages could react, the room was filled with a blinding light, then smoke.

“Get her!” yelled Fletcher, stumbling around blindly and he went for the door, for a second forgetting about the superheated doorknob.  “Yeagh!  My hand!  You stupid idiot!”

“She’s got my arms!  Hawke!”

“Merrill?  I can’t see you!  Mer—!  Let _go_ of me!  What are you doing?  Stop it!”

Fletcher’s arms were twisted behind his back, rendering him unable to cast.  Something pulled taut around them and he was pushed to the floor with just enough force not to injure him. 

“Look, you wouldn’t listen to reason.  I’m…”  Isabela sighed.  “Just don’t struggle, all right?  It’ll hurt if you struggle.  Blast it, this wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“When I get out of here, Isabela, so help mmfff!  MMMFFF!” Fletcher noisily stomped his feet against the wooden floor until they were also restrained.

“Oh, Isabela,” Merrill said, utterly disappointed, before she, too, was gently but firmly gagged. 

** Guard-captain’s office, Viscount’s Keep, later that evening **

“All in all, a productive day,” Donnic said to Bradley as his deputy sat in front of the desk.  “A record fifty-nine complaints from the nobles, most of them handwritten.  Captain Vallen would have been proud.”

“So will Fenris be when he hears about it.”

The exhausted captain allowed himself a small smile, wishing he hadn’t mentioned Aveline.  He was still staggered by how painful it was to think about her.  “There’s nothing going on at the Coast.  Our forward scouts report no incursions or engagements so far.  The qunari are there, but they’re not doing a fat lot.  I’ll leave our people there one more day and then I’ll call them in to reinforce the Keep.  I’m not discounting the possibility that this is a ploy to draw our people _away_ from Hightown.”

Bradley nodded.  “Cat and mouse?”

“Exactly.  The qunari are plain and economical with their speech, but they’re not idiots.”  At that moment, a knock came at the door.  “Come in!”

The door opened, a head peering around the jamb.  “Excuse me, Captain, Lieutenant, but something’s come up.” 

“What is it, Brennan?” asked Donnic.  “If it’s another complaint, I’m going off duty.  Evan, it’s all yours,” he said with a smirk.

The guardswoman entered and stood upright in the doorway.  “No, Captain.  We’ve had reports of a missing person.”

“And you’re coming to me with this because…?”

“It’s Hawke.  His mother hasn’t seen him all day and has filed a report with us.  He was due home hours ago.”

Donnic rolled his eyes.  “Hawke’s always taking off somewhere.  Have you questioned his friends?”

Brennan nodded.  “We have.  He didn’t show up for a meeting with Varric earlier and he’s two hours late for a lesson with Sam Verus.  Varric came to _us_ with the information.  He’s worried.”

“Captain,” said Bradley, “with the qunari situation…”

Donnic was on his feet but otherwise didn’t move.  “What would the qunari gain by abducting or harming him?”  He shook his head, dismissing a thought.  “No.  From what Fenris says, the Arishok’s a man of his word, not someone who’d welch on a deal.  He told us we had three days to find the book.  With the situation so delicate, I won’t go and accuse the qunari of something unless I absolutely have to.  I can’t completely discount their involvement either, though.”

Bradley moved to the door, closing it.  “What about Hawke’s apostate friends?” he asked quietly.

“Anders hasn’t seen him for days, so that was a no-go,” replied Brennan.  “Hawke was last seen in the Hanged Man this lunchtime with a female elf matching the description of Merrill, an apostate and known associate of his.  Couple of elves in the alienage said they saw them enter her house earlier, but nobody seems to remember them leaving.  Door’s locked and there’s been no answer each time we’ve called.”  She quickly leafed through her report.  “Four times we’ve tried.  There _was_ one account of…” she cleared her throat.  “…‘A buxom brunette’ leaving the premises earlier, but the witness is unreliable. Half-cut, he was.”

“Buxom brunette?”  Donnic’s eyes locked with Bradley’s.  “Any of our scouts or locksmiths on duty?”

“No, they’re either at the Coast or asleep.”

Donnic then addressed Brennan.  “Send someone to the Hanged Man.  I want Varric preferably, but anyone who can pick a lock, to meet us at the alienage.  Let it be known I’m willing to overlook any recent misdemeanours or unpaid _small_ fines in return for their co-operation.  One-time offer.”

“I’ll see to it myself, Captain.” Brennan touched a fist to her chest, turned and exited.

“Evan?”  Donnic reached behind his chair for his sword.  “Fancy getting away from the desk for a while?”

Bradley was already at the door, holding it open for his captain.

** The Wounded Coast **

Hunter cautiously peered over the rock that would provide him and Fenris with cover for the night and beckoned the elf closer.  “Something’s happening at last!” he whispered excitedly.  “Look!  The southwest beacon has just been extinguished!”

Fenris drew alongside his friend, both men’s eyes going to the shoreline.  The large, covered braziers that were religiously lit each night by the lighthouse keeper started winking out, one by one.

“What are they doing?” wondered the elf aloud.  “Do they mean to scupper incoming sailing vessels?  For what purpose?”

“Either they want to scupper them or stop them approaching full stop.  As to why, I’m as in the dark as you are.  Literally.”

“Very droll, Darren.”

“Why, thank you.”

Fenris nudged the rogue, directing his attention to the largest beacon of all: a rudimentary lighthouse of crumbling stone, perched on a hill to the west.  “The fire…”

“It’s going out,” Hunter finished.  “Shit.  We’d better check on old Reginald.  I hope they haven’t hurt him.”

“As do I,” said Fenris as they left their hiding place, feeling their way along as they could not risk lighting a torch, let alone their own camp fire.  “It will be difficult, if not impossible, to find the culprits in such poor light.”

“Unless we catch someone red-handed, we won’t be making any arrests,” Darren replied, not relishing the thought of apprehending a qunari… or a number of them.  “Bradley’s orders said we’re not to reveal ourselves.  I intend to follow them to the letter.  Let’s be honest, the two of us are no match for a, uh… what do you call a group of them?”

“Ashaad, in this case,” Fenris provided.  “They are scouts, as we are—here to gather information and, by the looks of it, perform sabotage when necessary.”

“Let’s hope they’re not here to kill anyone who gets in their way.”

“We shall see.”

Upon arriving at the lighthouse, both men were surprised to find its keeper, Reginald, standing outside unharmed… and quite drunk.

“Reginald?” Hunter said as they neared.  “We’re with the city guard.  Are you all right?  What happened here?”

“Big horned bastard came up and told me to put the fire out, so I did.”  He hiccupped and drank from a large red bottle.

Hunter immediately started searching for tracks on the ground nearby.  Fenris approached Reginald and scrutinised him as best he could in the moonlight.  “Did they threaten you?  Hurt you?”

“Ha!  Didn’t need to.  You seen the size of those fuckers?  Would _you_ say no to them?”

“I suppose not.  How many were there?  What happened after you agreed to extinguish the fire?”

“Just the one of them.  Walks up to me, he does, cocksure as you like.  Nearly shit my bleeding pants, I did. He says, ‘You will douse the flame’.  Something like that.  I tell him I can’t do it by myself, I just throw coal on it and remove the clinkers, you see, and I’m not as young as I used to be, so he only goes and helps me!  Then brings me down here and shoves this in my hand.”  He waved the bottle before drinking from it again.  “Said it’d keep me warm, he did.  Don’t know what’s in it, but my throat's on fire.  Unlike the lighthouse.”  He broke into a coughing fit as he laughed at his own joke.  "Bloody good stuff.  Uhurk!  Ahaghakak!"

“May I?”  Fenris held out his hand and took the bottle, bringing it to his nose and sniffing it.

“Poisoned?” Darren asked warily, looking up from the ground.

“No.”  Fenris took a small sip before nodding.  “As I thought.  Maraas-lok.  Qunari equivalent of moonshine.  Very potent.”  He handed it back to the old man.  “It will certainly keep you warm, but it will also induce a hangover that would make dragons tremble, were they to drink it.”

“I’ll worry about that in the morning, won’t I?” Reginald raised the bottle in a toast to the guards.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading inside to sleep this off.  My new hornhead friend said I could light a small fire inside, so long as it wasn’t visible _out_ side.  Well, he nodded when I asked, anyway.  No more work for me tonight.”

“Did he say why he was doing this, Uncle?” Hunter called after the man.

“Didn’t ask.  He didn’t seem the chatty sort.  ‘Night to you.”  With that, Reginald disappeared inside the lighthouse and closed the door.

Both men turned back to the shore, Hunter blowing out a breath.  “There’s no sign of them… him.   They’re good.  I mean _I’m_ good, but they’ve left no trace at all—not a broken blade of grass, not a footprint in the sand.  I can conceal my movements like that, I just didn’t expect the qunari to be so… light-footed.”  He glanced back at the lighthouse.  “I thought we’d find Reg dead, to be honest.”

“Why?  He posed no threat.  The qunari are fearsome adversaries, but not cowards.  There is no honour to be found in slaughtering a defenceless old man.”

“Hm.  Well, we’d better get back and observe.  Maybe once our eyes have adjusted to the dark, we’ll pick something up.”

“Should we not report this occurrence?” asked Fenris.

“No, there are other scouts on higher ground behind us.  It’s their job to report back because they won’t be seen leaving.  We might.  If the qunari are trying to keep ships or boats away, those scouts are more likely to see something far off.  We’re more likely to see something close by or _hear_ something.”

The men started a cautious walk back to their original spot.  “The qunari have their own ships, you know,” Fenris said quietly.

“Do they?”  Hunter stopped dead.  “You don’t think… could they even navigate in the dark?”

“To the best of my knowledge, they do not possess superior eyesight to that of elves or humans.  They do, however, possess a formidable fleet of warships and dreadnoughts. It may be that they are not keeping other vessels away at all.  I do not profess to know this with certainty, but am merely stating it as a possibility.”

“Now this, I _do_ need to report.”  He slapped the elf on the arm.  “Can you find your way back?  I know where Briggs is—he’ll take what you’ve told me back to the Keep and I’ll move quicker on my own.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.  Remember, don’t light a fire.”

“I will find the way.”  They shook hands.  “Take care.”

“And you.  If you get lost, stay put and keep quiet.  I’ll be able to track you.”

Fenris watched his friend disappear into the gloom and continued on, his progress slow as the only light came from the moon, and even that was only afforded in glimpses thanks to the low cloud cover.

Eventually, he found one of Darren’s markers drawn in the sand, and followed it.  After finding a further four, he arrived at their original lookout spot.  There, he fed and groomed the horses before waiting for what seemed a long time, rubbing his arms and jogging on the spot to stave off the frigid mist that rolled in off the sea.

Just when he was starting to worry, a quiet “Psst!” drew his attention from a short distance away.

“It’s only me,” Hunter said, emerging from the darkness.  “Didn’t want to scare you.  Anything?”

Fenris shook his head.  “There is a light source farther down the beach, perhaps an abandoned camp fire, but it does not avail us in our current position.  Did you find Briggs?”

“I did.  He’s already on his way back to town.  Captain’ll be pleased with this.  Well done, Fen.”

The elf shrugged.  “I did nothing but impart knowledge.”

“Knowledge that the rest of us don’t have, but _should._ You’re going to be invaluable in the coming days.  Well, more invaluable than usual.  Glad to have you as my partner, friend.”

“As am I.”  Fenris smiled modestly at the compliment but said no more.

“Human!  Elf!  You will declare yourselves!”

Hunter froze, clinging to the rocky wall that had obviously failed as cover.  The voice was deep, gruff and guttural, leaving them in no doubt as to the race of the speaker.

“I will go.”  Fenris pushed away from the wall, but his arm was grabbed by Hunter.

“We’ll both go.  We’re partners.”

Fenris let out a quiet sigh.  “Very well.  Do not say anything.  I will speak.”

Heading in the direction of the voice, the guards were startled when they rounded a corner and happened upon a solitary ashaad, his huge frame silhouetted against the camp fire Fenris had spoken of earlier.  Next to the fire, a further four qunari scouts were gathering their weapons and belongings.

“Shanedan,” Fenris said evenly, his poise astonishing Hunter.  “Kost.  Ebasaam Taashath.”

Ashaad slowly looked the smaller men up and down. “Our camp is yours if you wish it.  Our purpose here is fulfilled.  We will not reveal that purpose to you.  If you attempt to trick or coerce information out of us you will die.  I do not recommend that.  It is rather final.”

“Fair enough.”  Fenris dipped his head.  “You have our thanks.  Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit.”

“Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit,” repeated the qunari, mirroring the gesture.  “Should we meet in battle, may your death be swift and glorious.”

“And may yours inspire songs that endure throughout the ages.”

With that, Ashaad moved off, his brothers following.  None of them gave Fenris or Hunter a second glance.

Hunter, who was clutching his chest, dared to speak when he was certain they were gone.  “What just happened?”

“You met your first qunari face-to-face,” Fenris said with a puckish smile.  “They are not the savages many would have us believe.  I have always found them quite civilised.”  He then looked further up the beach.  “Let us bring the horses closer to the camp.  I believe they will enjoy the warmth.”

While they tethered their mounts a safe distance from the fire, Hunter ventured several glances over his shoulder, but Fenris seemed unconcerned.

“I thought we were done for,” the rogue confessed, crouching next to the fire and warming his hands.  “You were so confident.”

“They recognised we are here to fulfil a need, as they were.  Though they may hold little respect for the authority we serve, they respect that we serve it.  We—the qunari scouts and us—are cogs in a greater mechanism controlled by neither.  The salutation we gave one another—‘Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit’, means ‘It is my purpose to do what I must for those I consider important’.”

“In other words… ‘nothing personal’?”

“You have the measure of it.”

“But I’ve heard stories of qunari who lie in wait for innocent people and butcher them for no reason.  Didn’t a group of them almost kill you and Hawke?”

“You speak of the Tal-Vashoth, those who have abandoned the Qun.  Koslun’s teachings refer to an ‘animalistic rage’ that resides within each qunari, but which must be tempered for the good of the whole.  The Qun instils the discipline and self-control required to harness that rage.  You saw that discipline at work just now.  Had those men been Tal-Vashoth, we would not be standing.”

Darren shook his head in admiration of his learned friend.  “Have you read much of Koslun’s work?”  He then tutted to himself.  “Ignore me.  You only learned to read recently, didn’t you?”

Fenris sat upon the sand next to the fire, stretching his legs and wiggling his toes.  “I dwelled with qunari rebels in Seheron for a time, who spoke of Koslun with reverence.  It is a long story for another night, but as a people they have gained my respect.  I admire many things about their philosophy, although not enough to want to convert.  Life under the Qun is austere and rigid, requiring sacrifice and renunciation of the ego.  To the qunari, there is no ‘I’, only ‘we’.”

“I think I’m starting to see how important that book is to them,” Hunter said thoughtfully, looking out to sea.  “Do you think… have they definitely gone?”

“If they say they are gone, they are gone.”

“And what if their ships are out there somewhere?”

“I doubt they will waste shell or explosive on the likes of us, though I recommend we conceal ourselves before sunrise.”  He thought of Fletcher for an instant and pushed down a longing to caress his man’s face.  “Who knows what the new day will bring?”

“If we’re safe for now, I’ll see if the fish are biting.”  Hunter took his bow off his back and nocked an arrow.  “Might as well eat and get some rest while we can.”

** The alienage **

Varric was taking refuge from the nobles in his room at the Hanged Man when the guards called, and jumped at the chance of helping find his missing friend, although Donnic had uncharitably refused to overlook _future_ misdemeanours in exchange for his assistance.

“Sure we can’t cut a deal, Grizzly?” asked the dwarf as he tinkered with Merrill’s lock.

Bradley glanced at Donnic, barely hiding his amusement.  “’Grizzly’?”

“Careful,” Donnic said.  “He’ll give _you_ a nickname if you stick around long enough.  Any ideas, Varric?”

“Too easy,” the dwarf teased as the bolt clicked.  “With a schnozzle like that…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Bradley self-consciously touched his nose, glaring at the two guards who’d accompanied them when they started snickering.

“Maeferath’s balls.”  Varric pushed the door open, all levity forgotten when the guttering torches within Merrill’s home illuminated a man and woman at the far end, trussed up like prize turkeys.  Fletcher, tied to the right leg of the dining table, started wriggling immediately, while Merrill, tied to the left, slumped in relief.

Donnic was first in, sword drawn, and quickly searched Merrill’s bedroom while Bradley and one of his colleagues removed Fletcher and Merrill’s gags.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” spluttered the red-faced Fletcher.  “Was that you lot banging on the door earlier?  Couldn’t you _hear_ us?  Has everyone in Kirkwall gone deaf all of a sudden?  My arse is killing me!  This floor’s not made of pillows, you know!”

“Settle down, Hawke,” warned Donnic, re-entering the room as Fletcher’s bindings were removed.  “We’re here now.”

Merrill was a mite more polite as Varric lent a hand to free her.  _“Please_ hurry if you can.  I _really_ need a wee,” she pleaded.

“Knock yourself out, Daisy.”  Varric assisted her to her feet and watched, chuckling, as she ran like a gazelle to the smallest room in the house.  “Have a good one!”

Fletcher was pulled up by Donnic.  “I take it this is Isabela’s handiwork, then?”

“What time is it?” asked Fletcher.

“Close to ten bells.”

“What?”  Fletcher shook his head, panic in his eyes.  “Then she’s got at least an eight-hour head start!  I don’t _believe_ this!”

“Wide-range search,” Bradley ordered his two subordinates.  “Pull everyone who’s available.  Captain?  How about bringing the reserve guard in on this?”

Donnic nodded his agreement.  “Do it.  I want every tavern, every whorehouse, every fighting ring and gambling den visited.Go in easy—we’re not concerned with what they’re up to tonight.  Twenty-five sovereign reward for information leading to a quick capture.  _Genuine_ information.”

“Leave it to me, Captain.  You two, come with me.”  Bradley left the house, along with the other guards.

“She had the book, Varric!” exclaimed Fletcher, hands atop his head as he paced.  “She said she stole it back last night but she’s stashed it somewhere!  We were so bloody close!”

“Hawke, I need you to calm down.”  Donnic pulled out a chair and pointed at it, fixing Fletcher with an unwavering stare.  “Have a seat.”

With an exasperated sigh, Fletcher complied.  A moment later, Merrill joined them.

Varric produced his hip flask and placed it on the table.  “Got any food here, Daisy?”

“Um, there’s some bread and a bit of cheese.  Oh!  And that apple pie I baked.  In the cupboard over there.”

“And plenty of tea, I’ll wager,” said the dwarf with a warm smile.  “Let me get that for you both.  You must be starving.”

As Fletcher and Merrill each took a bracing swig from the hip flask, Donnic sat with them.  “Are you two up to making a statement?” asked the captain.

“Yes!” Merrill blurted.  “Do you need paper?  I’ve got paper.  Hawke gave it to me a while back.  Uh, paper, that is.  Of course it is, that’s what I just said.  Charcoal, too.  I don’t have any ink, though,” she said apologetically.

“Charcoal's perfect.”

“Right here,” Varric said as Merrill rose and went to him.

“Sorry,” Fletcher mumbled to Donnic.  “Thanks for rescuing us.  I’m just a bit…”

“Shaken up?  Pissed off?  Of course you are.  No harm done.”

At that moment, another guard arrived and spoke for a short time with Donnic at the door before being sent on his way with new orders.

“Well, this is interesting.” The captain returned to the table with a scrap of paper in his hand.  “Anonymous handwritten note was delivered to the Keep just after we left.  ‘If you’re looking for Merrill and Hawke, they’re somewhat tied up.  Go to Merrill’s house and take a lockpick with you.  Tell her I’m sorry for taking the key, I know she liked it. And tell Hawke… never mind.’”  He sighed.  “Bit late for that now, but it looks like she didn’t want you to come to harm.”

“Who brought the note?” asked Fletcher.

“Some urchin from Darktown.  He was told to wait until nightfall before delivering it.  I don’t suppose he’ll be able to give us anything other than a physical description.” He passed the note to Fletcher and waited until he’d read it.  “Looks like we’ve got a thief with a conscience.”

“That doesn’t excuse what she’s done.  Of all the self-serving… I’ll kill her!  And if the Arishok kills me first, I’ll haunt her for the rest of her days, preferably during her frequent bouts of shagging anything that moves!  Ugh!”  Fletcher balled his hands together and rested his forehead against them, closing his eyes and exhaling.

“I’ll ‘forget’ to include the death threat in your statement,” Donnic quipped, but Fletcher was in no mood for jokes.

“Have you heard from Fenris?” he asked tautly.

“No, but that’s to be expected.  I do know our people on the Coast haven’t encountered any problems so far.  We’ve scouts lying farther back, monitoring the reconnaissance teams.  I’m recalling them all tomorrow, anyway.  You’ll see him then.”

“Our last day,” murmured Fletcher, opening his eyes.

“Which is why I need you to dig deep and give me as much information as you can.”

“I’ll do my best.”  Fletcher looked to their left, where Merrill was rifling through a cabinet with Varric.  “Her hands are shaking,” he whispered to Donnic.

The captain gave a slight nod.  “I noticed.  Let’s get this out of the way as quickly as possible and we can all go to bed.  Well, _you_ can.  Varric?” he called over his shoulder.  “When you’ve finished what you’re doing, would you pop around the corner and let Hawke’s mother know he’s safe?  We might be here a while.”

“Way ahead of you.  Next thing I had planned.”

“We’ve _got_ to get that book back, Donnic,” said Fletcher earnestly, feeling a swell of affection for his friends.  “This place… it might be a dump, but it’s _our_ dump.  There are too many good people here.  We can’t let them down.”

“We’ll get it, Hawke,” Donnic said with confidence he didn’t entirely feel.  “We’ll get it.  Now let’s start from the top.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kost: Peace.
> 
> Ebasaam Taashath--I've taken liberties with the Qunlat translations in the DA Wiki here. This literally translates as: We are all/Calm, which I've taken to mean: 'We are not a threat'.


	115. Burdens of Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am the keeper of your arse and will defend it with my life. Donnic shall not have it, guard-captain or not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to CCBug for checking the chapter and brainstorming!

** The Wounded Coast **

It was a clear morning and visibility was good, the sun’s pallid warmth chasing away the last spectres of fog that lingered in secluded coves.

Looking through his spyglass atop his horse, Donnic could see nothing but calm waters stretching as far as the horizon.  Sergeant Grant, deputising while Bradley slept at the barracks, was a mile or two further along the Coast and would soon return to report his own findings.

“Where _are_ you?” Donnic peered through the spyglass again, hoping to catch a disruption in the gentle wave pattern far out to sea, the glint of sun as it hit metal… anything.  But he’d been there for more than an hour and could no longer afford to dally.

Had this all been an elaborate ruse by the qunari, designed to waste the city guard’s personnel and resources on a wild goose chase?  If so, what were Donnic and his people being distracted _from?_

Was the qunari fleet really out there, just beyond the limits of his spyglass’s range?  Or had the ashaad unit plunged the Coast into darkness to prevent someone from leaving?

Had they still _tried_ to leave?  Had they been successful?  Was the Tome of Koslun now on its way to Rivain or lying at the bottom of the Waking Sea?

Or had none of those things happened?  Was the qunari holy book still in Kirkwall, tantalisingly close by, yet out of reach?

He lowered the spyglass and heaved a sigh.  These were thoughts he could not share with those under his command—they needed a leader, one who was decisive and bold, almost to the point of arrogance.  Aveline had been that leader, and although Donnic was his own man and decisive enough, it was at times like this he missed her the most.

What would _she_ have done?

“Kicked my arse and told me not to waste time on the dead when there’s the living to think about, that’s what.”  Retracting his spyglass, he tucked it inside his belt and dug his left heel into Nereid’s flank, turning her eastward.

In the distance he could see Grant’s distinctive pinto horse, its rider halting as two fellow guards hailed him—one of them a distinctive elf.  Donnic spurred his horse to a trot, taking a few minutes to reach them.

“Nothing, Captain,” Grant called out once Donnic was close, anticipating the question.  “The day’s as clear as a bell, but I can’t see a damned thing.”

Donnic drew near and dismounted, exchanging nods with Fenris and Hunter.  Grant also dismounted, both riders rotating their hips and stretching their aches away.  “Same here,” Donnic said.  “Darren, I want your take on this.”  He handed his best scout the spyglass and waited while Hunter surveyed the horizon.

“Where are the gulls?” mumbled the rogue.  Donnic and Grant exchanged a quick glance as Darren lowered the spyglass, his eyes still on the horizon.  “There’s nothing to see—no wildlife, no flotsam, no eddies or rip currents, no anything.”  He shook his head, looking troubled.  “This isn’t right.  It’s like a giant hand scooped every living thing up and dumped them all somewhere else.”  He offered the spyglass back to Donnic but it was declined.

“Hold onto it.  So you’re saying there’s something—someone—out there?”

“I’d bet my life on it, Captain.  Just wish I knew _where._ ”

Donnic walked up to Fenris.  “I’m assuming qunari can swim?”

The elf thought about that and shrugged.  “I’ve never witnessed one doing so, but the qunari have warred for centuries with the Tevinter Imperium over control of Seheron, most of which has been waged at sea.  I find it difficult to believe a military as comprehensive as theirs would be lacking in such a skill.”

Grant snorted his disagreement.  “No, they’re built for close combat and brute strength, that lot.  All that muscle they carry, they’d cramp up before long.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hunter mused.  “They don’t wear armour, remember?  That gives them an advantage in the water from the off.  And if they leave those big war hammers behind their stamina would be phenomenal.  The likes of Fenris and I would tire—and cramp—long before them.”

“We need to start taking them seriously,” Donnic said, “and stop dismissing them as lumbering beasts.  Their society hasn’t survived three Exalted Marches through brute strength alone.  The Chantry has teeth.”

Grant straightened his posture.  “Of course, Captain.  Awaiting your orders.”

Time stood still for a second as Donnic geared himself up.  Hesitating now would have a deleterious effect on his men’s morale, but making the wrong decision could endanger them as well as the public at large.

“Hunter, you’ll take charge here.  I’m leaving a handful of scouts behind along with the fastest horses.  You’ll establish rotations and post people appropriately.  Make sure the ones who’ve been here all night get some sleep.  Designate two of them to act as liaisons between here and Kirkwall.  I’m returning to the Keep now and I’m going to send you some engineers and explosives experts.”

“Dwarves?” asked Fenris.  “How will they ride here?”

“They won’t, I’ll have them sent by wagon.  They’ll rig the shoreline and detonate charges if the qunari come too close.”  He turned back to Hunter.  “You are _not_ to engage the qunari directly unless you’ve no choice.  If things get too hot, flee.  Tie the dwarves to the horses if you have to.  As good as you scouts are at what you do, you’re no match for the qunari physically.  No heroics, understood?”

“Understood.”

“In the meantime, you’ll also get some sleep while it’s quiet.”

“I’ve had an hour or two, Captain. I’m fine.”

“I’m not going to repeat myself, Sergeant.”

A small smile came to Hunter’s face and he nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

Donnic then addressed Fenris and Grant.  “You two are going back to Kirkwall.  I still believe Hightown will be hit hardest so I need our most experienced combatants there.  Grant, stay here and oversee things while Hunter gets his rest, then head back, prep the hardiest horses for battle and bring your claymore out of retirement.  Report to Bradley—he’ll be commanding the Hightown forces.  Fenris, you’ll ride with me.  Let’s get to it.”

Salutes were exchanged, and while Donnic reeled off some last-minute orders to Grant, Fenris and Hunter stepped closer to one another.

“So this is where you mighty warriors get all the acclaim while us clever ones do the actual work.”

Fenris smiled at his friend.  “As it should be.”  He held out a hand, which Hunter shook.  “Darren… it’s been an honour.  I value our friendship immensely.  Stay safe.”

“Ah, don’t go all mushy on me.”  Darren’s façade of equanimity slipped a little.  “You make it sound like we’ll never see each other again.  I hate things like this so… don’t.”

“Just in case.”

“Never mind ‘just in case’.”  Hunter released the elf’s hand and looked across the dunes, sighing.  “You stay safe as well.  And if things go awry with the Arishok, kick him in the sphericals. Never fails.  _If_ he has any.”  Without another word, he slipped away.

“I’ll remember that.”

Fenris watched his friend’s retreating back, barely noticing when the mounted captain arrived alongside him.  “He knows what he’s doing,” Donnic assured him, extending an arm.  “Hop up.  We’re leaving your horse here.”

“No, no, no!”  Sergeant Grant walked up to them, shaking his head.  “How many times have I told you?” he said to Fenris.  “You don’t mount a horse like that!  They’ll sense your hesitancy.  They take cues from their rider and if they suspect you don’t know what you’re doing, they won’t, either.”

“Lucky _he_ isn’t riding then, isn’t it?” said Donnic.

Fenris made himself comfortable behind the captain and looked down at his tutor.  “Echo seemed quite at ease with me… after a spell.”

“Oh, really?”  The stern but knowledgeable sergeant crossed his arms.  “According to Hunter, she threw you a few times on the way here.”

“Define ‘threw’,” challenged the elf, hearing a chortle from Donnic.  “I prefer to call it… ‘Demonstrating her respect for me in a whimsical manner’.  She respects me a great deal, it would seem.”  He winced for effect and rubbed his right buttock.

Donnic turned back slightly.  “Did she ‘respect’ you onto sand or rock?”

“Sand, fortunately.”

 _“Very_ fortunately.” Grant started walking away, calling over his shoulder.  “Captain, don’t teach him any bad habits.  And you’re due a refresher course yourself, remember.”

Donnic nodded, his eyes already on Kirkwall.  “I’ll get right on it.  Hyah!” 

Nereid took off, progressing to a fast clip once they’d reached solid ground.

“You all right back there?” Donnic asked the elf after a while.

“Yes, Captain.  Just admiring the view.  It’s infinitely more pleasant whilst mounted, as opposed to lying flat on one’s back, an exasperated horse named Echo looming above, the odds of asphyxiation by defecation not in my favour.  There _was_ a near miss.  If utilised as an indictment of my riding technique, it was an accurate, albeit harsh, one.”

For the first time in weeks, Donnic laughed loudly, his shoulders rocking.  “I’ve heard Echo likes to test people but she’ll appreciate you don’t wear heavy armour.  Stick with her.  Look, call me Donnic for now?  Nobody calls me just ‘Donnic’ anymore,” he said in a jovial tone, but Fenris could not see his face, and was uncertain how genuine that tone was.

“Are _you_ all right?”

The captain grunted. “I will be once we get hold of that blasted book.  Speaking of which—there’ve been a few developments.”

“Oh?”

“Hawke was involved,” Donnic added, giving Fenris time to process the news.  “Last night.”

The elf paused for a moment, his grip on Donnic’s belt tightening. “Tell me.”

“He did what we haven’t been able to do—caught up with Isabela, with Merrill’s help, and nearly got his hands on the book, but she… well, she gave him the slip.”  He felt Fenris tense up behind him.  “He’s fine.  Angry, but fine.”

“Did she hurt him?” the elf demanded, strain in his voice.

“He’s got a sore tailbone and burned his hand on one of his own spells, but he’s hale enough to call our thief a few things even I’ve never heard of.  Don’t worry.  He’s fit as a fiddle.”

“That… is a relief,” said Fenris on a sigh, his heart rate slowing.  “Any news on Isabela?”

“We got some leads during the night which we’re following up on, but I don’t yet know how reliable they are.  She’s got money, so she could have paid off any number of people to mislead us.”  He blew out a huff.  “Between you and me?  I think she’s long gone.  We’re still searching, but we need to prepare for the worst.”

“She is indeed well-versed in subterfuge, but no one is infallible.  _Someone_ must know of her whereabouts. I will assist in the search.”

Donnic shook his head.  “No, we’ve plenty of people on it.  When we return you’ll need to get some sleep, so I’d spend some time with Hawke while you can.  We’ve consulted Strabo the astronomer and he says the moon will fully wax just after dawn tomorrow morning.  If the Arishok wants to split hairs, there’s our deadline.  Report to the Keep at eight bells this evening.  You’ll partner up with me, like the good old days.”

“And what of Fletcher?”

“Bring him with you.  Whether the book’s found or not, he won’t face the Arishok alone.  We’ll all go together.”

Fenris sunk down a little, closing his eyes.  “Thank you… Donnic.”

** Gamlen’s residence, the slums **

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” Merrill said to Leandra.  Both women were seated at Gamlen’s dining table, Fletcher on the settee in front of the fire where he leafed through the correspondence he’d brought from Hightown.

“You’re more than welcome,” Leandra replied.  “You can’t very well return home if you’re unable to lock your door.”

“Varric said he’ll have someone take care of that lock later today,” Fletcher joined in.  “In the meantime, the guards have secured the place.”

Leandra rose and started collecting teacups, Merrill springing up to assist.  “You needn’t rush to return home, Merrill, especially with all that’s going on.  It’s nice to have another female about the place.  Someone who likes to help out,” she added loudly.

Fletcher made a vague sound but didn’t look up from his letters.

“How’s Bethany?” Merrill asked Leandra.  “Have you been able to visit her recently?”

Leandra shook her head.  “All visits have been suspended for the time being.  Varric and I didn’t even get as far as the docks yesterday.  Western Lowtown is swarming with templars and guards.  Any idea why, Fletcher?”

“Hm?  No, not really.”

“I wonder if the templars are there to stop the qunari going across the water?” Merrill guessed, looking increasingly pleased with herself as she figured it out.  “Hawke said there might be some trouble with the qunari, you see—”

“Merrill,” Fletcher said sharply, laying his letters down.

“—and now Isabela’s run off with that book, it looks like we’re going to war.  I can’t believe she could be so selfish!  Well, I _can,_ but not over something as important as this!”

“Fletcher?”  Leandra asked in horror as a loud groan came from the settee.  _“War?_   Were you ever going to tell me about this?  And… is this why Fenris has been sent away?  Why didn’t you _say_ anything?  Maker preserve us!  Will Bethany be in any danger?”

“There’s nothing to tell you,” Fletcher said smoothly, turning to face his mother.  “You’re perfectly safe here and so’s Bethany.”

“Not this again!  I am not a child to be swaddled against all the world’s ills!  I _knew_ you were keeping something from me!”

“Blimey,” muttered Merrill.  “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”  She nervously placed herself between mother and son, touching Leandra’s arm.  “He didn’t mean anything.  He was just trying to protect you.  You’ve been through such a lot recently, what with being kidnapped and Aveline dying and Bethany going to the Gallows.  He’s your son—he’s only doing his job, isn’t he?”

Leandra’s lower lip started to wobble.

“Don’t!  You’ll start _me_ off!”  Merrill’s face crumpled and both women dissolved into tears.

“Oh, Maker.”  Fletcher scratched the back of his head, his eyes going to the door as it was roughly shoved open.

“Oh, Maker!”  Gamlen stood in the doorway, alarm on his face.  “There’s no work to be had at the docks.  I’m off to get steamed at the Hanged Man.”  Without entering, he looked at Fletcher.  “Your elf’s on his way here.”

Fletcher jumped up from the settee.  “Fenris?”

“I bumped into him at the market which is supposed to be open but isn’t.  Told me to keep away from the docks… _after_ I’d just come from there.  Not very bright, is he?”  With another look at the women, who were now hugging and laughing, he shook his head in disgust.  “Pah!  I’m off.”

Fletcher’s eyes darted between the door and the ladies.  “Uh, Mother?”

“Oh, we were just having a moment.” Leandra wiped her eyes.  “If Fenris is here, then it can’t all be bad.  But I want to know what’s been going on once you’ve said your hellos.”  She gave her son a determined look.

“Promise.”  On the way out, Fletcher bumped into Varric, who was about to enter.  “Fenris is back!” he announced, speeding down the steps.

Upon arriving at the market—which, besides a guard presence, was deserted—Fletcher was treated not to a sappy reunion with Fenris as he’d hoped, but a full account of what had occurred at the Coast, as well as learning he’d have Donnic and Fenris for company when he called on the Arishok the following morning.

He also learned that although Lowtown hadn’t been evacuated, as there was simply nowhere for everyone to go, its residents were being called on and advised to remain in their homes until further notice, hence the closure of the market.  The slums and alienage were next on the city guard’s list.

After some cajoling from Fenris, followed by outright threats, Fletcher told him _most_ of what had happened with Isabela.

“I hear you burned yourself on your own spell?” Fenris asked as they took a slow walk back to Gamlen’s.  “You seem to have neglected to mention that.”

Fletcher nodded sadly, raising his injured hand to his face.  “My beautiful hand… now just a withered claw.  I—I’ll understand if you want to be with someone else.  Someone who won’t be a burden to you, a hideous figure of shame and ridicule shambling and lurching about town, a target of pointed fingers and whispers who sends small children scurrying indoors, screaming, seeking the illusion of safety their mothers’ skirts provide.”

Fenris folded his arms, his lips pursed.  “Fletcher… the skin isn’t even broken.  What you have there, if _worthy_ of a name, is a faint scalding.  _Faint._ ”

“You’re just being kind!”  Fletcher hammily raised a hand to his brow, anguish written all over his face.  “I never wanted your pity!"

“You most assuredly do _not_ have it.  Now tell me the rest.  You injured your bottom on a hard surface?”

Fletcher’s arms returned to his sides.  “Not really an injury, more of a sprain caused by sitting on it for too… wait, who told you that?”

“Why, Donnic, of course.  It’s the talk of the barracks.  He’s considering fashioning our new armour from your hide.  It has endured many trials but remains unbreakable.”

Their eyes met.  “You’re having me on, aren’t you?  Love?”

 _“Am_ I?”

Each man was desperately worried about what was to come—as well as desperate to spend some time alone with each other—but their familiar dance had begun, and they both knew it.  In such a public place they were unable to give voice to their true feelings, so did their best to lift the other’s spirits.

“Would you _really_ wear my arse?”

Fenris stopped and stood in front of Fletcher, blocking his path.  “Not while I draw breath.” He thumbed at his own chest.  _“I_ am the keeper of your arse and will defend it with my life.  Donnic shall _not_ have it, guard-captain or not.”

Fletcher chuckled and glanced around, gently brushing the fingers of one hand against the elf’s arm, longing for physical contact, however brief.  “Good.  I don’t think he’d treat it with the care you do.”

“A construct of such magnitude is deserving of both care _and_ respect.”  Fenris started to move away.  “Not to mention, its own province of Thedas.”

“Are you saying I’ve got a big…”  Fletcher grabbed his derriere with both hands.  “Oh, wait.  I do.”  He caught up with the elf, drawing invisible shapes in the air.  “I can see it now… The Exalted and Fragrant Province of _Indestructibum_.  How does that sound?”

Fenris pushed out his lower lip, nodding as they entered the slums.  “Not bad, but it lacks the gravitas and dignity a newly-appointed province demands _._   I was thinking more along the lines of ‘The Great Southern Cleft’.  Majestic, proud, and overblown… rather like your bottom.” 

Fletcher paused, stroking his chin.  “The Great Southern Cleft?  That’s just about perfect!  Particularly as the Weathered Pass and Blasted Hills are already in use.”

“And let’s not forget the Abyssal Rift.”

“Not the Western Approach, then?”

The elf rasped a laugh, overjoyed to have his silly soulmate back at his side… at least for now.  “Could be misconstrued by some.”

“But _would_ they be misconstruing it?  I know exactly what I mean.  And so do you.”

Fenris looked up and gave his mage a beautiful smile.  Despite the fact they might be meeting their end in less than a day, he’d seldom felt more content… or more at peace.  He adored this man.  How many more opportunities would there be to demonstrate that?

It was a short walk to Gamlen’s house now, but he could fill that walk with something that went against his own, deeply private nature, but would mean the world to his lover.

He reached out and wrapped his fingers around Fletcher’s hand.

Fletcher’s smirk melted away, his features softening.  Fenris didn’t do public displays of affection and the gesture both thrilled and puzzled him.  “Fen?”

“Walk with me,” Fenris invited.

“But… you do realise you’ll be seen _stepping out_ with a mage?  In public?”

“Of course.  And _you_ realise you’ll be seen stepping out with an elf?”

Fletcher fully turned to him, answering the gesture with a quick peck to Fenris’s cheek.  “I’m proud to.”

“As am I.”

Hand-in-hand they continued to the house, attracting nothing but a few titters from the local children, a tuneless rendition of “Hawke and the guardsman, sitting in a tree…” accompanying them.

After greetings were exchanged and a late (and second, in Fletcher’s case) breakfast eaten, the couple provided Leandra and Merrill with an _edited_ version of their discussion at the market—conveniently leaving out Fletcher’s level of involvement in the whole debacle.  Thankfully, even Merrill was unaware of how pivotal a role her fellow mage would play, so there were no further accidental ‘reveals’ on her part.  Varric, who’d dusted off his Head of Morale mantle, helpfully embellished the tale with a dragon-slaying and the second coming of Andraste for good measure.

In spite of his efforts, however, a sombre mood soon settled over the residence.  Merrill and Leandra busied themselves in and out of the kitchen while Varric answered the door to several callers, all for him.  Each time he re-entered the house he’d answer the occupants’ unasked question with a shrug or apologetic shake of his head.

Meanwhile, Fletcher and Fenris had taken to the settee, where they’d disinterestedly sifted through Fletcher’s correspondence before Fenris slipped into a light sleep against the mage’s shoulder.  Whenever a knock came at the door he’d startle, apologise for his abominable manners and then slowly drift off again.

A few hours after he’d departed, Gamlen returned home, ‘steamed’ as promised, and slumped into his armchair where he proceeded to snore so loudly it would have woken the dead—leaving poor Fenris unable to resume his nap.  Even Fletcher’s projectile of screwed-up paper, well-aimed at his uncle’s nose, failed to stay the din.

Taking pity on Fenris, Merrill approached the twosome and tapped Fletcher on the shoulder.  “Varric sorted out my lock again,” she said, dropping a very ornate, shiny key into Fletcher’s hand.  “Why don’t you and Fenris get some sleep at my house?  The bed’s clean and,” she dropped her voice to a murmur, “in case you _can’t_ sleep, or don’t want to, there’s some fresh linen in the trunk.  If you wouldn’t mind.”

“That… will not be necessary.”  Fenris squirmed a little, his large eyes seeking out Leandra, who appeared not to be paying attention.

“Oh, I won’t know the difference anyhow,” said Merrill with a knowing look at Fletcher.  “I haven’t counted how many clean blankets there are in there, and my laundry pile’s as high as a mountain!  I won’t notice, honestly.  If you change the bed, I mean.”

Fletcher stood up and rounded the settee, grinning at the Dalish elf.  “A tad overcooked, but thank you.  I promise to look after the key.” 

“I just thought you two might want to spend some… quality time together,” she went on, forgetting she was supposed to be whispering in her enthusiasm to be helpful, “in case things go badly tomorrow, which I really hope they don’t.  You know what I mean by ‘quality time’, don’t you?”

“I think he gets it, Daisy,” Varric commented in amusement from the other side of the room.  “I think we all do.”

By now Fenris was on his feet, looking mildly annoyed.  “I am… grateful,” he managed following a non-verbal prompt from Fletcher.

“Will you be back before this evening?” Leandra asked anxiously, walking up to her son.

He shook his head.  “I’ll be at the Keep because healers are in short supply.  But it’s just a precaution.  I probably won’t be needed.  And remember—this is about the safest part of Kirkwall to be.  Just stay here.”

“All right, well… please take care, won’t you?  And you, Fenris.”  She reached for Fletcher and swallowed him in a hug, laying a hand on Fenris’s shoulder at the same time.

“Fletcher will not come to harm.  I give you my word,” Fenris said, his eyes meeting Fletcher’s.

After saying light-hearted goodbyes to everyone, the couple stepped outside, taking a minute to break character and catch their breath.

“What if the last thing I ever said to her was a lie?” Fletcher wondered miserably.

“It was an honourable lie, designed to spare her from heartache.  And you spoke the truth when assuring her of her own safety.  The qunari have little reason to call here.  To be blunt, this region of Kirkwall is tactically insignificant.  Take heart, my dear.”

Fletcher glanced at the elf.  “Thank you for saying what you did.  I know there’s no guarantee I won’t be hurt, but it made her feel better.”

“I meant it,” Fenris stated softly but firmly.  “I do not give my word on a whim.  You will _not_ come to harm.”

Fletcher held his gaze for a second before looking down and exhaling, a deep line between his brows.  How he wished he could make the same promise to his beloved.  He was no warrior, no great defender of men.  The best he could do was hide behind someone bigger than him and cast healing spells that Sam Verus once constructively described as lacklustre.  Would _that_ win a war and save the people he loved?

“Let us speak of other things.”  Fenris placed a hand in the small of Fletcher’s back.  “We have so little time together.”

Fletcher nodded.  “You’re right, love.”  He breathed in deeply, determined not spoil the remainder of their day by being maudlin.  “Let’s go and make some laundry for Merrill.  And then you’re getting a proper sleep.”

** ~o~O~o~ **

After ensuring Fenris was in a deep slumber, Fletcher penned a quick note, leaving it on Merrill’s table, and tiptoed out.  Spending ‘quality time’ with the elf had done nothing to ease the sense of dread that pervaded Fletcher’s bones—he’d not only lost hope that the book would ever be found, but had accepted he, and possibly Fenris, would be dead by tomorrow morning.

He’d managed to put on a convincing act for his mother but something she’d said had started to play on his mind.  Bethany would likely be the only remaining Hawke child and despite assuring Leandra his sister would be safe in the Gallows, Fletcher was not so certain.  The qunari viewed magic, and mages, with suspicion and fear.  Not that different from Thedas as a whole, but the templars were lenient in comparison.

Apostates were captured and detained, yes, but unless they showed signs of possession or were stupid enough to use blood magic in front of the templars, they were treated fairly—Bethany’s letters to Fletcher had confirmed that.  A saarebas, on the other hand, was always presumed to be possessed, and if separated from their karataam was cut down, no questions asked.  As reasonable and moderate people, Fletcher and Bethany knew the templars would only slay a mage as an absolute last resort.

But if the qunari took the fight to the templars, there would be an isolated fortress full of mages with no one to defend them.  Mages were not helpless by any means, but against the qunari?  The Gallows was full of healers like Fletcher with few offensive powers to call upon, as well as civilian staff.  And then there were the apprentices: teenagers and children, not yet harrowed, inexperienced in battle situations and more vulnerable to a demon’s influence than anyone else. 

Their youth and innocence would not move the qunari, nor would they, as mages, be deemed suitable for conversion—therefore, only one fate awaited them.

After a quick stop home to change into something inconspicuous, Fletcher ‘borrowed’ Varric and left Leandra with Merrill and his comatose uncle, again assuring both women they were safe—which they were for the time being.

Once they’d left the house, Varric needed no strong-arming to visit the docks with Fletcher, as he was also concerned about Bethany’s safety.

They entered via the eastern entrance, careful not to go near the qunari compound, but were dismayed to find not only an increased guard and templar presence, but a qunari one too: every minute or so they passed a single _karasaad_ standing at the dockside, doing little more than observing, but the mauls or great swords they carried served as a stark reminder of the potential for violence. 

“Where _is_ everyone?” Varric muttered as they passed a pair of city guards, one of whom recognised Fletcher and nodded in greeting.  “I see plenty of suits of armour and horned giants, but where are the _people?”_

“Probably been told to stay indoors, same as Lowtown,” answered Fletcher, pointing to the quayside.  The usual multitude of crates and cargo were absent, only a few merchants hurriedly taking delivery from a handful of docked ships.

“Kinda spooky,” Varric noted.  “Heads up—those templars are coming this way.  Let me do the talking.”

Three armed, fully-suited templars approached them, stopping a few feet away.  “What brings you here, gentlemen?” asked the female to the left. 

“Just taking in the afternoon air.  You?” asked Varric with a charming smile.

The knight wasted no time on small talk.  “Unless you’ve been living under a rock, the city guard will have visited you and advised you to stay indoors for your own safety.  I know people need to go out for food and so on, but there’s naught here but raw fish, and you can purchase that in the market.”

“Which is closed,” Varric pointed out.  “What’s a man got to do to fill his belly around here?”

She rolled her eyes and dismissed her colleagues with a wave of her hand.  “I know who you are, Varric Tethras.  I’ve seen you at the Gallows.  Why are you really here?  If you’re just having a nose around, I’m going to have to escort you back to town, and I don’t have time for that.  Let’s cut to the chase—we’re both busy people.”

“There are no flies on you, are there?”  Varric dipped a small bow and inched closer to the templar, lowering his voice.  “We’ve got an idea of what’s going on around here and we’re concerned about a friend in the Gallows.”

“How well-protected are they over there?” Fletcher interjected.  “You must know what the qunari do to uncollared mages.”

“I’ve heard.  Look, I’m not at liberty to discuss arrangements with the general public.  The qunari aren’t just qunari, if you get my drift.  Some of them are humans and elves… and possibly dwarves.”

“We’re acquainted with Knight-Captain Cullen,” explained Fletcher.  “I’m sure he’ll vouch that we’re not qunari spies.”

She eyed the twosome before sighing and pointing further along the docks.  “You’ll find him down there but I can’t guarantee he’ll give you any answers, either.  Don’t take up too much of his time, and I’ll ask you to leave once your business is concluded.  I’m saying this for your own good.”

They thanked her and followed her directions, eventually spotting the busy captain directing several subordinates from behind a small table, strewn with documents.  They waited close by until Cullen saw them, his expression tightening as he beckoned them closer.

“You should not be here,” he advised them, leading them away from the table.  “You of all people, Messere Hawke.  State your business and make it quick.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but my sister is in the Gallows,” said Fletcher quietly.  “Bethany Hawke.”

Cullen frowned.  “I have not heard the name.  Is she harrowed?”

“Yes, a few weeks ago.”

“One moment.”  Cullen raised his arm and caught the attention of an elven man wearing black robes, who was speaking with a group of templars across the way.  He walked over to them.

“Yes, Knight-Captain?”

“This gentleman is enquiring about Bethany Hawke, a harrowed mage.  Are you acquainted with her?”

He nodded.  “I know Bethany well.”  He looked at his fellow mage for a moment, a small smile appearing.  “And you must be her brother.  She speaks of you often.  I am First Enchanter Orsino.  A pleasure to meet you at last.”

“Likewise.”  They shook hands, each man registering the feel of mana when their palms touched, but neither drawing attention to it.  “First Enchanter, Knight-Captain, I know you must be busy so I’ll come right to the point.  How safe is my sister?”  Fletcher glanced at Cullen.  “We’re aware of the situation here.”

Cullen nodded, turning his gaze to Varric.  “Of course you are.” He sighed and rolled his shoulders.  “While I cannot speak of our deployments or tactics, rest assured the mages are behind several gates and walls of solid stone, as well as a significant number of templars.  Whatever you may think of us, one of our duties is to protect the mages under our care.  It is a duty we take very seriously.”

Orsino nodded his agreement.  “The knight-captain speaks true, messeres.  After consultation with the city guard, the templars have spared no resource shoring up the Gallows in case of attack.”

“We hope it will not come to that,” said Cullen, “but we must be prepared.  Knight-Commander Meredith has remained in the Gallows, where she is overseeing things.  Our most experienced knights are with her, and she is no slouch with a blade herself.”

“My sister is a battle mage,” Fletcher pointed out.  “Will she be on the front lines?”

Orsino and Cullen shook their heads, but Cullen spoke.  “The front line, if there is to be one, will consist of templars only.  We will be transporting a small number of senior enchanters to the mainland this evening, who will act on Orsino’s orders to defend this side of the docks _if needed._  Again, it is our hope matters will not go that far.  If they do, I am confident the qunari will not breach our defences.  Guard-Captain Hendyr has lent us some of his explosives experts.”

Orsino patted his staff, smiling.  “And we have a few of our own.”

Fletcher and Varric looked at one another, both visibly relieved.  “Thank you,” said Fletcher.

Cullen gave a brisk nod.  “Now, if there is nothing more?”

“No.”  Fletcher halted for a second, holding Cullen’s gaze.  “Only… may I speak with you in private for a moment?”

Cullen gave him a wary look but shrugged.  “I… suppose so.”

They walked away from Orsino and Varric, Fletcher blowing out a breath as he addressed Cullen.  “I wanted you to know… a while back, when I was doing work for you, I threatened to tell the knight-commander about your dealings with apostates if you revealed my status.  I… I wouldn’t have actually done that.  I was nervous about being in the Gallows and conflicted about what I was doing.  I just wanted to tell you because it sounds like your lot are treating my sister well.”

Cullen groaned, rubbing his forehead.  “I have far too many things to consider to even…” He sighed.  “I appreciate it, nonetheless.  Now I have something to say to you.  Leave the dockside immediately.  I am certain your parents will not appreciate two of their children being detained at the Chantry’s pleasure.  _Go home._ Should you return here, I will have no choice.  Consider yourself fairly warned. _”_

“I understand.  And thank you again.  I hope… well, if He exists, I hope the Maker keeps you safe.”

“He exists, Messere Hawke, never doubt that.  May He watch over you and your family.  Now if you’ll excuse me.”  Cullen walked to his table, where he watched Varric return to Fletcher’s side.

“That’s that, then.”  The dwarf nodded ahead and they started the long walk back to the east side of the docks.  “So I’m guessing you’ll want to return to Broody before he wakes up?”

Fletcher looked across the bay, the sun low in the sky. “It’s All Soul’s Day next month,” he mumbled.  “Four days before Beth and Carver’s birthday.  Two months after that it’s Fenris’s, then Mother’s… when’s yours?”

“I tend not to dwell on birthdays,” Varric replied, recognising the wistfulness in Fletcher’s voice.  “Only reminds me I’ve got fewer hairs up top than this time last year—but more in my ears—or that my knees ache when I walk long distances.  I’m older but as for being wiser, that’s up for debate.”

“Don’t you ever give a straight answer?”

“Not if I can help it.  Listen.  The Legion of the Dead celebrate their own ‘deaths’.  I wouldn’t put much stock in anything a dwarf tells you.  They’re all a little touched.  I’ll tell you what.  Ask me again tomorrow evening.  Maybe _then_ I’ll tell you.”

“Tomorrow evening… seems such a long way away, doesn’t it?”  Fletcher resumed walking, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his head down.  “But you’re on.”

Varric followed close behind, his heart hurting, but he was determined to stay positive for his friend’s sake.  And who knew?  Maybe by some miracle they’d all come through this and laugh about it one day? 

“Wait up, Hawke!” he called.  “Dodgy knees, remember?”

** Viscount’s private chambers, later that night **

“There’s no sign of the book, your Excellency, or the thief,” Donnic said to Viscount Dumar, who was looking out of his window over Hightown, Seneschal Bran to his side.  “I’ve pulled my people off the search and they’re concentrating on fortifying the Keep.  It’s close to midnight.”

The Viscount’s shoulders rose and fell, the elderly statesman turning to face his captain.  “I will defer to your judgement.  You have not seen us wrong so far.”

“I don’t know about that.  I’ve had practically the entire guard on this and we’ve turned up nothing.  The closest we came was when a civilian caught the thief, but she scarpered.  We’ve all been outplayed by this woman.  I take full responsibility for this failure.”

“You will do no such thing.”  Dumar gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk, Donnic and Bran taking a seat.  The Viscount then opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a very old, dusty bottle and two glasses.  After struggling for a moment to uncork the bottle, he half-filled the glasses, pushing one towards the seneschal. 

“Let us not stand on ceremony,” he said, taking his own seat and lifting the bottle, clouds of dust billowing into the air as he blew upon it.  “’Flames of Our Lady’, said to imbue the most cowed of spirit with fire and vigour.”  He then passed the bottle to Donnic and took up his glass.  “A toast.  To Our Lady.”

“She is with us,” all three men said in unison, tapping their drinking vessels together before partaking of the exquisite wine and sighing in satisfaction.  Donnic then wiped the neck of the bottle on his sleeve and offered it back to the Viscount.

“Keep it,” Dumar told the captain.  “Drink a toast to your victory when the sun has risen.”

Bran looked at Donnic, clearing his throat.  “Excellency… I must ask you to reconsider your position.”

“I agree,” Donnic said. “We need to move you to a safe location now.”

“I will not abandon my Keep when your own men and women are risking their lives to defend it.”  The Viscount stood up, folding his hands behind his back.  “If the Arishok is coming for me, he will come here no matter where I am.  I will _not_ abide the slaughter of good people while I cower in the shadows.  As ineffectual as my rule has been, I _am_ the ruler of Kirkwall and my place is here.”

“Excellency.”  Seneschal Bran also stood up and moved in front of the Viscount.  “Forgive my candour, but you _will_ die if you remain here.”

Donnic rose to his feet.  “Again, I’m in agreement with Bran.  It’s true—people _are_ going to die, but my men and women signed up knowing the risks.  As did I.  Once this is over Kirkwall will need its leader, not more chaos.”

“I have spoken and my decision is final,” said Dumar, his mouth set in a hard line.  “I will not hide.  Even if I am to make my last stand here, I _will_ stand.”

Without hesitation, Donnic answered.  “Then I’ll do everything in my power to see that you _remain_ standing, Excellency.”  He bowed and straightened up.  “With your leave, I’ll make final preparations.”

“Of course.”  Dumar moved to the front of the desk and handed the bottle to Donnic.  “You will need this for your toast.”

Donnic sighed but took the bottle, holding it close to his chest.  “I’ll keep it somewhere safe.  _We_ will make our toast tomorrow—the three of us.”

“Thank you for your service, Captain.”  The Viscount shook hands with Donnic and, to his surprise, so did Bran.  “Before you go, is there an update on Seamus?”

Donnic shook his head.  “I’m afraid not.  As I informed you yesterday, he was seen entering the compound but hasn’t left, not unless there’s another exit.  We’ve already charted the tunnels beneath the dockside and they don’t extend as far as the compound.  I’m pretty sure he’s still there.”

“Then perhaps he, at least, is safe.”  Dumar retreated into his thoughts for a few moments before looking up.  “That will be all, Captain.  Maker be with you.”

After bowing for a second time, Donnic left the office and made for the barracks, finding Bradley seated at his desk, massaging his temples.

“Oh, Captain.”  Bradley shot up.  “Just taking a few minutes.  We’re ready here.  Everyone’s fresh and in position as we discussed.”

“Sit down, Evan.  I could do with a few minutes myself.”

“Sounds good to me.” Bradley retook his seat while Donnic perched himself on the edge of the desk, looking up at Wesley Vallen’s shield.

“You know what Aveline would be doing if she were here?”  Donnic asked his deputy.  “She’d be at the compound right now, haranguing the Arishok until his ears bled.  They’d all be queuing up for the next ship to Par Vollen just to get away from her--'Sod the bloody book, we'll write another one!'” He smiled briefly as a fond memory played in his head.  “In fact, if she were here I doubt we’d be in this mess in the first place.”

“Respectfully, Captain, I disagree.  You’ve done everything possible—and a little bit more—to find Isabela.  Everyone knows that.  You have the regiment’s complete loyalty and respect.  I have to say, though, I’d give a year’s wages to hear Captain Vallen haranguing the Arishok.”

“I’d give… everything.”

Bradley looked sadly at his captain and friend.  “I’m sorry, Donnic.”

Donnic forced his smile wider and pushed away from the desk.  “Where are Hawke and Fenris?”

“Next door, playing cards with the cook and a couple of the domestic staff.  They didn’t want to just sit in their homes and asked what they could do to help, so I told them to keep up the morale of two of the most important people involved in this.”

“Good idea.”

Bradley glanced at the door, speaking quietly.  “Hawke’s fucking terrified.  He’s trying to play it off but you can hear it in his voice, see it in his posture.  He’s defeated before we’ve even started.”

Donnic grunted.  “So would I be in his position.  And we’ve about a five-hour wait until dawn.  That’s going to be the worst part.  Unless, that is, our thief finds her conscience, because that’s the only thing that’ll save us now.”

Bradley gave a listless shrug.  “We could inspect the troops again.”

“No, they know what they’ve got to do when the time comes.  I’m going to leave in three hours and we’ll take our time getting there.  I’ll speak individually with as many of our people as I can.  I know you’ll have everything in hand here.”

“You can count on me.”  Bradley stretched his arms, rotating his head until his neck clicked.  “So what do we do in the meantime to make this three hours less tortuous?”

“I say we try and beat Fenris for a change.  Stranger things have happened.”

A genuine smile came to Bradley’s face as he rose.  “Very good, Captain.”

“After you.”  Donnic waited for Bradley to leave the office and then placed the Viscount’s gift of wine on his desk.

Hawke would need some of it in three hours’ time.


	116. The Tale of the Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But... I don't _want_ to be the Champion of Kirkwall!"
> 
> I squatted next to him, my proud smile met with a bleary scowl. "Sorry, my friend. The mob has spoken."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to acknowledge the significant contribution made by my dear friend, Carrie (CCBug), to this chapter. I'm so grateful for your honesty and hand-holding! Thank you!
> 
> This chapter is entirely from Varric's POV.

Author’s note: I’ve decided to leave my own significant role in events out of the story.  I am but a humble scribe (and on first-name terms with the Champion.  Just putting it out there).  This account is true to the best of my knowledge (memory lapses requiring dramatic licence notwithstanding) and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  Unless they’re the people in the actual story, in which case a resemblance is pretty essential.

** The Tale of the Champion by Varric Tethras **

** First draft **

** Prologue **

Guard-Captain Donnic Hendyr and that guy with a dirty blond man bun and a beard that makes him look older than he really is—Lieutenant Bartley? (need to verify this)—were making final preparations at their desk.  Meanwhile, Hawke and Fenris were giving each other a last-minute pep talk outside the office.

Fenris, of course, was upright, poised and ready to do battle: his sword and armour were polished to a high shine.  He gave off an air of confidence that was contagious, probably because he knew he could talk the Arishok round by speaking Qunish (is it called that? Need to verify that as well).

Unfortunately, Hawke hadn’t yet caught Fenris’s confidence disease, despite it being contagious.  Maybe he’d caught it as a child and was immune?  Anyway, he was standing against a wall, arms folded, staring at his feet.  Tucked into his belt were a pair of daggers he didn’t know how to use, _unless_ he used them for trimming flowers or peeling foodstuffs, both specialties of his. 

“I still think I should have brought my staff,” he said to Fenris, picking at his nails.  “Why wouldn’t you let me bring my staff?  And that new enchanted robe?  It’s purple. _This_ get-up?”  he glanced down at his tunic and pants, “it’s so… dreary.”

“What does its colour have to do with—?”  The elf paused, giving Hawke an indulgent look.  “As I have already explained, the Arishok is thus far unaware of your status as a mage.  Do you remember Saarebas, the bound mage who immolated himself because the Qun demanded it?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Then you will also recall that the Qun required his death because he became separated from his karataam.  You _have_ no karataam or arvaarad (FYI, those are the qunari equivalent of templars, only more pissed-off and homicidal), nor a templar guardian.  In the eyes of the Qun—and, by extension, the Arishok—any such mage, qunari or not, must be destroyed as possession by demons is inevitable.  The Arishok will _not_ react favourably should he discover your true nature.”

“And what if I’m forced to cast in his presence?”

“Then there will be little point in hiding.”

“Are you sure? Because I was hoping to sit this whole thing out beneath Donnic’s desk for about the next, I don’t know, fifty years.  Less chance of having my mouth sewn shut that way.”

“He will not touch your mouth, nor a single hair on your head.  I alone have that privilege, and I do not intend to share it.”  Alongside the romantic sentiments behind Fenris’s words, there was also determination.  I believed him, even if Hawke didn’t.

“It’s been a privilege having your mouth and, uh, hair as well.  And everything else.”  Hawke sighed, uncrossed his arms and fingered the knives on his belt.  “I just want to get this over with.  I’m sorry.  I know I’m not being very inspiring.  When did Donnic say we were leaving again?”

“Soon.”  Fenris smiled and patted Hawke’s arm.  “I will ask him.”

“Thanks, love.”  Hawke’s posture reverted to its original slouchiness once the elf had entered the office.  While we waited, your humble scribe brought out his repertoire of bawdy jokes, but young Hawke couldn’t quite muster up his usual enthusiasm for them.

From where I was standing I could see into the office through a crack in the door, which had been left ajar.  It looked like the captain and Bartley were getting ready to head out.  Sure enough, Bartley went first, exchanging a nod with Hawke and me before getting going.  He had all of Hightown’s forces to command so was a busy man.

Meanwhile, something interesting was going on in the office, which _I_ could see but Hawke couldn’t.  Fenris took a folded piece of paper out of one of his gauntlets and handed it to the captain, who looked somewhere between pissed off and worried.  A brief (and too quiet for me to hear) conversation ensued, followed by half a minute of both of them looking at the floor.

Donnic then firmly shook the elf’s hand and held onto it, giving Fenris an intense look.  Quickly releasing it, he walked out, tucking the note inside his cuirass.

“Hawke, it’s time.”  The captain stood in front of us, Fenris quietly emerging from the office and moving to Hawke’s side.  “Remember, you’ve got the entire city guard behind you.  You’re not alone in this.”

Hawke nodded distractedly, his thoughts someplace else.  “Thanks.  I appreciate it.”

“Let’s go.”

** (Need to think of a decent chapter title here.  But it’s not part of the Prologue.  That’s done.) **

Hightown was unnaturally quiet and still.  You know those times when the moon moves in front of the sun and it goes dark for a while, but it’s not a _normal_ darkness?  Well, that’s how Hightown felt—not normal, kinda off, and it was reflected in our general mood as we set out.

Donnic spoke to his guards as we passed them, all strategically placed along our route.  We also came across a small group of nobles who’d opted to remain in Hightown, demanding to know what was going on.  They quickly returned to their homes when the guard-captain threatened public humiliation in the stocks for obstructing his people from doing their duty.

He wasn’t in the mood for jerking around and neither was Fenris.  The elf had really come into his own since we first met: far from the angry, scared and reclusive man I remember, he was confident and assertive—or at least appeared to be.  It was my guess he knew all too well what today might bring, and what was at stake, but he was with Hawke and had to put on a good show.

Speaking of Hawke, he walked alongside me behind the guards.  Each time we stopped to talk to someone he seemed relieved, like he needed the rest.  I couldn’t imagine the weight he was carrying on his shoulders.

Upon reaching Lowtown, it became clear the guards were having problems maintaining order: the streets were full of both residents and noble guests from Hightown.  Apparently someone had overheard two guards’ conversation and now the whole of Lowtown knew trouble was coming, particularly as there were qunari sentries posted at each entry/exit point, who were being heckled and even pelted with stones.

“Have the qunari retaliated against anyone?” Donnic asked a nearby guard.

“No, Captain, they’re just standing there and taking it, although they _have_ growled a couple of times.  That’s been enough to scare most of them off, but some have been drinking and think they can have a go.”

Donnic shook his head and stepped through the crowd until he was surrounded by people.  “Listen up!  Some of you have heard about the situation here and you’ve probably heard wrong.  These qunari are doing their jobs.  They are _not_ your enemy.  If that changes, what do you think will happen to all of you, out on the streets with no means of defending yourselves?”

“What do you mean, ‘If that changes’?” asked a woman in the crowd.

“We’re hoping to resolve this situation in the next hour or so.  If it _can’t_ be resolved, you people are in danger.  You’ve already been advised to remain in your homes.  I am now ordering you to do so and barricade yourselves in.  There’ll be severe penalties for anyone disregarding my orders.  Get indoors.  _Now.”_

A commotion broke out so Donnic drew his sword, and the crowd shut up.  “If you want to endanger yourselves, that’s up to you, but you will _not_ endanger my guards!  I know most of you and you’re good people, so let’s not make this difficult!  For the final time, I am _ordering_ you to return to your homes and stay there!  Move it!”

After a pause, most of them complied and shuffled off to their homes.  Unfortunately a few drunken idiots made a run for two qunari who were standing at the entrance to the markets, but were tackled to the ground by a pair of quick-witted guards.  The men were hauled off, their hands tied behind their backs.

We ran into similar scenes in each small district of Lowtown.  There were a lot of people crammed into too few places and tensions were high.  I could see the strain on Donnic’s face as we neared the docks and felt bad for him.  He was new to his job and must have been wondering if he’d handled things right.

As we entered the docks, Fenris dropped back and walked with Hawke, occasionally touching his back and speaking softly.

The dockside was full of guards and templars all standing on one side; on the other, nearest to the compound, was a similar number of qunari.  I’ve got to admit, a shiver ran down my spine at the sight—it was possible that, for some of those people, their hours or even minutes were numbered.  What was going through their heads?  What was going through Hawke’s?

We were about to find out.

The qunari at the gate (Hawke addressed him as Karasten) informed Hawke that he could take only a small delegation inside with him.  Hawke in turn said he’d take the three who’d accompanied him so far (namely Donnic, Fenris and me) and there would be no arguments.  Hawke had already told me earlier I might be safer outside with the guards, but wasn’t surprised when I refused.

After giving Hawke a dirty look (do the qunari give any other kind?) Karasten admitted us in just as dawn was breaking.  Hawke gave himself a second to take it in the spectacle, probably wondering if it would be his last ever sunrise.

There were a hell of a lot of oxmen inside, although Fenris remarked that the compound looked half-empty, but he’d been there more often than I.  Hawke went ahead, flanked by Fenris and the captain.  From my place behind them I could see the defeat in Hawke’s shoulders, like a falsely-accused man walking to his own execution.

I _also_ saw the Viscount’s son, who was standing off on his own, looking worried.

As soon as Hawke neared the Arishok’s usual spot, there was a ruckus.  No fewer than eight qunari surrounded us, jabbering in Qunish and waving their arms around.

“Looks like we were expected,” I muttered just as the qunari soldiers to our right cleared a path and a command in Qunish was harshly uttered:

“Arishokost ebra sala!” (Which Fenris later told me basically means, “Back off!  This is my show!”)

It was the big man himself.

Taking his time, the Arishok stomped up to us and gave Hawke a look of pure malice (I don’t think he approved of the beige/olive combo Hawke was wearing—I had the Arishok pegged as more of a primrose/buttercup yellow man, myself).

His eyes then moved downward.  “Is _this_ your thief?”

He was looking at _me!_

“No.”  Hawke drew in a slow breath and sighed, hanging his head.  “We—I—haven’t found the thief.  Or the book.  For what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”

I remember Fenris once telling Hawke never to apologise to the Arishok, and I’m sure Hawke was aware of that.  The Arishok didn’t answer immediately and for a second I hoped he’d appreciate how sincere the apology was.  The way I see it, Hawke knew he’d lost the Arishok’s respect regardless and just wanted to be himself before the end.

When the big guy finally opened his mouth, his tone _didn’t_ indicate that he’d accepted Hawke’s apology.  “You speak as though this is a revelation to me.  Your kind embraces inefficacy and lassitude, none more so than your caitiff of a leader.  He sends _you_ to deliver what I already know to be true and continues to cower behind his walls.  There can be no greater insult.  There is only one response.”

Then Fenris pitched in.  “If my memory serves correctly, Arishok, _you_ were the one who required Hawke to bring tidings of the city guard's search for the thief.  Do not blame him for keeping his end of the bargain.  The Viscount’s movements are his own affair, not Hawke’s.”

“How about you blame the thief instead?” questioned Donnic.  “My people have been working around the clock and, I assume, so have yours.  If we pull together we’ll bring the thief in that much quicker.  As captain of the Kirkwall Guard, I’m offering you its full resources and manpower as a show of good faith.  We want this book found as much as you do.”

“It is already too late for that.  You have failed at your assigned task.  One of your own stole from us and one of your own _will_ answer.” 

Just when things were getting tense, the Arishok looked over our heads toward the gates as Seamus Dumar raced off.  Alas, I was surrounded by people taller than me (happens all the time) and I couldn’t see what was going on.  So I might have used a little stealth to move closer without being seen.

At the gates was none other than the city’s leader himself: Viscount Dumar, his son pleading with him.

“Father, their ways are different to ours!  If you walk in here… you don’t realise what will happen, what you’ll be declaring!  The Arishok believes you’ve insulted him!  You can’t just shake hands and say sorry!”

At that very moment, Donnic, all-agog, broke through the small crowd that had formed.  “Your Excellency?  You can’t be here!  You need to—”

“Captain!”  A red-faced guardsman arrived at the Viscount’s side, gasping for breath.  “I’m so sorry!  He wouldn’t listen to us!  We can’t very well arrest him, can we?”

“All right.  Back to your post,” ordered Donnic, who quickly turned to the Viscount.  “Excellency, this is not a safe place for you to be.”

“I am aware of that,” the elderly statesman replied as he walked into the compound.  “I have come to stay this madness.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see the Arishok was on the move.

“Captain,” Seamus appealed in desperation, “this isn’t something Father can talk his way out of!  He doesn’t understand their ways!  You _have_ to get him to safety!”

“I agree.”  Donnic touched the Viscount’s arm and started leading him out, but his hand was shrugged off.

“Do not cosset me, Captain!  I am quite capable of comporting myself without a nanny to hold my hand!”

“Excellency—”

Oh, crap.  When I said the Arishok was on the move, he’d _moved_ right behind Donnic without me noticing.  Because tall people.

“Late is the hour when you decide to ‘grace’ us with your eminence.”

No need to tell you who said that, right?  Also no need to tell you he was being sarcastic.  _Very_ sarcastic.  And pretty fucking angry.

“Arishok.”  The Viscount bowed and straightened up.  “Late though I am, it is my hope that a meeting of two leaders of their respective peoples might assuage tensions.  I come before you now to admit that I have played no small part in escalating those tensions.  For that, I offer my unreserved apologies.”

The Viscount was doing what _his_ people do during negotiations—make concessions to smooth things over.  But that wasn’t the way the qunari worked.

“Father, _no!_ ” cried Seamus as the Arishok neared them both.

“Do you _admit_ that your weakness and inability to govern have afflicted your people with cowardice and selfishness?  Do _you_ accept responsibility for the vortex that exists in the heart of each of your subjects, where honour, morality and respect _should_ reside but do not?”

Even I could see where this was headed, but the Viscount was just trying to make peace the only way he knew how.  He shook his head mournfully.  “Alas, such sickness exists in all corners of society.  We, as leaders, can only stem the tide as best we can.”

“Please, Father!”  Seamus, almost in tears, grabbed the Viscount by the arm, but the Arishok’s sword (which was as long as Hawke is tall) was already drawn.  Then a bunch of legs appeared around me as the qunari pressed forward and I lost sight of proceedings.

“Even now you admit your part in the ruination of your society yet _refuse_ to take responsibility for it!” roared the Arishok, Donnic’s shouted protests lost in the sauce.  “For the good of your people, there is but one course of action to take!  _All_ will know the Qun!  You are chaos and _I am order!”_

There was a dull _thunk_ and yelling from Donnic and Seamus, but I still couldn’t see what was going on—until the Viscount’s head rolled by.  That cleared things up for me pretty quickly.

“Nooooo!” screamed Seamus, and in the confusion I managed to move clear of the crowd.  The poor kid, blinded by grief, leapt onto the Arishok’s back, pummeling him with his fists.

He lasted seconds.

This was bad.  Really, _really_ bad.  Across the way I could see that Donnic, Hawke and Fenris were hemmed in by qunari soldiers and the Arishok was on his way to them.  A shot from Bianca might have tickled one of the qunari’s legs, but there were dozens of them.  And we were surrounded.

Put simply, we were screwed.

“Get back!”  Hawke held his palms out, tiny flames and sparks leaping off of them.  “Get back or I’ll possess you all… with _demons!”_

Every one of those fearless, mighty warriors backed away as ordered.  Slowly.

“S _aarebas!”_ the Arishok yelled furiously as I snuck around the edge of the crowd, moving closer to the gates.  “Arvaarad!  _Vinek kathas!”_ (I don’t think I _need_ to translate all that, but just in case, it’s something along the lines of: “Templars!  Kill the evil mage bastard!  Stab! Stab! Stab! Raaaaaar!”)

About a half dozen qunari wearing weird grill-type masks started infiltrating the crowd, each wielding a huge, golden rod with a bulbous tip (before you ask, there’s no metaphor here—this isn’t _Hard in Hightown._ They were just golden rods, nothing more).  We’d seen those things before and we knew they killed mages.

“I said _get back!”_   Hawke swivelled around and sent a huge fireball flying through the air, setting the gates, and the qunari in front of them, ablaze. 

Everyone scattered.  I ran as fast as my stumpy legs would carry me.

“With me!” Donnic exclaimed.  “Out!  Everyone, _move!”_

We made a break for the exit, Hawke keeping the rod-wielding arvaarad at bay with threats to possess them all with flame demons, whatever the heck _they_ are (I think he made them up).  Donnic got there first and, like a charging bull, raised his shield and launched himself at the flaming gates, crashing through them and leaving a captain-sized hole which he quickly pulled us through.  Once we were clear, Hawke fired a second and third fireball at the walls supporting the gates, sending them tumbling down, creating a temporary obstruction and a cloud of dust.

Fighting had already begun at the dock side, probably because of the explosions inside the compound.  Thankfully the templars had their hands too full to notice _who_ was throwing fire around. 

Donnic ran to the next most senior guard, who was directing his men, and informed him we were heading for Hightown.  “Can you hold the line here?  The Arishok’s coming after Hawke so I need to get him to the Keep.  It’s defensible and we’ll be better equipped to take the fight to him there.”

“Go, Captain!  We’ll do everything we can!”

Donnic slapped the man’s arm and ran back to us, calling Fenris to his side.  Both men unsheathed their swords.  “Stay behind us,” the captain ordered.  “If you can pick off a few on our way, we’d appreciate it!”  With that, he and Fenris ran ahead while Hawke and I did our best to keep up.

Our first stop was the ass end of Lowtown and mercifully Hawke had been correct: the slums and Alienage had been largely ignored by the qunari.  There were a few skirmishes going on here but Donnic managed to keep Hawke out of sight as we passed through.  One advantage we had was that these qunari didn’t yet know the Arishok was after Hawke’s blood—that would soon change, though, so we didn’t hang around.

It wasn’t until we hit central Lowtown that we encountered resistance.  Some of those people Donnic ordered to stay inside had again left their homes… and they hadn’t lasted long.  The qunari here were outnumbered, but their size and the fact they were armed meant the brave or stupid (I don’t know which) residents of Lowtown were starting to litter the streets.

Fenris pushed Hawke and I behind some barrels, made Hawke promise he wouldn’t draw attention to himself by casting, and raced off to join Donnic.  Ironically the captain, along with a few other guards, was engaging the two qunari he’d defended earlier.  And the drunken men the guards had tackled and tied up?  Dead, in an unceremonious heap near Saucy Cilla’s (a popular Lowtown prostitute’s) place of business. 

The guards took a few lumps but soon the two giants were felled by sheer numbers, plus they were fighting people who were actually _armed_ instead of defenseless men and women who just wanted to protect their homes and families.

Then there was an influx of guards and templars from southern Lowtown and we knew it was time to move out: if those men had arrived, it wouldn’t be long before the Arishok followed, assuming he was still alive.  Donnic wasn’t taking any chances, though.  After ensuring his people had everything under control, he spirited us away.

“Those men were _retreating_ from the docks,” he warned us as we neared Hightown.  “Things must be going ill.” 

The hundreds of steps Hawke hated so much were well-defended, so the only trouble we encountered going up them was… well, going up them.  When we reached the top, Lieutenant Bartley (or whatever his name is) ran to meet us outside the Chantry.  There was nary a qunari in sight.

“We’ve routed them, Captain,” he informed us breathlessly.  “We knew exactly where they were posted and took them by surprise.”

“But how did you know when to engage them?” asked Donnic.  “How did you know hostilities had started?”

“They had spies.”  Bartley pointed to an elf and a human lying prostrate on the ground not far from us, arrows protruding from their backs.  “They must have blended in with the residents and got up here before any of you did.  I’m guessing you were detained along the way.”

“Viddathari,” Fenris said quietly.  “Not spies, but converts to the Qun.  I... suppose they fulfilled their purpose.”

“Any losses on our end?” asked the captain.

“Yes, but not as many as I anticipated.  At last count, eighteen.”

Hawke and I blew out a sigh, but the guards knew the time for grieving was not now.

“Evan,” Donnic shook the lieutenant’s hand, “you’ve done a sterling job here but it’s not over yet.  The Arishok’s on his way and he’s coming for Hawke.  The Viscount and his son are dead.”

“The _Viscount?_ But how—” Bartley’s expression sobered but he wasted no time on sentiment.  “Then I’d advise you to head for the Keep, Captain.  It’s the safest place to be.  We’ll take as many of them down as we can before they reach you.  We’ve archers up in the Chantry and on the roofs of every  house in Hightown.  Even the nobles who stayed behind are pitching in.”

“Here, Bradley.” (Bradley?  _That’s_ his name?  Shit.) Hawke removed a key on a leather strap from around his neck and handed it over.  “Your men can use my house if they need it.  There’s plenty of food and beds for the injured.” He raised an arm and pointed ahead. “It’s—”

“I know where it is, Hawke.  And thanks.”  _Bradley_ took the key and pocketed it.

“Do any of your men need healing?”

Bradley shook his head.  “Sam Verus has everything in hand.  In fact, I’ll have him set up a triage in your house.  Now you’d best get going.”

“I’ll see you get a commendation for this, Evan,” promised Donnic as he jogged ahead.  “ _Don’t_ get hurt.”

“You, either.  Maker watch over you all.”

The captain and second-in-command of the Kirkwall Guard went their separate ways.  “Let’s get you to the Keep,” Donnic said to Hawke.

When we entered the residential part of Hightown there were a few cheers from the rooftops until Donnic shouted up that we _hadn’t_ whipped the Arishok’s muscular behind— _yet._ He told them all to do what they could but not to play the hero. 

I think deep down he knew the Arishok would make it to the Keep, but of course he couldn’t tell his men that.  The qunari had archers of their own (as well as spear-throwers) and a lot of people up on those rooftops were going to die.  Again I could see the strain telling on the captain’s face—and so could Hawke.  He grabbed Donnic’s arm.

“He’s after _me_.  What’s the sense in letting these people risk themselves?  Let me go back.  Your men don’t have to die.”

“The Arishok is responsible for the deaths of our city’s leader _and_ his heir,” was the captain’s firm reply.  “I’m not just going to give in to him and I’m certainly not going to condemn one of Kirkwall’s citizens to certain death, friend or not.  Besides, Fenris would hang me by the balls from the nearest tree if I let anything happen to you.”

“Donnic, I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”  The captain continued to walk ahead and looked back at us, beckoning.  “We’re _not_ going to parley with him.  He’s a murderer and he’ll be brought to justice.  My people have been trained for this and they know what they’re doing.  Have some faith in them, Hawke.  Now move before I throw you over my shoulder—don’t think I won’t.”

“Fletcher,” said Fenris in a stern tone.

Hawke sighed and trudged behind them with your humble author bringing up the rear. 

The Viscount’s Keep was like a fortress (I know, I know.  It _is_ a fortress but I’m using the word here for dramatic effect).  The infamous Wall, where Fenris and many an unfortunate colleague had been sent for punishment, was lined with archers and lit braziers.  Every man and woman in the regiment had been trained with a bow since Aveline took over, and the reserve guard—her idea but implemented by Donnic—was there in strength.   Even an apostate or two had thrown in with the guards, maybe for the promise of protection from the templars.  Or maybe they didn’t even care about that.

On the ground was a bulwark of dwarves and the regiment’s hardiest two-handed specialists, there not only to repel, but to maim.  While Donnic spoke with Sergeant Grant, the regiment’s horse master, Fenris wondered aloud how his friend Darren was faring at the Coast.

And then the moment of pause and reflection was shattered as the fighting spilled onto Hightown’s square below us.

“He’s here!” a messenger shouted as he ran up to us.  “The Arishok’s reached Hightown!”

“Inside.”  Grim-faced, Donnic grabbed a fistful of Hawke’s tunic and marched him through the main doors.  “Fenris, keep him safe.”  He then raised his voice for the benefit of those inside.  “Prepare yourselves!  The Arishok’s almost here!”

Everyone sprang into action at once.  Fenris led Hawke up the first set of stairs and behind a group of four guards, before unsheathing his sword and pacing back and forth like he was guarding treasure.

“This is stupid!” Hawke complained as Donnic directed his people to shore up the doors. 

“The captain is _drawing_ the Arishok here,” said Fenris as I arrived next to them.  “Once inside, he and his men will have nowhere to run.  Here, _we_ are stronger.  He _will_ die.”

Now, all we could do was wait.  It wasn’t long before the sounds of battle carried through to us: clashing swords, screams of pain, guttural Qunish commands.

And then, my friends, we heard the Arishok’s voice.  “Ebasit kata itwa-ost!” (Rough translation: ‘It’s over for you!’)

The doors to the Keep shook as they were rammed from the other side.  And then they started to splinter.

“Fall back!”  commanded Donnic as a hole was punched through.  Not by a battering ram, but good old-fashioned qunari shoulders.

Fenris and his little circle tightened up around Hawke.  All around us swords were drawn, arrows nocked, and hammers hefted.

With an almighty crack the doors were heaved open, the big guy stepping through the wreckage along with his entourage, as the fighting went on behind them.

In a heartbeat, dozens of weapons were aimed and trained upon the Arishok and his men plus a group of those Viddy-whatever people, who were all equally well-armed.  They moved inside, spreading out, and it soon became apparent that there were more of them than us.  A _lot_ more.

“This has got to stop!”

_“Fletcher!”_

“No, Fen!” Hawke shouted out from behind his wall of guards.  “You want me?  I’m here!  Leave these people alone and let’s get this over with!”

“Self-sacrifice?  _Very_ dramatic, but it won’t be necessary, handsome.”

Hawke’s mouth dropped wide open (in fact, I don’t think there was a closed mouth in the house) as our erstwhile thief sauntered in and stepped over the ruined doors, Tome of Koslun in hand.

Four qunari immediately blocked the exit while a bunch of others swarmed her, swords and hammers ready.

“Katoh.”  The Arishok held up a hand and slowly walked toward her, his subordinates backing off.

“It’s a little late in the day for this, isn’t it?” snapped Hawke, pushing through his protective circle and heading down the steps, Fenris right beside him (and, naturally, Yours Truly close behind).  “What’s with the change of heart?  The piles of bodies scattered across the streets, perhaps?  Did you even _look_ at them?  Because _you_ caused all that!  Their deaths are on _your_ hands!”

She stopped and opened the Tome, leafing through and pulling a page taut.  “One step closer and I’ll use these pages as kindling.”

Just like he’d hit an invisible wall, the Arishok halted.  And damn, if that wasn’t the first time I’ve ever seen him _afraid._

Isabela then turned to Hawke.  “I tried to leave town last night but the qunari are out at sea and repelled any vessels that tried to set sail.  After spending the night in a smelly cave I decided being on the run wasn’t a lot of fun.  So I came back with the intention of holding the qunari to ransom and demanding payment for the book.”

“Of course.”  Disgusted, Hawke walked right up to her and got in her face.  “Why _would_ you care about anyone else?  Do you think those dead people in Lowtown, any of the guards here who’ve put their lives on the line, or even the qunari who’ve perished today are surprised by that?  Did you think you were going to make a grand entrance and have everyone hanging off your every word?  Well, guess what?  _Give the book to the Arishok or I’ll kill you my bloody self!”_

She closed the Tome and folded her arms around it, pulling it close to her chest.  “I _did_ see the bodies,” she said soberly, her gaze moving to the floor.  “I don’t want anyone else to die because of me.”  She moved past Hawke and held the book out to the Arishok.  “Here.  It’s yours.”

There were a few quiet murmurs but most of us were stunned into silence as the Arishok took the book, holding it like it was refined lyrium.  He then passed it to one of his men, who took it right to the back of the crowd... which I didn’t see as a good sign.

“And now you’ll let me go,” said Isabela.  “I could have destroyed that book or sold it again but I didn’t.  My freedom is a fair price for its return.”

To my side, Fenris shook his head and palmed his face.  I nudged him.  “What?”

“She should have made a deal _before_ relinquishing the Tome,” he said quietly.  “The Arishok would have agreed to anything for its return and would have been honour-bound to release her.  Now, she has nothing to bargain with.”

“Well, shit.”

With a single nod of the Arishok’s head, Isabela was grabbed from behind by one of the qunari and dragged off to the side, her arms immobilised.

“Hey!  Watch it, you!”

“There will _be_ no freedom,” the Arishok declared.  “You will return to Par Vollen with us, where you will learn the error of your ways.  You will become a useful, productive, _selfless_ member of qunari society and you will be _grateful_ for it.”

Donnic stepped forward, Fenris moving to his side.  “You’re not going to Par Vollen or anywhere else.  We have due process in this city and you _will_ answer for your crimes one way or another.”

Fenris touched Donnic’s arm, then, and said something to the captain I didn’t hear before addressing the Arishok.  “Your prize is returned and your victory almost complete.  I humbly ask that the Arishok grants the captain a conference with his peers.”

The big guy’s face didn’t move for half a minute; then he grunted. 

Hawke was called over to join the guardsmen and I listened in.  I’m sure they would have invited me anyway, but they had other things on their minds so far be it from me to add to their burden.

“We can’t just hand her over,” Donnic whispered (for the sake of saving ink and my swollen, gnarled fingers, let’s assume they were _all_ whispering).

“Can we not?” said Fenris.  “Would you weigh one person against further, needless slaughter?  The Arishok is bent on converting Kirkwall in its entirety to the Qun.  His methods will _not_ be gentle.  Give him the thief and let us be done with this.”

Donnic nodded.  “I’d be quite happy to let him take her for the reasons you’ve laid out, but regardless of Isabela’s role in this, the Arishok killed our head of state.  That’s an act of war where I come from.”

“Captain,” the elf said respectfully, “you know I will support whatever you decide, but the Viscount is dead.  The Arishok’s status will not change that.  Isabela has confirmed that the qunari fleet is abroad, something we suspected all along.  Forgive my facetiousness, but they are not there to appreciate the view.  They are there to _invade.”_

“They can have Isabela for all I care, but he is _not_ leaving Kirkwall alive!” hissed the captain. 

“Wait up!”  I squeezed past the guards and looked up at them because I _had_ been invited to participate in the discussion… by default.  “Are we seriously considering letting them take her?  You know they’ll kill her, right?”

“They will not kill her,” Fenris said, “as she is a resource, and the qunari do not waste resources.  She will be submitted to the Ben-Hassrath where she will undergo conversion and re-education.”

“Re-eduwhatnow?  And what exactly does that involve?”

“Her mind will be altered.  Either she will become a useful, productive member of society as the Arishok stated, or she will not.  Re-education is not always successful.”

I squared up to Fenris.  “And what if it’s _not?”_

He shrugged.  “Then she will be rendered harmless.”

“Harmless?  A drooling vegetable, more like!”

“This is getting us nowhere!” Hawke interjected with a glance over his shoulder at the big guy.  “The Arishok isn’t going to wait around while we argue!  Will someone please make a decision?”

“All right, then,” challenged the captain, “what’s _your_ opinion?”

Hawke thought about that for a moment before he looked at me, sadness in his eyes.  “I’m sorry, Varric.  I don’t think we have any other choice but to let them have Isabela.  Think of all the lives it’ll save.”

 _“That’s_ already been decided,” Donnic said forcefully, “but I’m not prepared to let the Arishok go.  You _cannot_ just stroll into a city, declare war by killing its leader and then walk off into the sunset!”

“Perhaps…”  Fenris took a step away from us, a hand at his chin.  “Perhaps there _is_ a solution, one that will satisfy our requirements _and_ those of the Qun.”  He quickly glanced at me.  “And also those of the dwarf.”

“I’m all ears,” the captain said.

“A fight to the death.”

To my left side, Hawke’s eyes widened.

Fenris explained: “Under the Qun, such a fight is declared when there is no equitable solution to a dispute.  And here, in the south, duels are commonplace to settle disputes honourably.  It seems that, if accepted, this will solve both sides’ grievances.”

“This is what you were talking about in the office, isn’t it?” Donnic began, before noticing Hawke’s sudden frown.  He cleared his throat.  “That _solution_ will only settle our grievances if the Arishok dies, assuming he’ll even agree to it.”

“He will agree.  He is too proud not to.  He believes himself indestructible.”

Donnic’s eyes met the elf’s.  “And if he _does_ win?”

“Then you shall have your war.”

Donnic placed one hand on his hip and retreated into his thoughts for a short time.  Then, a determined gleam came into his eyes. “But if we do it your way, at least there’s a chance there _won’t_ be war… _and_ the people of Kirkwall will see that the Arishok didn’t go unpunished.”

“Precisely.  If this is agreeable to you, as Kirkwall’s interim leader you should present your terms to the Arishok without further delay.  Whatever you decide, know that we are with you, Captain.”

“Thanks.”  Donnic gave a decisive nod and broke away from our little group, approaching the qunari leader.  “Arishok, it would seem we’re at an impasse.  Although it’s not usually my way, I’m prepared to release Isabela into your custody.”

“What?” screeched the pirate.  “But I brought the book _back!_   You should be giving me a sodding medal!”

Ignoring her, the Arishok stepped closer to the captain.  “But that will not satisfy your _own_ demand for blood.”

“No, it won’t.  You need to answer for what you’ve done.”

“Then what have you and your… advisers decided?”

Donnic straightened up, his shoulders square and his jaw hard.  “A duel: man-to-man, single combat.  If _we_ win, all of your people will leave Kirkwall immediately with the book, and Isabela stays here.  If _you_ win, you get the thief… and the biggest fight your people have ever seen.”

“I never agreed to that!” Isabela shouted.

The Arishok grimaced in lieu of an unnerving grin—I don’t think he or any other qunari has the physiology to actually smile.  “I accept,” he muttered darkly, his eyes turning to Hawke. “There is yet one more in this mire of a city who is without honour.  By concealing your dangerous nature, you have lied and flaunted your cursed abilities at every turn.   I do _not_ suffer saarebas to pollute my thoughts with their words.  I do _not_ suffer them to poison the air I breathe with each detestable exhalation, and I _do not_ suffer them to stand before me as equals!  You will die like a qalaba!”

“Just a minute!”  Donnic placed himself in front of Hawke, acting as a human shield.  “Hawke is a _healer._ He has no experience with a blade and little defending himself.  Do you, as a supposed man of honour, consider that a fair fight?”

The Arishok’s grimace turned into a glower.  “Those _are_ my terms.  Hawke will accept them or he will not.  He will die either way.  Your attempts to stall me only reveal your own cowardice.”

“Arishok.”  Fenris strode forward, stopping a few feet away from the qunari leader and pointing in Hawke’s direction.  “This saarebas has no karataam, no arvaarad—and therefore no _protection_ against pernicious influence.  You have listened to his words and breathed the same air as him on a number of occasions.  Who knows what heinous afflictions he has already cursed you with, which can only flourish should you be exposed to his foul magics during combat?  Will you risk returning to Par Vollen in triumph, only to infect your entire race with demonic possession?  And will you further risk infecting those enlightened by your conversion?”

The mention of _demonic possession_ seemed to put the fear of the Maker into the big guy, but the clever elf—who was perfectly playing on the qunaris’ bone-deep fear of magic—wasn’t done yet.  After pausing for dramatic effect (which, as an author, I heartily approve of), he delivered the kicker:  “Furthermore, do you truly believe the Arigena and Ariqun will blame Hawke alone for the fall of your society?  Are you not already required to explain how _you_ lost your people’s most sacred text upon your return?”

“You _dare_ utter their names, Basra?” one of the henchmen to the Arishok’s side shouted, only to be silenced with a look from his boss.

“If there is speaking to be done, _I_ will be the speaker.  Know your place!”

The Arishok slowly revolved his head back in Fenris’s direction and glared at him, but the elf didn’t flinch.  He may have been diminutive in size but his spirit and charisma were ten feet high—a darn sight taller than the guy the Arishok just cut down to size.

“There is only one way to settle this,” Fenris went on, his audience of guards and friends listening in rapt silence.  “To retain your _own_ honour, you _must_ meet an equal—a champion of arms, not magic—in combat.”

The sheer balls of the elf had every single person in that place holding their breath.  Fenris and the Arishok stared each other down for a long time, while Hawke’s eyes went back and forth between the two, his chest heaving.

The big guy tilted his head a little, as though intrigued.  He certainly wasn’t amused, as I doubt he ever cracked a smile in his life (as I said earlier).  “And who will this mighty ‘champion’, saviour of Kirkwall, be?”

Fenris unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the Arishok.  “You have the pleasure of addressing him.”

To my side, a breath rushed out of Hawke as though he’d been kicked in the chest.  But he knew, as Fenris had warned him so many times, that he could not shout out, could not protest or throw himself at the Arishok’s feet, baring his chest for a waiting blade.  Because if he did any of those things, he’d make Fenris look like an asshole.

Along with Hawke’s reaction, a chorus of gasps and anxious chatter rose up around the Keep.  The only person who _didn’t_ look surprised was our renowned guard-captain, which made me all the more curious about the discussion he’d had with Fenris in his office, and what was written on that note.

“An equal?”  The Arishok sneered.  “You are an elf.”

“Indeed I am.”  Fenris touched the tip of his sword to his forehead and then to the floor (which I later discovered denotes a challenge in the north, so the Arishok would have known what it meant).  “Have you the courage to face me, or will your reign be forever blighted by your refusal?  I am ready to meet my fate.  Can _you_ claim the same?”

“Please, no,” Hawke whimpered to my side, his hands moving up to his mouth.  “He’ll kill him.”

“Damn right he will!”  I replied, but I don’t think we were talking about the same man.

Slowly (big horned bastard seemed to enjoy prolonging the tension), the Arishok reached over his shoulders, pulling out not one, but two weapons: a war hammer and a two-handed sword (still stained with the Viscount's blood), which he held in _one_ hand.  And Maker, the size of them! 

“Meravas.” (So shall it be).  He answered Fenris’s challenge by touching his forehead with the tip of his sword before using it to point ahead into the crowd.  I’ve never seen so many people scatter so fast.

“Those weapons will only slow him down,” the guard-captain said from behind Hawke with a slap to his back.  “Fenris has speed and his wits about him, and don’t discount his strength.  Plus that trick he does should come in handy.”  Donnic was as fearful as I, but we were better at concealing it than Hawke, who was scared shitless.

“No, he can’t do his trick!”  Hawke lunged forward, catching Fenris’s eye as the elf walked by.  “Fenris, don’t use your markings!  Unless… unless it’ll save your life,” he said, his voice trailing off.  “Please don’t die.  I won’t be able to thank you for being so brave and… and… we’re supposed to be getting ma—” His voice finally cracked and he shook his head.

The elf stopped and they held each other’s gaze for a second.  And then Fenris said something, something meant only for Hawke, so I’m not going to repeat it here.

And Hawke said exactly the same thing back, only with ‘too’ on the end of it.  But torture me or kill me, I’ll take the secret of those three (or four, in Hawke’s case) little words to the Stone, or wherever I’m going, because it was private.  There are some things you just don’t blab about, royalties be damned.

Hawke shut his eyes as the duelists took their places, but like a bystander when a horse has thrown and trampled on its rider, he found he couldn’t _not_ look.  He opened his eyes, tears of anguish glistening on his lashes.  The captain and I flanked him, Donnic wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulders.

“Fenris!  Hawke!” shouted Isabela, still in her qunari captor’s grip, “I didn’t want _this!_   I’m sorry!  I know you must hate me but… thank you!  Whatever happens,” she added glumly.

Fenris didn’t quite hear it and Hawke… well, he stared ahead as though she didn’t even exist.

Meanwhile, our combatants had moved to an area in one corner of the Keep, maybe as big as Hawke’s dining room, which doesn’t help you as the reader but it’s pretty big for a dining room.  Not so sure about a battle arena, but I digress.

“Ataash varin kata,” said the Arishok in a deadly tone, holding his weapons ready (Translation: ‘In the end lies glory’).

“In nomine i Hawke vincet!” was Fenris’s impassioned response (‘In Hawke’s name I will emerge victorious!’).

You’re damned lucky I managed to get all that translated.  I had a hard enough time remembering what they were actually saying without knowing what the hell any of it meant.  I had to repeat both phrases over and over in my head while the fight was going on, so there may be one or two _tiny_ inaccuracies ahead.  The way I see it, my readers prefer to know what was actually _said_ over mere semantics.

A deathly hush fell over the Keep. 

My friends, it was like two cats stalking one another.  Granted, one of those cats was gigantic, armed to the teeth and kept striking his weapons together (we get it!  They’re big!) and snarling (okay, maybe the cat analogy doesn’t work here.  More like a golem.  Who snarls).

Fenris, on the other hand, padded along on tiptoes like an _actual_ cat, sizing up his prey, every movement elegant, concise and calculated, his expression dogged.  So… he was like a cat _and_ a dog.  Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Be that as it may, from where I was standing it didn’t look good—one swing of that hammer could have ended the whole thing.

“Come on, Fenris!” cried a guard among the crowd.

“Stick it to him, Fen!”

“Size isn’t everything, as my wife keeps telling me!”

In a matter of seconds, the hush was shattered by several raucous shouts, soon swelling to a cacophony of cheers—all for Fenris.

The elf didn’t even blink.

Predictably, the Arishok made the first move: clumsily, he arced his sword in the direction of Fenris’s neck.  Thank the Maker elves can duck (no, I’m done with the animal analogies.  Seriously).  Fenris responded by dropping to his haunches and taking a swipe at one of the big guy’s legs—but missed as the Arishok leapt back.

People stopped shouting.  Shit had just gotten real.

Then the Arishok pulled out all the stops.  Holding each weapon out to his sides, he charged at the elf, giving Fenris little room to manoeuvre.  Fenris tried an elaborate slide/roll thing but met the Arishok’s boot, right in the jaw.  He cried out, clutching his face, and rolled away in the nick of time as the hammer was brought down, cracking the polished marble floor.

Both Hawke and Donnic shielded their eyes for a second but dared to glance back as Fenris leapt to his feet, blood trickling out of his mouth.

Donnic was right: big weapons are slow and heavy.  While the Arishok hefted his huge hammer, Fenris took advantage and whacked the guy in the back with his sword, leaving a bloody welt.

Unfortunately for the elf, the Arishok had a long reach.  Dropping his hammer, he spun around and grabbed Fenris by the throat with one hand, throwing him several feet through the air.  He hit a wall, sliding down it in a daze, his sword falling from his hand.

“Get up!” Hawke yelled as the Arishok prepared to charge again.  “Fenris!  Watch out!”

Too late.  The Arishok raced toward Fenris and took a swing at him but the crafty elf grabbed his own sword, threw himself between the Arishok’s legs and with one swipe inflicted a gaping wound to each hefty thigh.  A few inches higher and the Arishok would have been singing soprano.

Fenris began crawling away, panting, and we could tell he was badly winded.  To my side I could see Hawke’s hands clenching.  He was desperate to heal Fenris but knew he couldn’t for honour’s sake. 

The force of the Arishok’s errant blow had caused his sword to get stuck in the wooden panelling on the walls and it took him a bit to free it.  If Fenris had been a hundred percent, he could have run the Arishok through.  As it was, he was just getting to his feet when the qunari leader freed his weapon and picked up his hammer.

It was at this point I started to worry.  The Arishok was bleeding heavily from his legs and back but may as well have been bitten by a flea for all it affected him.  Fenris, however, was struggling to breathe after being tossed into a damn wall.  No doubt about his spirit—the look he gave the Arishok could have curdled milk, but was it enough?

I also feared what Hawke would do if Fenris received any further injuries.  I didn’t think he’d be able to restrain himself from casting or rushing in and jumping the Arishok—and we all saw how that worked out for Seamus Dumar.  And what would happen then?  Honour would be lost and the whole qunari contingent would cut loose.  Game over.

“Take it easy, Hawke,” I said.

“They’re just warming up,” added Donnic, pushing Hawke back a little—I guess he felt the same way as me.  “Fen’s waiting for his chance, and he’ll get it.”

Fenris wiped the blood from his mouth, leaving a crimson smear across his cheek.  Holding his sword aloft, he took a deep breath… and ran straight at the Arishok.

The big guy shielded himself with his weapons as Fenris hacked away at his arms, slicing them to ribbons.  Then, without warning, the Arishok twisted at the waist and swung his hammer, catching Fenris on the shoulder.

Thrown off-balance, the elf stumbled onto his back, his sword skittering away along the polished floor.

Immediately seizing his chance, the Arishok raised his own sword and began stabbing downward, the elf rolling aside each time, but he was holding his shoulder, his face contorted in pain.

Then they ran into the wall.

Everyone gasped, thinking Fenris was done for, but they didn’t count on that elven cunning.  Wrapping his arms around one of the Arishok’s legs, Fenris shimmied up it like it was a tree, reached out and grabbed a hold of something… and twisted.  Hard.

Every man in the room winced as the Arishok roared in pain.

Fenris fell onto his back and flipped over, again crawling away to where he’d left his sword, but he was only using one arm to push himself along.

“He’s dislocated his shoulder,” Hawke said fearfully.  I could hear a crackling sound coming from his hands and felt the hairs on my arms stand on end.  It was an instinct of his to heal the wounded, even more so someone he cared about—but he forced his palms together with an anguished expression and a mewl of frustration.

I’m guessing the Arishok was a _big_ guy in every sense, because he was in serious pain, and hobbled toward the elf, brandishing both weapons.  Fenris had managed to get to his feet but he really _was_ in trouble: one arm was held stiffly at his side, the opposite hand grasping his sword, but it was trembling.

Both men were tiring.  The Arishok had to be feeling his blood loss and crushed manhood, while Fenris, though intact, had been pummelled like a ball of dough.  This fight wasn’t like the ones you read about in those trashy novels where ‘heroic’ swashbucklers dance and parry and dance some more before twirling their moustaches and taking tea.  This was a brutal, dirty fight with heavy weapons that crush bones and rend flesh.  It was a testament to both men that they were even on their feet—most bouts of this nature are over pretty damn quickly.

Proud to the last, Fenris stood tall, spat out a wad of bloody saliva and wiped his brow with his forearm as the Arishok advanced on him. 

This was it.  Both men had to put the last of their waning strength into their next move.  Any show of weakness now would be punished, and punished harshly.

Fenris stalked forward, his left arm still incapacitated, and raised his sword to block the Arishok’s own.  The qunari was clearly the stronger as his weapons lanced through the air, Fenris struggling to counter each blow.

And then, one of the Arishok’s strikes connected: a lucky swing of his hammer hit the elf squarely in the chest.

With a sickening crunch, he went down like a sack of potatoes. 

_“Fenris!”_

“Hawke!  No!”  Donnic grabbed Hawke by the arms and held him back, knowing he’d be cut down if he entered the arena.

Then the Arishok, in his arrogance, made a deadly mistake: believing himself the victor, he turned his back on the elf and raised his weapons high, proclaiming something in Qunish (look, I was still trying to remember the other two things so I didn’t catch what he said.  It’s always been my belief that the readers prefer _semantics_ over mere words).

But he didn’t see the elf drag himself up onto an elbow, and then onto his knees.  Severely weakened but driven by rage, Fenris put every last iota of his strength into getting to his feet, his breathing dangerously laboured.  With a feral cry he launched himself at the Arishok, his sword piercing the big guy’s side before he pitched to the floor again, flat on his face.

The Arishok yelped (need to think of a tougher-sounding word than ‘yelped’) and staggered closer to Fenris, snatching the elf’s sword off of the floor and snapping it in two (he probably actually _bent_ it because those things aren’t exactly flimsy, but for the sake of me remembering both men’s battle cries, because that’s what I was concentrating on at that second, let’s say he snapped it.  The point is, Fenris’s sword was no more).

Just when everyone feared the worst, the big guy dropped to one knee, panting and holding his side, bronze-coloured ichor pumping through his meaty fingers.

“What the bloody hell?” Hawke exclaimed, looking around and behind himself.  I felt the hair on my arms stand up again and it quickly became clear why: In front of our very eyes, the Arishok’s wounds started to close. 

“You cheating bastards!” shouted Donnic, and everyone started whispering, wondering what was going on.

If all this had been planned in advance, the Arishok hadn’t gotten the memo.  He seemed mightily pissed off that his wounds had been fixed, and pointed up to the balustrade, where a saarebas’s hands were still sparkling.

“Katara!” the Arishok yelled.

Instantly, an arvaarad standing next to the sneaky mage held his golden rod erect (again, for the benefit of my more intellectually-challenged readers, there is _no_ metaphor here).  With a discharge of energy from it, the saarebas crumpled to the floor.

“If he gets to heal, then so do I!”  Hawke broke free of Donnic’s grasp and held one hand out in front of him, drawing weird, mystical shapes in the air with the other.  “I take away your pain!” he averred, his eyes screwed closed in concentration.  “Your spirit soars!  You are _invincible!”_   He thrust both hands outward, palms up.

A spooky light surrounded the elf and he was raised a foot or two off the floor, the magical energies gently turning him upright and placing him on his feet.  His head snapped up, something vicious in his eyes, his teeth bared.

“It _hurts_ , Fenris!”  Hawke yelled.  “It makes you angry!  _Use_ that anger!   Use it to win!”

“How’s he supposed to do that?”  muttered Donnic.  “He doesn’t have a sword!”

“You’ve got no choice!” said Hawke to his lover.  “We’ll deal with the consequences later!”

For a second, Donnic and I looked at one another in bewilderment.

Hawke may have taken away Fenris’s pain (and then caused him a different kind of pain—this is where the bewilderment sets in), but the elf’s left arm was still hanging limply at his side.  If he and Hawke had an ace up their sleeves, I was more than ready to see it.

“Ashkost say hissra!” (Make peace with your gods!) growled the fully-healed Arishok, who ran at full pelt toward Fenris.

The elf stood his ground, his wrath building to perilous levels.  There were shouts of “Move!” and “Fenris!  Get out of the way!” but they weren’t coming from Hawke _or_ Donnic.  Something might have slipped out of my mouth but I was too bloody terrified to think straight.

Fenris stayed put until the very last second…

… And then he lit up.  Most of the guards hadn’t seen Fenris’s party trick and some of them backed away, but most looked on in awe.

The Arishok bent into a shoulder-charge but fell right through Fenris and then seized up, his body frozen in mid-air, his skin illuminated with an electric blue light.

His weapons clattered against the floor.

Fenris screamed in agony from _inside_ the Arishok, who jerked and shuddered, his huge body slamming down, Fenris falling with him and rolling away.

He stopped glowing _and_ moving.

This time there was no holding back as Donnic, Hawke and I rushed forward while the qunari who’d been entrusted with the Tome pushed through the crowd.

Hawke skidded to his knees and hurriedly conducted an examination of Fenris, who was unconscious, such was the ferocity of The Glowing (look, I don’t know what it’s called, okay?  Just go with it).  It took a lot out of him, leave it at that.  Hawke was upset and frightened, but slipped right into healer mode.

“I’ll do this while he’s out.”  He quickly unbuckled Fenris’s dented chest plate and tossed it aside, sliding his hands beneath the elf’s tunic.  He closed his eyes.  “Four ribs on that side... two on the other.”  A pale, shimmering sphere appeared around Hawke’s hands as he sent healing magic into his beloved’s battered body.

While this was going on, the lone qunari with the book stood over the Arishok and said something long-winded in Qunish.  Then, every single one of those horned warriors headed for the exit without looking back, leaving the Arishok where he’d fallen.  The guy who’d been holding Isabela released her and she wandered over to us, but wisely didn’t interrupt Hawke.

After a few minutes, Hawke was satisfied with the job he’d done on Fenris’s ribs.  He then sat alongside him, placing his foot in the elf’s left armpit.  Straightening Fenris’s arm, he twisted it a couple of times before yanking it hard, pushing upward with his foot.  There was a ‘pop’ as Fenris’s shoulder joint snapped back into place.

Fenris started to stir, so Hawke slipped an arm under the elf’s neck and slowly sat him up, gently stroking his face.  “It’s all right,” Hawke cooed.  “It’s over.   You did it.  You actually did it.”

The elf groaned, his eyes weakly fluttering open as a huge cheer went up around the Keep and Fenris’s colleagues surged forward.

“Get back!” commanded Donnic.  “Give the Champion some air!”

“The _what?”_ Fenris mumbled in confusion.

“You’re _my_ champion,” said Hawke tenderly, tears welling up in his eyes.  “You fought and won in my name.  I can’t believe how brave you are.”

“He’s more than that!” Donnic declared.  “He just saved our city!  Defenders of Kirkwall, I give you the _Champion_ of Kirkwall!  One of our very own! Hup hup, Huzzah!”

"Huzzah!" The assembled guards roared their approval, their weapons thrust high into the air.

“But… I don’t _want_ to be the Champion of Kirkwall!” bleated Fenris, his voice drowned out by the din.

I squatted next to him, my proud smile met with a bleary scowl.  “Sorry, my friend.  The mob has spoken.”

“Let’s get you out of here, my love.”  Hawke scooped up the elf and staggered to his feet with a little help from Donnic.  “I’m sorry I used magic on you,” he whispered, planting a kiss on Fenris’s forehead.

Fenris looked up at his beau, managing a stiff smile.  “You saved my life in doing so.”

“Well, it was only fair.  You saved mine.  I’ll never forget this for as long as I live.  You’re my hero.”

Fenris curled against Hawke’s chest and sighed, his eyes closing.  “Thank you for not calling me ‘Champion’.  What a ridiculous—”

“Hear me!” shouted Isabela, breaking into song and stamping her foot in time.  _“We’ve heard of elvish heroes, ancient champions and the glory they cut, swinging mighty swords!”_

It was a drinking song known to every Marcher from Cumberland to Wycombe, the hero of the tale long forgotten.  Isabela had changed a few words here and there to make the song Fenris’s own, and immediately the Kirkwall Guard joined in, their voices ringing high and true throughout the ancient Keep:

_“He seized a doughty warrior for the first, and tore him fiercely asunder!  The bone-frame bit, drank blood in streams, and swallowed him piecemeal!  And thence he rushed fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward, laden with slaughter, his lair to seek.  Then at the dawning, as day was breaking, the might of Fenris to men was known; then after wassail was wail uplifted, loud moan in the morn!”_

“Fletcher,” the elf pleaded, clearly not as enthusiastic as Hawke, who wore a joyous smile as he listened to the song.

_"This heard in his home of Kirkwall, the Champion, greatest among elves.  He was the mightiest man of valour and in that same day, of this our life, stalwart and stately!  I pray you, tell your folk and home: a greater ne’er saw I of warriors in the world—yon hero, Fenris!”_

"Fenris! Yay!" Hawke sang along with the others. 

_“Fletcher!”_

Jolted out of a wondrous dream, Hawke remembered he was meant to be taking Fenris home, and mumbled a rueful apology before heading for the Keep’s main doors, the reluctant and very grouchy Champion in his arms.

“Make way!” an excitable Donnic called out, clearing a path through the guards as he strode forward.  “Make way for the _Champion!”_

“Champion!  Champion!  Champion!” chanted the elf’s colleagues.

Fenris let his head fall back and howled like the wolf he is.

** Epilogue **

After seeing off the twosome (who were now more like a _fifty_ some considering the crowd that buzzed around them like flies on shit), Donnic stepped back inside the Keep and glanced around furtively before digging out the folded note from beneath his cuirass.  He looked at it for a second but (much to my disappointment) didn’t read it.  Instead, he tore it into tiny pieces which he threw high into the air, a bright smile on his face as they fell like snowflakes around him.  He then looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, seemingly lost in his own little world.

After allowing himself a wistful sigh, it was back to business.  There was a dead Viscount and Arishok to deal with, after all, not to mention the brave souls who’d tried—and failed—to stand up to the qunari in Lowtown. 

While the captain issued orders, your humble author helped out by cleaning up.  I picked up every last scrap of that note and took them back to my place—purely for posterity, you understand.

It was a painstaking process piecing them together, but piece them together I did.  And… I wish I hadn’t.

It was a letter addressed to Hawke in the event Fenris didn’t survive.  It wasn’t light reading, put it that way, and I stopped halfway through.  Back in the barracks Fenris promised Hawke he wouldn’t let the Arishok touch a hair on his head and he kept that promise.  He was _always_ going to be Hawke’s—if not Kirkwall’s—champion, and let Donnic in on the plan.

You want to know where that letter is now?  I tossed it on the fire, never to be laid eyes upon again.  Because some people are nosy bastards, and some things really ought to stay private.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isabela's drinking song is actually excerpts from _Beowulf_ (author unknown).


	117. Healing Kirkwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have faced armies  
> With You as my shield,  
> And though I bear scars beyond counting,  
> Nothing can break me except Your absence.
> 
> ~From Canticle of Trials 1:1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My undying thanks, as always, to CCBug for giving the chapter her 24-carat thumbs-up!
> 
> And thank you to all of you who left comments for the previous chapter--it was a big one and one I was very worried about getting right. Your comments were very welcome indeed. :)
> 
> Normal third-person POV is now resumed--Varric's busy perfecting his story. ;)

** The Hanged Man **

“So Fenris is the Champion now, eh?” Anders asked Varric, who was watching as the healer finished dressing a wound to his patient’s arm.  “Well, that won’t go to his head at _all.”_

“I’m not so sure about that, Blondie.  I hear he’s scoping out prime real estate on the Coast, so he can dwell in a cave for the rest of his life.”

“Suits me.”

“You _know_ the Champion?” exclaimed the patient, a man from Darktown who’d escaped the fighting but had got drunk to celebrate the guards’ victory and tumbled down a flight of steps. 

Anders gave him a sour look.  “Not really.  You’re all done.  Next!”

The huge numbers of dead and injured in Lowtown had meant the clinic was insufficient for Anders’s needs, and with help from Varric, he’d moved across the way and set up in the Hanged Man’s lounge.  For once, the templar patrols were absent, meaning he’d been able to cast with impunity.  The most urgent cases were dealt with, but there was still a steady trickle of minor injuries to treat, many self-inflicted and caused by revelry.

“I thought Hawke might have helped out,” Anders muttered as he examined his next patient.

“Hawke’s with the deceased Viscount’s healer up in Hightown,” said Varric.  “There’re a lot of injured guardsmen up there, including Fenris.  I guess they have to take priority.”

Anders’s shoulders tensed, the shadow of jealousy falling across his heart.  “I see.”

“Why don’t you go take a break?” the dwarf suggested.  “No one’s bleeding or dying here and the Chantry has sent people to help those in need and... remove the bodies,” he said heavily.

“There are still injuries to deal with,” the healer snapped.  “Do you think I’m just going to abandon these people?  Are _you_ going to heal them?”

There was an awkward silence before Anders stood up and faced Varric.  “You didn’t deserve that.  I’m sorry.  Maybe… maybe I do need to stop for a while.”  He then looked at his latest patient.  “You don’t need anything except some arnica balm for those bruises.  You can buy it at Lirene’s.”  He walked off and went behind the bar, where he poured a pint each for him and Varric after Corff had told him to help himself.  “Clinic’s closed,” he brusquely announced.

After a few protests were charmingly put down by the dwarf, he saw the stragglers out and joined Anders at the bar.  They sipped at their pints in silence for a short time before Varric spoke.  “You’ve done the best you can for these people.  Now it’s time to take care of Anders.”

The mage gave Varric a sideways glance.  “What, no ‘Blondie’?”

“Blondie’s a healer.  I’ve a feeling _Anders_ is in need of some healing of his own.  There’s some Nevarran whisky and candies in my room that I, uh, liberated from a tradesman.  I’ve been saving them for a special occasion.”

Anders snorted.  “And what special occasion _is_ that, exactly?”

“Are you kidding me?”  Varric slapped Anders’s back.  “I’d say the fact we’ve got the best damn healer in Thedas, right here in Lowtown, is cause for celebration, wouldn’t you?”

“Really?  I wish they’d take over for a bit, then.”

“You know darn well who I’m talking about.  That guy who tied his own bandages a while back?  Born healer if ever I saw one.  Beats that charlatan Blondie hands-down.”

A short laugh was wrested out of Anders.  “Nevarran whisky, you say?”

“That’s right.  Now, unless you want to treat somebody _else_ for alcohol poisoning—and what I saw earlier wasn’t pretty—I suggest you save me from that fate by drinking half my stash.  Prevention’s better than cure, as they say.”

With a slight smile and a sigh, Anders set down his pint and followed Varric to his room.

** The Gallows **

“Be seated, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen paused until Meredith sat down before taking his own seat in front of her desk.  He then waited for her to arrange her papers.

“The men and women we lost at the docks will be commended tomorrow at eventide,” she said.  “Their faith and fortitude held fast against the heathen invaders.  Their dedication will not be forgotten.”

“No, it will not,” said Cullen thoughtfully.  “We also lost four mages.”

“I am certain the First Enchanter will see to their needs.”

“Speaking of the First Enchanter,” Cullen looked over his shoulder at the closed door to Meredith’s office, “shouldn’t he be here?”

“If he is tardy, that is not my doing.  We cannot wait all day for his arrival.”

Cullen gave a slight nod, privately wondering if Orsino had been invited at all—if the First Enchanter was one thing, it was punctual.  “Might I ask, how was your meeting with the seneschal?”

“As expected,” was her clipped reply.  “It was agreed that, for now, he is to assume stewardship of Kirkwall until a more permanent replacement can be found.  It was proposed by the guard-captain that a collective be established, comprising a representative from key institutions in the city, to aid Bran with his new duties.”

“And which institutions are they?”

“That is where _you_ come in, Knight-Captain.”

“Me?”

She clasped her hands together on the table.  “There are to be representatives from the city guard, the templars and the Chantry.  It was also decided—against my wishes—that this new… ‘Champion’ be involved.  As I was clearly outvoted, however, I remained silent on the matter.”

“Might I ask the reason for your disapproval, Knight-Commander?”

“Ignoring the fact the Champion is an elf—irrelevant to me, but perhaps not the populace as a whole—he is one of the city guards.  The guard already has a representative, whom I believe will be the captain himself.  If this lucky swordsman is to have a voice in the running of our city, there will be a shift in power in the city guard’s favour.  He will undoubtedly agree with whatever his captain commands him to.”

Cullen fidgeted and lightly cleared his throat.  “I had dealings with the Champion when investigating Ser Emeric’s death.  He did not seem the sort to—”

“Then you are acquainted with him?” asked Meredith eagerly.  “Even better.”

“Even…?”  Cullen’s brow creased.  “I am uncertain what you would ask of me.”

“What I _require_ of you is to be the templars’ representative.  When the Grand Cleric is unavailable, I will stand in her stead.  For are _we_ not one arm of the Chantry?”

“I… suppose we are,” he said warily.

“It was also suggested that the mages be represented.  I fail to see why, but the Grand Cleric agreed, and therefore my hands are tied,” she said in annoyance.  “To redress the imbalance created by the self-installation of the guard-captain and his Champion, it is only fair that I also represent the mages should Orsino be indisposed.  I will not have the city guard muscling in to claim power they do not merit.  The Chantry appointed Viscount Dumar and it will be the Chantry who decides his replacement.  In the meantime, we must do all we can to maintain a balance.”

Cullen stiffened and made a conscious effort to unclench his jaw.  “I will of course represent the templars to the best of my abilities,” he began.  “However, should you decide to impose yourself in the stead of others, it could be seen as not redressing the balance, but as a grab for power.”

“And would _you_ have the military, along with some elven puppet, rule our city?  With the _mages_ having influence over policy and diplomatic matters?  Perhaps in some wishy-washy, libertarian society this would work, but the reality is, Kirkwall was almost brought to its knees because its leader allowed a foreign power to land here and then declare war on our way of life.  We must never allow that to happen again.  We _must_ be seen to be the army we are.  We cannot allow the city guard to seize power.”

“With all due respect, Knight-Commander, the city guard _saved_ us from the qunari,” said Cullen, unable to hide his indignation.  “Our men and women had the honour of assisting them, but there is little doubt as to who we owe our lives and freedom.  We should be working _with_ them, not against them.”

“I am not suggesting we work against them,” she replied, “only that a _balance_ be maintained.  You will watch for signs of impropriety and report back to me.”

“I am certain no such impropriety will occur,” he said tightly.

“Then you have any easy task ahead of you.”  Her mouth curved upwards in a smile that did not trouble her eyes to crease.  “Unless, of course, you do not feel up to the task.  If that is the case, I will grant this privilege to another.”

“I can assure you, I am more than up to it,” he said, his tone icy.  He took a deep breath.  “Knight-Commander.”

She rose, and he immediately followed.  “To start with, you should formally introduce yourself to Steward Bran and Guard-Captain Hendyr.  As you are already acquainted with the Champion, I will leave further interactions with him to your own discretion.  That will be all.”

His breath held in, he bowed and turned to leave.

“Cullen?” 

He looked back, his superior already seated, her expression troubled.  “You know more than most what mages are capable of.  You have seen them at their very worst, witnessed first-hand the horror and wanton destruction they wield—the power to wreak havoc with a mere thought.  Do you, of all people, truly believe they should have a hand in the running of a city?  Of _our_ city?”

Uldred, the architect of Kinloch Hold’s demise—the man Cullen had tried so hard to forget—came to his mind along with the torture, the demons, the fire and screaming and death, the wicked, immoral and depraved simulacrum of Amell… and how close he’d come to succumbing to both her wiles and the gaping maw of insanity.

“Knight-Captain?”

He worked at steadying his breathing, almost forgetting where he was and who was seated before him.  “No,” he murmured indistinctly.  “I do not believe they should.”

She stood up and came to his side of the desk, her tone sympathetic.  “Then it is vitally important you do not lose sight of our objective.  It was the guard-captain who suggested the mages be given a voice.”  She tilted her head and studied him, though he could not meet her eyes.  “The Chantry’s voice _must_ be the loudest.”

He nodded, his forehead tightening with the beginning of a headache.  “Yes, Knight-Commander.”

“Dismissed.  I will await your first report.”

He left the office, a multitude of thoughts racing through his head.  He could find no argument against what his commander had stated, yet felt weighed down and uneasy. 

Was he being played?  Undoubtedly, but to what end?  The Chantry _should_ retain a large power base within the city, but surely not to the detriment of the city guard, without whom none of them would be alive?

But why would Donnic Hendyr want the mages involved with governing the city?  Could that not be construed as a move _against_ the templars and the Chantry?  A way of fortifying his own position?  Or did he really just want everyone to have a say, with no agenda of his own?

Once Cullen was sure he was alone, he massaged his brow, blowing his cheeks out.   He would return to his quarters, pray to the Lady for guidance, and visit both the steward and the guard-captain at the Keep.  As for the Champion… Cullen had heard he was under the care of Enchanter Verus, so was perhaps not up to visitors.  Instead, Cullen would send Fenris a note of congratulations and wishes for a speedy recovery as a first step.

First, though, he felt an urgent need to splash his face with water.

** The Hawke Residence **

When Fenris awoke, he was propped up on several cushions in Fletcher’s bed—or, rather, _his_ and Fletcher’s bed after Leandra had given her blessing for them to cohabit. 

His body ached like he never believed was possible.  Even his _hair_ hurt.  His left arm was in a sling and his right hand went to his rib cage, which was tightly swathed in bandages.  He moved his jaw, finding it felt stiff due to swelling which extended to his cheek and eye socket.  He could taste stale blood, and after a dig around with his tongue, discovered four of his back teeth were missing.

More than that, there was a heaviness that pervaded his bones, like they’d been removed and replaced with solid iron ingots.  Had he been sedated?  Medicated?  Was it possible the pain he felt would be worse without such intervention?

The bedroom was softly lit, the crackling fire in the hearth the main source of illumination.  Was it evening already?  Looking to his right, he could see Fletcher seated at his writing bureau, where he was mixing various reagents together by candlelight. 

Longing and joy swelled in Fenris’s heart.  It had all been worthwhile because Fletcher was alive. Although the threat of Danarius’s imminent arrival in Kirkwall stalked the darkest region of Fenris’s thoughts, for now they were safe, and they were together.

“Fletcher.”  Fenris’s voice was little more than a croak that scratched his throat, and he coughed harshly, eliciting pain in his chest.

Fletcher jumped up and raced to the bedside.  “Easy, love.  Here, drink this.”  The mage held a mug to the elf’s lips and waited until the coughing had subsided before encouraging him to sip.  The unctuous, minty liquid slipped down Fenris’s throat easily, providing numbing relief.  “Try not to talk too much,” Fletcher advised, perching himself on the edge of the bed and setting the mug down.  “The Arishok bruised your trachea when he grabbed you.  It’ll take a day or two for the inflammation to go down.  The medicine will help, though.”

Fenris eased back among the cushions, reached for Fletcher’s hand and moved it to his lips, softly kissing it and letting it rest on his chest.  In return, Fletcher carefully leaned over him, bringing their lips together for the briefest and sweetest of moments.

“You’ve been asleep for nearly ten hours,” Fletcher said, stroking the elf’s knuckles with his thumb as he sat up.  “If your mouth feels weird, it’s because you’ve had some teeth out.  I had to put you to sleep for that.  Um, while you were asleep, if that makes sense, so you didn’t wake up while the barber-surgeon extracted them.  They fractured when you were kicked in the head,” he clarified with a forlorn sigh.  “We’re lucky your jaw wasn’t broken.  That wouldn’t have been good.”

Fenris squeezed Fletcher’s hand and sent a wink his way, receiving a wink in return as well as a cautious smile. 

“What else is there?  Um… you broke six ribs, which I’ve fixed but will be very sore.  I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that, though.  Your shoulder popped out, fixed that, very sore… you were beaten black and blue, lost four teeth, bit your tongue, so when you _do_ speak, you’ll have an adorable little lisp for a while…”  Fletcher fell quiet, his expression serious as he turned away.

Fenris nudged him and waited until he looked back, again winking at him.

“I thought elves don’t wink?”

Fenris winked with his left, then right eye, alternating both in rapid succession, before going cross-eyed and pretending to pass out.

Tickled and delighted, Fletcher burst out laughing, though his mirth quickly threatened to segue into tears.  Fenris could so easily have died—for _him—_ but he didn’t, a fact Fletcher had to keep reminding himself of.  Biting his lip and gently releasing Fenris’s hand, he stood up and returned to his bureau, where he busied himself with his concoctions.

“If you can smell garlic, then don’t worry—it’s not for you.”  He heaved a sigh and turned back to face his lover.  “Sam Verus is using the house as an extension of the infirmary, for those who can’t be moved to the Keep right away.  He’s here at the moment with his templar.  I’m working on potions and tonics—he said it’ll be good experience for me.  Mother and Merrill are downstairs, rustling up broth and fresh bread for everyone.  L-listen, Fen…”  He stroked his chin and hesitated for a second before returning to the bedside.  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

From Fletcher’s tone of voice, Fenris guessed the news wasn’t good.  He again reached for his mage’s hand, preparing himself.

Fletcher sat down and held tightly onto Fenris’s uninjured hand.  “There’s no easy way to say this, love.  We’ve got Evan Bradley here in one of the bedrooms.  He was… badly injured.”  He looked into Fenris’s eyes.  “I’m afraid he doesn’t have long.”

Fenris blinked several times, a breath stuttering out of him before he swallowed hard.  “Tell me,” he mouthed.

Fletcher glanced downward and took a moment to answer.  “When the Arishok and his men reached Hightown, Bradley took on three of them by himself to protect an injured colleague—Corporal Chester, I believe.  Bradley managed to inflict a fatal wound to one of them, but they… well.  There were three of them, enough said.  Reinforcements arrived, but by then...”  He looked back up at the elf.  “Sam’s made him comfortable and he’s not in any pain but… I’m sorry, love.  I know you were— _are_ —friends.”

They looked at one another for a minute before Fletcher spoke again.

“I’d rather you stayed in bed, but if you want to see him before…  I won’t stop you.  Do you want to do that?  He’s just next door.”

Fenris nodded, gratitude in his eyes.  He reached up, cupping Fletcher’s cheek.   Fletcher kissed his palm and stood up.

“Let’s get you dressed, then.”

After attempting for ten minutes to clothe the upper part of Fenris’s body—and finally giving up after finding it impossible without causing him pain—Fletcher assisted the elf to pull on a pair of breeches.  It was clear Fenris was having trouble holding himself up, let alone standing up, but Fletcher persisted, knowing the elf would not be denied the chance to say goodbye to his friend.

Eventually, with a blanket draped over his shoulders and Fletcher’s arm around his back, Fenris took a few tentative steps, finding his movements became easier as the stiffness caused by not moving for ten hours began to wane.  His pain was no less, but pain was one thing he could endure.

When they arrived at the room neighbouring their bedroom, Fletcher knocked and waited for Sam to answer.  When the healer came to the door he gave Fletcher a disapproving look when he saw Fenris was out of bed—but that quickly faded as understanding came to him.  He invited them in, pulling a chair to the bedside for Fenris to sit upon.

Knight-Lieutenant Pratt was standing in a corner of the room and gave the arrivals a nod.  “Champion.  It’s an honour.  Good to see you up and about.”

Fenris would have protested his new, unwelcome title if he had the energy, or if one of his friends wasn’t lying in bed with the blankets pulled up to his chin, looking like he was already at the Maker’s side.  Bradley’s skin was the colour of vellum, the fine blood vessels beneath clearly visible; his lips were like ash, and his sunken eyes closed.  The rapid, shallow rise and fall of the bedclothes was the only indication he was still alive.

Horrified at the sight, Fenris fixed his eyes upon Sam.  “Was there nothing you could do?” he demanded in a cracked whisper, realising as soon as he’d spoken that it sounded like an accusation.

Sam, not taking offence, shook his head.  “I’d prefer not to give you full details of his injuries but they were extensive, causing massive blood loss.  His body can’t replenish his blood fast enough to carry oxygen to his vitals, which renders any treatment I could provide academic.  To be blunt, he’s shutting down.  Sadly, I can’t replicate blood.  I wish to the Maker I could.  I’ve made him as comfortable as possible… but that’s about all I can do.  I’m sorry.”

Fenris hung his head and exhaled.  “Forgive me.  I did not mean to impugn your abilities, or your care of him.”  His voice grew hoarse and Fletcher placed a finger on his lips, shaking his head.

“It’s quite all right.”  Sam gestured to the bedside, inviting the elf to sit.  “Evan,” he said softly, gently buffeting the stricken man’s shoulder as Fenris was assisted to the chair.  “Fenris is here to visit.  He can’t talk as he’s hurt his throat, but he just wanted to see you.”

Bradley’s head twitched and he made a faint sound, licking his lips to moisten his mouth.  “Fff.”  He frowned as though annoyed with himself, but his eyes didn’t open.  “Fff.  Broud… _p-proud_ … v’you.”

A look of anguish came to Fenris’s face and Fletcher placed a hand on his shoulder.  “And we of you,” he answered for the elf. 

Fenris roughly cleared his throat, determined to say something.  Then he appeared to change his mind, instead attempting to push himself up.  Fletcher placed a hand under Fenris’s free elbow and helped him to his feet.

Fenris then shuffled closer to the bed and started to lean over it, but winced and held his rib cage, his breath hitching.  Fletcher moved behind him and wrapped his arms around the elf’s waist and chest, allowing him to bend with support.

Using his good hand to brace himself, Fenris leaned close to Bradley’s face.  “It’s been a privilege.  Until we meet again, my friend,” he said with difficulty, pressing a kiss to Evan’s forehead before Fletcher eased him back and assisted him to sit.

The door opened, then, and Donnic entered but remained near the doorway, his expression grave.  “Am I too late?” he asked quietly.  “I couldn’t get away until now.”

Sam beckoned him inside, waiting until the guard-captain arrived next to the bed.  “It won’t be long now,” the healer whispered.

“Is he aware that he’s… you know?”

Sam nodded.  “The Revered Mother gave him the Canticle of Trials not long ago.  He’s fully prepared.”

Donnic crouched down, resting his head on his folded arms atop the bed.  “Evan… I know it doesn’t help now, but I wanted you to know you’re a hero to us.  You saved a lot of lives today and Chester’s doing well thanks to you.  I’m going to add your deployment methods to the training curriculum. ‘Bradley’s System’, I’ll call it.”  He sighed, his voice hushed.  “Do me a favour.  Check up on Aveline.  She’ll be glad to have someone to talk about swords with at last.  For bloody eternity.  Rather you than me, mate.”

Bradley rasped a weak staccato laugh, but Donnic was struggling.

“I’ll… I’ll always be grateful to have known you.  Thank you for everything… and for being my friend.”  He lightly patted Bradley’s chest and stood up, his face flushed and pinched.

“Fen, let’s get you back to bed,” Fletcher ventured softly, not really expecting the elf to agree.

Fenris looked up at him, silently shaking his head.

“All right, then.  We’ll stay.”

Evan held on a little longer before slipping away peacefully in his sleep.  Knight-Lieutenant Pratt commended him to the Maker and left for the Chantry after Sam gave his word not to use magic until his return.

Fenris, not wanting to show weakness in front of his captain (and not wanting to cause his friend worry), declined further assistance and used the walls to push himself along to his and Fletcher’s bedroom, but once inside, and with no walls between him and the bed, he accepted Fletcher’s arm to grip.  Once he was settled, and after Fletcher insisted he take some broth, Fletcher and Donnic left him and stepped outside the house for some air.

“How are you doing?” Fletcher asked. 

Donnic exhaled and leaned against the outer wall as they watched the last of the fallen being carried away.  “I never wanted this job, you know.”

Fletcher leaned next to him, crossing his arms.  “You were ‘honoured’ with it because someone you cared about died.”

He nodded.  “I used to know everyone in Darktown and Lowtown.  I knew what books were being run, when the next shipment of smuggled goods was coming in, who was shagging who, which doors I could knock on late at night if I needed a piss or a tot of something to warm me up.  I’ve always been more comfortable working the streets than sitting behind a desk.  Evan should have been captain.  _He_ should be here now, not me.”

Concerned by the despondency in Donnic’s voice, Fletcher turned to him.  “Have you had any sleep at all?”

“Have _you?”_

Fletcher shrugged.  Both men sighed.

“I suppose what I’m trying to say is, Bradley would have been more suited to it,” Donnic went on, his voice a little softer.  “He cut through paperwork like it was butter, and what he did in Hightown today… he was always a great tactician.  It’s funny how things work out.  Actually, no.  It’s not funny at all.”

“Don’t do yourself down,” said Fletcher.  “If Aveline were here in your place she’d be beating herself up, too.  And you’d be telling her not to.  And you’d _mean_ it.”

“The Viscount might not have died if she’d been here.”

“The Viscount was always going to die and you know it.”  Fletcher pushed away from the wall and stood in front of Donnic.  “The way you see it, the city’s leader was killed on your watch, as were a lot of your men and women.  The way everyone _else_ sees it is that the qunari were driven away and the Viscount’s killer brought to justice.  On _your_ watch.”  He held the captain’s arm.  “I know things are bad, but there’s good, too.  As you’ve been up in the Keep all day, you won’t have heard the singing, the chants around the estates.  They’re chanting the Champion’s name—this is the _nobles_ chanting about an _elf—_ and they’re chanting yours as well.”

Donnic gave a wry snort.  “Who’d have thought it?  Mild, unassuming Fenris—the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Fletcher stepped back and raised his eyebrows.  “You’re in big trouble for that, by the way.”

A thin, weary smile spread across Donnic’s face.  “Yes, I know.”  He lowered his voice.  “I didn’t think he had a chance, you know.  But Maker, he’s a stubborn bastard.  It was sheer bloody-mindedness that defeated the Arishok.”

“Tell me about it,” said Fletcher with a fond smile. 

Donnic closed his eyes for a few seconds and inhaled deeply before opening them again.  “You’re right, Hawke, I do need some sleep.  Just a few things to tie up… and I need to appoint a new deputy.  The man I have in mind doesn’t even know about Evan yet.”

“Can I be nosy?” asked Fletcher.

“Sergeant Grant.  He’s a bit abrasive, but the men respect him and he’s a grafter.  Good with paperwork, too.  I think he’ll welcome a change of pace—he’s seen nearly fifty winters and his fighting days are coming to an end.  He’ll be cut up about Evan.  I suppose I’d better go and break the news to him.”

“Isn’t he the horse master?”

“He’s one of two, but he’s had plenty of experience in the field, and has an apprentice who’s more than capable of taking the reins, if you’ll excuse the pun.  I doubt I’ll be able to completely keep him away from his horses, though.  He’ll probably set up his office in the stables.”

Donnic stood up straight and rolled his head on his shoulders.  “The reason I couldn’t get here sooner was because I was in an emergency meeting with Knight-Commander Meredith, Seneschal Bran—or _Steward_ Bran as of this evening—and Grand Cleric Elthina.  There are a lot of changes ahead, and Fenris is going to be in demand very soon.”

“Fenris is?  Why?”

“He saved our city and whether he likes it or not, that makes him a very important man.  Not one of them in that meeting—not even Bran—argued about his new title, not to my face, anyway.  The Champion of Kirkwall could do a lot of good.  This place is overdue for a shake-up.”

Fletcher sucked in air through his teeth.  “He’s not going to like that at all.  I hear what you’re saying, but you know as well as I do that Fenris detests drawing attention to himself—fame is the last thing he’d ever want.  And he _really_ detests flattery, duplicity and political bullshit.”

“That’s exactly why he _should_ have a say in how Kirkwall’s run.  He doesn’t have any real power, not like Bran, Meredith or even me, but he doesn’t want any and that’s the point.  What he does have is _influence._   He’s the perfect spokesman for the people and he’ll have every one of them behind him.  As you said yourself, even the nobles are singing songs about him.”

“Look, Fenris is happy being a guardsman, making an honest living for an honest wage.  Can you really see him hobnobbing with the upper echelons of Kirkwall society?  Please don’t take his job away from him—he lives and breathes it.”

“He won’t need to give up his commission, Hawke, and I wouldn’t let him anyway.  _Sergeant_ Fenris is needed to replace a now-vacant instructor’s position.”

“You’re promoting him?”

“Along with a few others, yes.  We can’t have a lowly corporal as champion, can we?  At any rate, he’s earned it.  I might just have to give him time off once in a while to hobnob with the upper echelons, as you put it.”

Fletcher shook his head.   “He’s no politician.  He won’t tell the gentry what they want to hear—he’ll tell them what they need to know and he won’t pull punches, either.  There are going to be diplomatic incidents, mark my words.”

One edge of Donnic’s mouth stretched into a smirk.  “Like I said, this place needs a shake-up.”

“Fine.  _You_ can be the one to tell him, then, _when_ he’s better.  But don’t be surprised if he goes into hiding.  For now, he needs rest and so do you.  Get some or I’ll put you to sleep myself.”

Donnic’s body slumped as he thought of his bed.  “Oh… Is that a promise?”

“It’s a _threat._ Take it seriously. _”_

Donnic reached for Fletcher’s hand and shook it.  “Get some sleep yourself, Hawke.  I’ll call on you both in the morning.  Ah, here are the reliefs.”

“The what?”  Fletcher turned around, seeing a templar and robed female walking towards them.

“Messere Hawke?” said the templar, stopping in front of him.

Fletcher gave him a blank stare.

“Yes, this is Messere Hawke,” answered Donnic.  “Hawke, this is Knight-Designate Walters and Senior Enchanter Allegra, here to relieve Sam and Pratt.  Knight-Captain Cullen and the First Enchanter were kind enough to arrange replacements for our healers and their templar escorts.  The ones in the infirmary have already been relieved.”

Fletcher blinked.  “Oh, well, in that case… please go inside and make yourselves at home.  You’ll have to excuse me, Knight-Designate.  We’ve all had a long day.”

The templar nodded.  “I understand.  It’s good of you to open your home to the injured.”

Fletcher cleared his throat.  “Am I hearing right?  That the qunari didn’t cross the water?”

“They didn’t get anywhere near the Gallows.  Luckily for us,” Walters gave Donnic an apologetic look, “but… not so luckily for others, the qunari made straight for Hightown.  Captain, we’re all grieved to hear of your losses.  Your men and women’s sacrifices and bravery will never be forgotten.”

“Thank you,” said Donnic with an intake of breath.  “Well, I’d better get back to it.  Everything in order, Hawke?”

“Yes, we’ll be fine.  Thanks, Donnic.  And get some bloody sleep.”

“Will do.”  Donnic walked off, leaving Fletcher with his guests.

“Is it true the _Champion_ resides in your home?”  Walters asked Fletcher with boyish excitement, looking at the upper windows of the mansion.  “Do you think he might…?”

“He’s not receiving visitors,” Fletcher said abruptly, suddenly bent on protecting Fenris’s privacy—he might not have any for long.  “He’s my patient and I won’t have him disturbed.”

 _“Your_ patient?” asked the templar with a frown.  “I thought Samuel Verus was the approved healer here?”

Realising his lapse, Fletcher quickly composed himself.  “The Champion’s a close family friend of the Hawkes.  Samuel tended his injuries, but I’m seeing to him now he no longer requires magical treatment.  He needs complete rest and quiet and I’m being rather a tyrant about it.  I make no apologies for it.”

“Nor should you.”  Walters dipped a nod.  “Please excuse my ebullience.  The whole city is clamouring to meet and share a drink with our saviour, not to mention hear his account of the fight.  I’m certain there will be time once he’s fully recovered.”

Fletcher’s stomach quivered at the thought of how much of an ordeal Fenris’s new-found popularity might prove for him.  “Well, let me take you to Sam.  Um… Senior Enchanter Allegra, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”  She shook Fletcher’s hand, pressing something into his palm.  “It’s a pleasure.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”  He released her hand and closed his own around the mysterious object.  “This way.”

After giving his guests a brief tour and leaving them with Sam, Fletcher found Leandra in the kitchen.  “Mother, the senior enchanter brought us a note from Beth,” he said, passing the unfolded paper to his mother.  “She heard about everything and wanted us to know she’s safe.  We need to write a reply and send it today so she’s not worrying about us.  Do you think you could manage it?  I’m ready to drop.”

“Of course, darling,” said Leandra, smiling as she read the note.  “It’s about time you got some rest.  I’ll find a way to pass something to our healer.”  She folded up Beth’s note and gave her son a hug.  “Maggie will be here soon—she agreed to help out during the night in case anyone needs food or fresh linen.  I believe I’ll turn in myself when she arrives.  Merrill’s gone home for now.”  She stepped back.  “I was sorry to hear about Fenris’s friend.”

“Me too.”  He yawned so hard his jaw made a cracking sound.

“Off you go.  And give Fenris a hug from me.”

“I wouldn’t advise that at the moment, but I’ll keep one in the bank for you.  Goodnight, Mother.” He kissed her cheek.

“Sweet dreams to you both.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

Fletcher made his way to his bedroom and locked the door, finding Fenris awake and tucked up in bed.  “Are you all right?  Have you been drinking that tonic wine I left for you?”

Fenris nodded towards the empty tumbler on the nightstand.  “All gone.”

“Good.  Do you need anything else?  Did you use the chamber pot?  Are you warm enough?”

“No, yes and yes, my dear.”

Fletcher took a few seconds to work that out and nodded.  “Do you need to do number twos?”

“No.”  Fenris patted the coverlet.  “Stop fussing and come to bed.  You need sleep as well.”

“All right.  So long as you’re sure you don’t need anything else.  You _would_ tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“I need nothing but _you._   Come to bed.”  Their eyes met and they shared a brief smile.

Fletcher neared the bed and pulled off his boots, his clothing joining them in a heap on the floor.  As he removed his small clothes, Fenris arched an eyebrow.

“Tempting… alas, my heart enjoys vigour my body lacks.  I look forward to that changing.  Soon.”

Fletcher threw back the bedclothes and virtually head-planted his pillow, his voice muffled when he spoke.  “As do I, love, but let’s get you better first.  And I thought I told you to put a sock in it?  You’re supposed to be resting your voice.”

Fenris crooked his good arm and smiled as Fletcher’s head nestled in his armpit.  He then brought his arm around to encircle the mage’s head in a protective halo, losing his fingers in a mass of chocolate curls. “Indeed you did tell me.  And I chose to defy you.”  

“Champion.”

“Shut up.”

“No, _you_ shut up or I’ll call you ‘champion’ again.”

“Do I smell all right?” asked Fenris, trying to sniff his own armpit over Fletcher’s hair.  “It’s been a day and a half since last I bathed.”

“You’re a bit ripe, but I won’t hold it against you.  I’ll help you bathe tomorrow.  Now stop talking.”

“I love you.”

Fletcher looked up at the elf, adoration in his gaze.  “I love you too… _Champion.”_

“Ugh.”  Fenris closed his eyes, his lover’s soft laughter against his skin warming his weary bones and heart. 


	118. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Was it the markings? The procedure? Is that what you dreamt about?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this will likely be the last update of the year, I'd like to wish all readers a very Merry Christmas if you celebrate it, and a great start to 2016 to you all! Thanks once again for following the story!

** Viscount’s Keep, three days later **

The bodies of the fallen had been cremated, some armour and weapons preserved at the request of Kirkwall’s Historical Society, who now had enough pieces to open a small museum.  Its main exhibits were the Arishok’s battle dress and hammer, but the sword that had ended the Viscount’s life was kept in storage for now out of respect for the city’s former leader.

Commerce was slowly being restored in Lowtown, its market opened the day after hostilities with the qunari—a display of quiet defiance and a poignant one, as many of the original stallholders were dead.

Promotions had been made in the city guard, several of the reserve guard given permanent positions to replace those who’d been lost.  As a result, the regiment now had its own specialist dwarven unit headed by Vonim, one of the surfacers who’d been part of the ill-fated Deep Roads expedition. 

The scouts at the Coast—who ultimately had been the safest of all as the qunari fleet had retreated upon the defeat of the Arishok—had now returned to Kirkwall, their ranks swelled by some of the reserve guard elves, also given permanent positions.

The Templar Order had also suffered losses, although far fewer than those of the guard, which had been mitigated by the fast-track promotion of its most promising knight-designates.

As a city, Kirkwall was well on its way to a return to normality.  All that remained was the first meeting of the Kirkwall Consortium, its chairman the former Seneschal Bran, now steward of the city.

Also present in his chambers were Guard-Captain Hendyr, Knight-Captain Cullen, Grand Cleric Elthina, First Enchanter Orsino, Magistrate Vanard and Fenris, Champion of Kirkwall.  They were seated in a semi-circle around the former Viscount’s desk while the steward read out the agenda.

“Before we begin, I trust you are all acquainted with one another?”  Bran waited while each person nodded or answered in the affirmative before proceeding.  “Although not officially a member of the Consortium, Magistrate Vanard will be joining us to take minutes and to ensure jurisprudence is upheld.”

“I am not here to impinge on your territory, Captain,” the magistrate assured Donnic, “but to consider the wider picture, as it were.  You will not hear from me unless something with legal or diplomatic ramifications is proposed.  The day-to-day maintenance of law and order is your province, and one I do not intend to interfere with.”

Donnic nodded at the magistrate.  “Understood.”

“Now, to the first order of business.”  Bran tapped a stack of papers against the desk and laid them down.  “The apprehension of the thief, Isabela of no fixed abode.  Captain Hendyr, has your investigation yielded anything?”

“There _is_ no investigation. I’ve had more important things to think about, like getting our numbers back up.  She’s gone and she can stay gone as far as I’m concerned.”

“Do you forget that her actions led to the death of the Viscount?” Bran demanded with uncharacteristic heat in his voice.  “Had she returned the book sooner, he might still live!”

“True,” said Fenris, “but her crime was against the qunari, not the city of Kirkwall.  The Arishok alone was responsible for the Viscount’s death, and he was defeated in honourable combat.”

“And grateful we are for your heroic actions, Champion,” interjected Elthina with a kind smile.

Fenris’s jaw set as he fidgeted in his chair.  “I am not in need of acclaim,” he said tersely before softening his voice.  “I am merely reminding everyone that the Viscount’s killer was brought to justice.  The matter is closed.  Continuing to hunt Isabela will accomplish nothing.”

“So she will be allowed to simply walk free?” asked Bran, dismayed.  “She may not have ended Dumar’s life, but she played a significant part in this travesty!”

“I agree with the Champion,” the magistrate said.  “Isabela is a scourge, but she cannot be tried for the Viscount’s murder _or_ the theft of an item that does not belong to the city.  The Viscount and his son’s deaths are tragic, but many more were also lost.  Had the Champion not intervened, the death toll would have been staggering.  As it is, Kirkwall is wounded but not beaten.  Let us concentrate on that which _can_ be fixed.”

“I’ve a list of crimes connected to Isabela as long as my arm,” Donnic stated, “the most recent being the abduction and forced restraint of Hawke and… another citizen.  If she’s stupid enough to show her face here again, she’ll be locked up for a long time.  But I’m not going to chase ghosts while real people are in need.”

Somewhat appeased, Bran nodded and let out a sigh.

“’Another citizen’?” questioned Cullen with a wry upturn of his lips.  “Did you not note their name when rescuing them, Captain?”

“It, uh, escapes me for the moment.”  Donnic looked down, his brow creasing from the effort of not smiling.

“I believe I understand.”  Cullen straightened up in his chair.  “I may be jumping ahead, but I would like to discuss the guard-captain’s proposal to have mages join his ranks.  I am aware that a number of apostates—or ‘other citizens’—fought with the guard to protect Hightown.  I suppose you intend to remain as tight-lipped about them as your deputy did when last I visited him, Maker rest his soul.”

“We had help from all quarters of the city,” Donnic replied evenly, “and I make no secret of the fact that a magi arm would go a long way to making the Kirkwall Guard an unstoppable force.  We’ve taken on dwarves and elves, and we have what I believe to be the best mounted and scouting units in the Free Marches.  A mage contingent would be very welcome, provided any would want to join, and provided the templars would work with us to ensure its success.”

“So you intend to expand your regiment further?” asked Cullen, mindful of his commander’s warning about the balance of power within Kirkwall.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Donnic replied.  “I _intend_ to minimise loss of life if ever the city is threatened again.  I’ll hold my hands up and admit we weren’t prepared this time.  Next time, we will be.  Forty-two of my men and women were lost.  That’s forty-two doors I’ve had to knock on, forty-two wives, children or parents I’ve had to drink tea with while they cried into theirs.  We don’t even have a total yet for the citizens of Lowtown and Hightown.  _You_ lost people, Cullen, as did you, Orsino—I _intend_ to ensure that never happens again.”

Cullen nodded.  “I would not argue with that.  It is largely thanks to you and your men—and the Champion, of course—that any of us are standing today.  But should you wish for mages, particularly apostates to join your ranks, you should know that they will need to willingly submit to the Harrowing, as well as have a permanent templar escort assigned to them.”

“That sounds fair,” said Donnic, turning to Orsino.  “What are your thoughts on this, First Enchanter?”

“I’m intrigued.  There are already success stories aplenty of harrowed mages taking trusted positions in society—Enchanter Verus, for one.  Most royal courts have their own healer or magical advisor.  I have yet to hear a single story of these appointments going awry.”

“I concede your point,” Cullen said, “but never before has a fighting force of mages been proposed.  There are those in the Gallows who _could_ be trusted with such duties, but there are many more who could not.  And I am particularly concerned about talk of allowing apostates into the guard.  Even when harrowed, they remain unknowns.  Before even considering your proposal, Captain, I require that these concerns be addressed to my satisfaction.”

“If I may?” Orsino said.  Meeting with no opposition, he continued.  “Assuming any apostates wish to come forward, I propose they are harrowed _and_ required to reside within the Gallows for a time until you and I are satisfied they are to be trusted,” he said to Cullen.  “It is no different for a templar—there is a ‘settling-in’ period before any are permitted to act as a mage’s escort.  Trust must be earned on both sides.”

There was a lull as Cullen retreated into his thoughts.  “I will bring this to the knight-commander’s attention,” he said after a moment.  “I cannot promise she will agree, but I will ensure she is in possession of all the facts, such as they are.  I have one question, though: how will we announce this without the mages suspecting some sinister motive on the part of the Chantry?”

“An amnesty,” Elthina said.  “Let it be known that all mages who fought with the city guard, and/or those who wish to join their ranks, may come forward safely.  They may approach whomever they feel most comfortable with—be it myself, Captain Hendyr, First Enchanter Orsino or even the Champion before they are introduced to the templars.”

Fenris resisted the impulse to wrinkle his nose, and let her continue.

“Once they have taken the brave step of coming forward, let us reward that bravery by furnishing them with knowledge.  Nothing is to be hidden.  They will be made fully aware of the terms of any arrangement entered into.  As the first enchanter so eloquently stated, trust must be earned on both sides.  We will not trick these people into anything.  Captain,” she said, turning to Donnic, “would these mages receive a stipend for their services?”

“Of course.  They’ll be assigned ranks just like any other guard.”

Elthina smiled at Donnic and then addressed Cullen.  “Please inform Meredith that I endorse this initiative.”

Knowing that would overrule any concerns of Meredith, Cullen felt his gut tighten.  “Yes, your Grace.”

“Are there any objections to these proposals?” asked Bran.

Fenris lightly cleared his throat.  “Not an objection, exactly.  I would merely counsel that circumspection be exercised.  Perhaps a small number of highly-trusted mages at first, to test the waters, as it were.  The population of Kirkwall will need time to adjust to the idea of mages not only moving freely among them, but having the power of arrest over them.”

“I agree,” said Cullen, “though I must confess to being surprised.  I would have thought you would fully back your captain’s plan.”

“I… don’t,” Fenris said hesitantly.  “Not fully.  But he is the captain, not I.”

“Fenris isn’t here on the city guard’s behalf,” Donnic provided.  “I am.  _He’s_ here to represent the people of Kirkwall.  He’s his own man and he’s free to disagree with me.  Except when we’re on duty, of course.”

Fenris forced a smile as polite laughter filled the chamber.  He couldn’t wait for the meeting to end so he could retreat to the safety and relative anonymity of Fletcher’s home.  His lover had not yet deemed him fit enough to return to duty, and a twinge in his ribs reminded him why.  Still, he was itching to don his armour and resume his stint on the Wall, of which he had three days remaining.

More business was discussed, mostly concerning the rebuilding of damaged areas of Lowtown, Hightown Square and the Keep, whose entrance had been temporarily fortified while the Guard’s dwarven engineers designed a new set of doors.  Elthina’s idea of turning the qunari compound into a garden of remembrance was welcomed, although a proposal to erect a statue of the Champion within its walls was met with a blunt and surly refusal from the man himself. 

Finally, the meeting ended.  Fenris waited impatiently while a few goodbyes were said outside the chambers, doing a double-take when Grand Cleric Elthina arrived at his side, wearing a mild smile.

“Your Grace?  Do you require something of me?” he asked as politely as he could.

“Your humility does you credit, Champion,” she said warmly.  “You did not ask for any of this, but it is oft spoken that the unwilling hero is the most beloved.  It is only natural that some will be awestruck when you are seen about town or your name mentioned.  Give the people time to reclaim their lives and embrace that which is mundane. For now, a little hero worship may illuminate the bleakness of their lot.  Have patience, and before long you will reclaim your own life.”

He exhaled and nodded.  “I will try.  Thank you.”

“May I bless you, child?”

“I... am fine,” he mumbled.  “I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Very well.  I will remember you in my prayers.  Until next we meet.” 

“Until then.”  He bowed and watched as she walked away before looking around for Donnic.

On the way back to the barracks, Donnic could sense Fenris was uncomfortable about something and asked him about it.  “You’re not happy about the mage thing, are you?”

“It is not my place to question, Captain.  Except in these meetings, of course.”

“Don’t give me that.”  Donnic halted.  “Look, Grant’s uneasy about it as well, and he’s told me in no uncertain terms.  I respect his opinion and I respect yours.  I need the two of you to tell me if I’m going into this with my eyes closed.”

Fenris shook his head.  “I do not believe so. I _am_ curious, though.  Why now?  Why are you so determined to bring people from all walks of life into the guard?  I am not opposed to the idea—before I joined, the guard was a human-only institution.  I’m simply wondering what is behind your thinking.”

Donnic considered his answer for a moment before frowning.  “It was a wish of Aveline’s.  She wanted to make the Kirkwall Guard the envy of the Free Marches and felt mages were an integral part of that.  Evan was on board with it too. For _my_ part, I want people to look back and say we started something—the easing of age-old tensions between certain races and sections of society.  Although I doubt the qunari will be a part of it during _this_ age.”  He shared a smile with Fenris.  “Maybe I’m being naïve.  Maybe this will all go tits-up, but I’m going to try anyway.  History doesn’t remember those who stand on the sidelines—you’re a testament to that.”

“As I’ve stated on previous occasions, I will always support you,” Fenris said, “but, if you wish it, I will voice any misgivings in an honest and concise fashion… away from Bran’s chambers.”

“I wish it, Fen.  I don’t want history remembering me as a dictator.”

“That seems unlikely.”

They resumed their walk in the direction of the barracks.  “We’ll talk about this more later,” the captain said.  “For now, there are a lot of people who want to see you.”

When they arrived outside Donnic’s office, Fenris endured much back-slapping and shaking of hands from his colleagues.  However, he was glad to see so many of them were safe and could not stop a small, genuine smile from breaking through, though it slipped as he remembered those who were _not_ there. 

After deciding Fenris had had enough of being paraded around for one day, Donnic steered him into the office where Grant—the regiment’s new deputy—and his friend Hunter were waiting.

“Fenris!”  Hunter enveloped the elf in an enthusiastic hug before pulling back.  “Or should that be Champion?”

“No, it should not,” groused the elf.  “I _would_ say I am pleased you live, but if you persist in calling me _that_ , I will be less so.”

“Calling you _that?_ You mean the _Champion?”_

Fenris slapped a hand over his face as his colleagues sniggered.

"I'm sorry I missed the fight," Hunter said. "Sounds like it was a corker. Although I did advise you to _kick_ the Arishok's balls... not to try and pull them off. But far be it from me to argue with the Cha--"

Fenris pointed a chastening finger at Hunter, but struggled to keep a straight face. "Call me that one more time, Darren. I dare you."

Hunter opened his mouth and silently mouthed _Champion._ As Fenris lunged at him, he leapt back. "What? I didn't say a word!"

“All right, enough teasing,” Donnic said, gesturing for the three of them to sit down.  “Fenris, I’d like you to meet Lieutenants Grant and Hunter.”

“Lieutenants?”  Fenris’s expression brightened.  “Then… you have my congratulations.”

“Grant’s our new second-in-command,” Donnic clarified as the elf shook hands with the newly-promoted men.

Grant sighed.  “Not the way I wanted advancement, but I suppose that’s how it works.  Poor Evan.”

“You earned the position,” said the captain, “as Darren and Fenris have earned theirs.”  Donnic opened a drawer in his desk and passed Fenris a pair of small golden epaulettes.  “Have the seamstress sew those on for you, Sergeant.”

Fenris’s mouth gaped open.  “Sergeant?”

Donnic smirked, realising Hawke hadn’t told him.  “That’s right.  This is a position of command.  I’ll fill you in properly when you’re back on duty, but I’m planning on splitting the regiment into several units, all specialising in particular skills.  Your unit will work alongside the dwarves and specialise in two-handed combat.  You’re acquainted with Vonim, aren’t you?”

The stunned elf nodded.

“He’s the regiment’s new maul and hammer instructor.  You’ll be our broadsword instructor.  Vonim’s already thought of a name for his unit—The Ball-Bashing Brigadiers.  I had to take the word ‘bastards’ out of it for the sake of decency, but he reluctantly agreed to the change.  You’ll need to think up a name for your own outfit.  A clean one.”

“I am… to train and command a unit?”

“I think poor Fen needs a lie-down,” said an amused Hunter.

“In tactical terms, splitting everyone up won’t make a lot of difference,” the captain explained.  “I’m doing this for morale.  The regiment lost Captain Vallen not long ago, and more recently we’ve suffered huge losses at the hands of the qunari.  I’m bringing in a lot of new people, some of them from different races, and I don’t want any of my men or women feeling like they’re just a number.  I want each guard to feel part of something special and unique that belongs to _them_.”

“It’s a solid idea,” Grant chimed in.  “There’ll be wrinkles to be sure, but we’ll get them ironed out.”

Nodding, Fenris turned to Hunter.  “And which unit are you to lead?”

“Kirkwall’s 1st Infiltration and Reconnaissance Company,” he said with pride.  “The best company for the finest scouts.”

“A bold proclamation indeed.”  Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “This, from the man who could not track an entire Ashaad unit.  On sand.The qunari are not small.  But I suppose it _was_ rather dark. _”_

“And this from the man whose sword got bent in half, or snapped in half if you listen to Varric.  Can’t train anyone with that thing, can you?  Unless that’s the way elves do it, but I don’t know.”

The friends looked at one another and laughed. 

“Speaking of swords.”  Donnic rose and reached behind one of his wooden cabinets, retrieving a thin, wrapped object, more than four feet long.  He then walked to the front of his desk and presented it to Fenris.  “This is a gift from the city of Kirkwall to its Champion.  Bran wanted to give it to you in the meeting, but I said no.  You probably would have died of embarrassment.”

“This is for me?”

Donnic rolled his eyes.  “Do you see any other champions around here?  Just open the sodding thing!”

Smiling, Fenris stood up and carefully pulled the wrapping away, revealing a very fine scabbard, cunningly fashioned from an interwoven lattice of silver and black metals.  Fenris marvelled at the smooth, unadorned hilt, which warmed in his hands as he stroked its surface.

“Let’s see it, then!” exclaimed Grant, getting to his feet along with Hunter.

Taking a deep breath to still his pounding heart, Fenris slowly unsheathed the huge blade, which glinted with an iridescent sheen as it was revealed.

“That’s everite, if I’m not mistaken.” Grant stepped closer, fascinated with the craftsmanship.

Donnic nodded, a smile on his face at Fenris’s slackened expression.  “It is, but it’s been tempered with stormheart.  Everite’s a bit brittle on its own.”  He pointed at three notches on the hilt.  “You can have it enchanted if you like, Fen.  There’s a very good Tranquil merchant at the Gallows who said he’d do it free of charge.”

“This… this must have cost a fortune,” mumbled Fenris.

“Not a penny.  All materials were donated and labour was gratis.  Nothing’s too good for our hero.  Oh, you’ve an Archdemon scale on its way from Herren and Wade of Denerim—it’s to be secured to the pommel.  Orders of King Alistair, no less.  He’s having something of his own made for you, but it’ll take a while.”

“But I’ve done nothing to merit this,” the elf argued weakly.  “I did not defeat the Arishok for Kirkwall’s sake.  I challenged him to save Fletcher’s life.  My reasons were selfish.”

“Who cares for reasons?” Grant said.  “Look, if you don’t want that sword…”

Fenris snatched his gift away from Grant’s clutches.  “I did not say that.  Hands off.”

Donnic laughed.  “I take it you like it, then?”

Fenris turned the blade over in his hands, a soft light appearing in his eyes.  “I am at a loss.  Never before have I seen the like of this.  I… thank you.  I cannot wait to show Fletcher.”

“He’s already seen it.”

“Has he?”

“I asked him how many jewels should go on the hilt, and what colours.  He said no jewels, no colours.  How many fullers?  None.  Any inscriptions?  Not on your life.  He told me to make it the most boring bloody sword in Thedas.”

“He actually said that?” asked Fenris with some scepticism.

“Not those actual words, no.  He said it should be as simple and elegant as possible.  Nothing flashy.  It _was_ going to be made entirely of stormheart, but he said no to that as well.  Too colourful.”

“He knows me well.”  Fenris smiled faintly as he carefully sheathed the weapon.

“Hm.  Can’t say the smithy was pleased.  He really wanted to go to town on it.  He’s very proud of his fretwork, though.  You’ll see that if and when you get it enchanted.  It’s _inside_ the blade.”

“So long as the word ‘Champion’ is not depicted along its length, I am content.”

“Actually, now you mention it…” Donnic winked at the elf and showed him to the door.  “Get yourself home and tell Hawke to let me know when you’re fit for duty, Sergeant.”

“I feel fit now.”

“Bored is not the same as fit.  I’ll defer to Hawke’s judgement on this.  See you in a few days.”

“Will I be on the Wall when I return?”

“Too bloody right you will,” Grant answered.  “Champions don’t get any special treatment here.”

Fenris dipped a nod in Grant's direction. “Good.” 

~o~O~o~

Fletcher opened the door when Fenris knocked.  The Hawke Residence was no longer being used as an infirmary and Fletcher had given Maggie the day off, knowing that, after Fenris’s meeting, the last thing he’d want was to be fussed over.  Leandra and Varric were at the Gallows now that it was once again open to visitors, so Fletcher and Fenris had the house to themselves.

Fletcher stood back, allowing Fenris to enter, and closed the door.  “How was it?” he asked cautiously.

Fenris stopped dead in the vestibule, his shoulders sagging as he stared ahead.

“That good, eh?”  Fletcher moved to the elf’s side.

“Do you ever tire of hearing how _marvellous_ you are?  How humble and brave and… ugh.  My head hurts from the interminable compliments everyone seems bent upon paying me.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had that problem, love,” Fletcher said with a sympathetic smile.

“Oh.  In that case…”  Fenris turned to the mage.  “I happen to think _you’re_ pretty marvellous, my dear.”

“Well, thanks!  And I happen to think you’re pretty bloody average.  Nothing special at all.”

Fenris groaned in relief.  _“Thank you._ That is music to my ears.  Please keep telling me that. _”_

Fletcher chuckled and wrapped an arm around the elf’s shoulders, kissing his hair.  “Shall I fetch the headache powders?”

“That would be appreciated.”

Fletcher glanced down at Fenris’s hip.  “What’s this, then?  New sword?”

“You know very well what it is.”  Fenris pulled the weapon out of its scabbard, carefully handing it to Fletcher.  “I understand I have you to thank for its design.”

“And…?  Is it—”

“It’s perfect.”

With a delighted grin, Fletcher walked a few feet away and started waving the sword through the air, making appropriate swishing sounds.  “Psshew!  It’s almost as heavy as you are!  Wow, look at the finish when it moves!  Schuum!  It’s beautiful!”

“Put the grownup weapon down before someone loses an appendage,” Fenris mock-warned.  Fletcher immediately complied, holding it out for the elf to take.  Once it was sheathed, Fenris beckoned the smiling mage closer.  “You are quite mad,” he said with a kiss to Fletcher’s chin, “but I find you strangely alluring.”

“Hm?  Whatever you say, poppet.  A bit higher,” whispered Fletcher, bending a little and pointing at his mouth.

“Would that I could oblige, but I have _such_ a headache…”

Fletcher gave the elf a stern look and then a fleeting wrinkle of anxiety appeared on his brow.

“What’s wrong?” Fenris asked.

“I suppose if I’m going to prepare a headache remedy, I may as well make it worthwhile.  There’s something you need to see.  Come on.”

“Where are we going?”  Fenris followed Fletcher into the dining room, which they crossed, reaching the far door.

“You haven’t been in the parlour for a few days, have you?  No, of course you haven’t.  Maker knows I’d have heard about it if you had.”

“Fletcher, what is this about?”

The mage rested his hand on the door knob and sighed.  “Well, I’ll show you.  Brace yourself.”  He turned the knob and stepped inside, watching Fenris for a reaction.

The small parlour was almost filled with crates, chests, vases, cut glass ornaments, expensive-looking occasional furniture, furs, rolled-up rugs and almost an entire rack of fancy (elf-sized) clothing.  Upon further inspection there was a magnificent suit of armour in one corner, far too heavy to wear but undeniably grand, and various swords, shields and custom-made greaves and gauntlets.

Fenris walked around, aghast but fascinated.  “Have you turned to smuggling during my confinement?”

“No.  This is all yours.  Gifts from the noble families of Kirkwall and the Free Marches.  You see those scrolls over there?” He pointed to a small stack of documents atop a table.  “They’re pledges of soldiers and horses if ever you’re in need.  There’re also job offers from the courts of Ferelden, Starkhaven, Wycombe, Cumberland, Ostwick—”

Fenris held a hand up, his eyes closing for a second.  “Enough.”

“I, uh, left a chair here for you to slump into.”  Fletcher guided the elf to the chair, where he did indeed slump.  The mage then knelt between Fenris’s legs.  “I didn’t tell you about this while you were recovering, but you would have seen it sooner or later.  More and more things have arrived each day.  Mother thinks that once the news reaches Orlais, there’ll be even more to come.”

“What am I to do, Fletcher?” asked the elf plaintively.  “I’ve never sought riches or fame.  All I’ve ever wanted is a life of peace and simplicity, but it would seem the fates have other designs.”

“You’re looking at the simplicity right here.”  Fletcher pointed to his own face, smiling when the elf managed a brief laugh.  “As for the peace… I’ll do everything I can to see you get it while you’re at home.  That’s about the best I can do.”

“I know, and I’m grateful for it.”  Fenris reached forward and stroked Fletcher’s cheek before sitting back.  “Am I supposed to write ‘thank you’ letters for all of this?  I do not know how to… what is proper?”

“You don’t need to do anything.  The people are thanking _you._ Like it or not, you’re their hero.”

“But I could understand such a reaction were it in Kirkwall alone.  What do Starkhaven, Wycombe, _Orlais_ have to do with anything?”

“Well, for one thing, you averted an invasion that could very well have spread across the Free Marches and further afield.  Also, don’t forget the importance of appearances.  Starkhaven will have heard Wycombe sent you something and so had to go one better.  And don’t get me started on Ferelden and Orlais.  Oh, the rivalry!  I won’t be surprised if Empress Celene sends you a throne and a retinue of servants.”  He watched as Fenris’s gaze dropped to his lap.  “That _was_ a joke.  I think.”

“But why is this all centred on me?  Why do they not recognise the efforts, the sacrifices made by the rest of Kirkwall?  More than forty of my colleagues are dead, and more still lost in Lowtown.  What of the templars, the mages who fought at their sides?  What of the qunari who fell?  Politics may have deemed them our enemy, but they also fought bravely.  Why ignore everyone else?  I am but one man.”

Fletcher shrugged, his voice soft.  “I don’t know, love.  I suppose there aren’t enough presents to go around.”

“Then I intend to rectify that.”  Fenris thought for a moment, nodding to himself as an idea took shape.  “There is a fund for those left widowed or orphaned.  The city will pay compensation to the guards’ families, but the residents have nothing.  They already live in poor conditions and the weather will turn foul in a month or two.”  He looked up at Fletcher.  “I could sell these items and donate the proceeds to the fund.  Or would that be considered an insult?”

A proud smile spread across Fletcher’s face.  “Do you care?”

“Yes, but not for my own sake.  The nobles of Kirkwall would not have spit on me before recent events, but a gift is a gift.  I do not wish to cause widespread offence, particularly as it may reflect poorly on you and your mother.  I _do_ reside here.”

“Fen, this stuff is pocket change to the nobility.  You _could_ issue a general ‘thank you’ and make it clear that the generosity of the nobles made it possible for you to provide for the people of Lowtown or something.  The nobles would be seen as kind without having to lift a finger.  I think that would satisfy everyone.”

Fenris finally mustered a genuine smile.  “You’re somewhat clever for a mage.”

“I have my moments.  Why don’t I speak to Varric about a public auction?  I’m sure he knows people.”

Fenris wriggled forward in the chair and slid onto Fletcher’s bent legs, holding his shoulders for purchase.  _“Very_ clever, in fact.”

“How’s that headache?” Fletcher asked cheekily.

“Headache?  Who said anything about a headache?”

Biting his lip, Fletcher nuzzled Fenris’s nose, sliding his hands down to hold the elf’s bottom.  “You know, Mother won’t be back for ages.  Varric said he’d take her for lunch after visiting Beth and then she’s going to visit her friend. If you feel up to it, maybe we could…?”

“What?  Have a reading lesson?  It _has_ been a while.”

“Fenris?”

“I know, dear.  ‘Shut up and get up the bloody stairs’.”

“I’m glad your memory’s intact after your recent trials.”  Fletcher gently pressed his lips to Fenris’s, their taste and texture something he’d longed for over the past few days.  Fenris responded with vigour, his hands searching beneath Fletcher’s tunic, aching to touch his beloved’s warm, soft flesh.  Before long, their clothing and Fenris’s new sword—unwanted impediments to their needs—were carelessly discarded on the floor.

They didn’t make it as far as the stairs.

…Until a little later, when they dragged their weak and spent bodies up to their bedroom.  Flopping into bed, they pulled the coverlet up and dozed off.

Fletcher woke first, his dreams disturbed by something he couldn’t quite place.  It was still light outside, probably late afternoon.  He yawned, mindful of not waking Fenris, when a series of loud bangs from below jolted him.

“Maker!” he hissed as Fenris began to stir.

“What… who _is_ that?” the elf mumbled through a yawn of his own.

Fletcher’s head fell back to the pillow as another loud rap sounded at the front door.  “That doesn’t sound like Mother’s knock.  Not that she’d knock, because she has a key.”

Fenris was up like a shot and stood naked at the window, though his modesty was preserved by the sill.  “There’s a guard at the door. I think it’s Darren.”

“Fenris!  Hawke!” yelled a deep voice from outside.  “If you’re home, open up!”

“That’s Donnic.”  Fletcher sprang up, looking for his trousers and then remembering they were downstairs.

Fenris slid the window up and leaned out.  “A moment, Captain!” he called down.

“Shit,” Donnic was heard to mutter upon spotting the elf’s bare torso.  “All right, take your time.”

“I’ll send your clothes up.”  Fletcher jogged downstairs, threw Fenris’s clothing up onto the balcony and quickly dressed himself. 

When he opened the door, Donnic and Hunter were there, both looking awkward.  Donnic cleared his throat.

“Sorry if we’ve… you know.  Disturbed anything.”

“You didn’t.  Come in.  What’s going on?”

As they entered, Fenris came down the stairs, his shirt inside out.

“Can we sit down somewhere?” Donnic asked the couple, who looked at each other before leading the guards to the library.  Once there, they all sat, but Donnic immediately stood up and started to pace.  “Darren just told me Danarius is on his way to Kirkwall.  Why… why didn’t you say something?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It did not occur to me,” said a confused Fenris.  “With the qunari situation, you had quite enough to deal with.”

“But if I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone and proclaimed you the bloody Champion, would I?  Now everyone knows who you are and _where_ you are!”  He shook his head.  “The whole point of you joining the guard was to keep you anonymous and I’ve gone and ruined it.  I just… got caught up in the moment.  Maker, I’m sorry.”

Fenris stood up, moving to stand in front of Donnic.  “Danarius already knows where I am.  I will no longer run from him.  Let him come.  I do not fear him.”

Fletcher’s eyes met those of Hunter and, in that instant, both men knew how hollow Fenris’s words were.

“Fen.”  Having gained the elf’s attention, Hunter sat forward.  “That old mansion where you used to live?  The one Varric filled with traps?”

Fletcher held his breath.

“The patrol for Hightown Estates reported the front door was ajar.  I took some people to have a look.  Someone’s been inside.”

“No, it’s too soon,” Fletcher said to Fenris, rising to his feet. “Varric’s best estimate put Danarius’s entourage ten days out… six days ago.  There’s no way he could be here already.  Maybe… maybe it was kids messing around?  Maybe the qunari trashed the place?”

“Listen to me,” Hunter said in a grave tone.  “Those traps weren’t triggered.  They were _dismantled_ by a professional. _Today_. We know it was one person because there was a trail of footprints thanks to the flour on the floor.  That person… I believe they left a message.”

“What do you mean?” Fenris demanded, his blood running cold.

“This.”  Hunter produced an envelope with a broken seal.  “It was left on the floor at the end of a set of footprints that led nowhere.  It was deliberately placed there so we’d find it.”

“What’s in it?” Fletcher asked, dread in his voice.  “A letter?”

Hunter shook his head.  “A drawing.  Fen, I need to know if this means anything to you.”  He passed the envelope to the elf, who stared at it for a moment before opening it and pulling out a single piece of vellum.

Fletcher immediately noticed the change in Fenris’s demeanour and moved to his side.

On the paper was a charcoal tracing of a wolf.

Fletcher grabbed the paper, screwed it up and threw it at the nearest wall.  “Bastard!”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then,” said Hunter soberly, looking in concern at Fenris, who remained still, staring unblinking at the floor.

“If Varric’s estimate is correct,” Donnic joined in, “then I’d guess this was a forward scout, sent ahead to see what’s what, or maybe to intimidate Fenris.  Whoever it was, they’re gone, but I’ve got eyes on every tavern.  They’ve got to be staying somewhere. I’m posting guards at the front and rear of your house, and neither of you are to go anywhere without an escort.  I wouldn’t put it past this Danarius to get to Fenris through you, Hawke,” he said to Fletcher.  “You might want to move your mother somewhere safe.”

Fletcher sighed.  “I will.  Thanks, Donnic.”

“We’ve been in contact with the templars,” Hunter added, “who were _very_ interested that a magister’s coming to visit.  They’re doubling their patrols in Hightown.  I should also tell you that there’ll be an extra templar and a battlemage in guard uniform patrolling outside.  I appreciate this might make things difficult for you, Hawke.”

“I don’t care.  I’ll just refrain from casting for now.”

“See to it our people are in place, Darren,” ordered Donnic.  “I’m going to make sure the templars hold up their end.”

“Yes, Captain.”  Hunter saluted and glanced at Fenris, who remained very quiet.  _“You_ may not fear him, but we’re your friends.  We won’t let him get to you—that’s a promise.”

“I’ll be back to check on you both later.”  Donnic watched the couple for a beat before following Hunter out.

Fletcher placed a hand on Fenris’s shoulder and they waited until the front door was closed.

They didn’t move or speak for a while.

** Later that night **

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Varric inched along the cold, dank, stone wall, ducking beneath a lit torch.  Looking over his shoulder, he beckoned to Hawke, who nervously followed two paces behind.  After a minute or so, the dwarf happened across the final cell in the block—the only one occupied—and held a hand up signalling for Hawke to halt.

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The occupant of the cell was seated on the floor, knees drawn up to his chin, head bowed.  He was naked save a filthy loincloth and was manacled not only around the wrists and ankles, but the neck.

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“Hawke… stay back a second, okay?”

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“It is _him?_   We’ve had so many disappointments, I don’t think I could bear it if—”

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“Just… stay there.”

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The overwhelming stench of stale urine assaulted Varric’s nose as he peered into the cell, his torch bringing the numerous lesions and festering sores on the prisoner’s skin into sharp focus.

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“Hey,” he said softly.

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The prisoner’s head whipped up, something feral in his eyes as he scooted backwards, the chains around his neck snapping him to an abrupt halt.

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“Just take it easy there.  I’m not gonna hurt you.  Can you see me okay?  It’s Varric.  Varric Tethras.”

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The prisoner’s emaciated chest was heaving, his mouth agape, terror and murderous rage written across his gaunt face.

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The dwarf looked back at Hawke.  “Maybe his eyes need to adjust to the light.  Give him a minute.  _Stay there_ , okay?”  He then faced the incarcerated man again.  “Hey.  We’ve come to get you out of here.”

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The prisoner didn’t move a muscle, his breathing halted, his eyes huge.

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“Danarius came for you.  Stole you right out from under our noses.  Do you remember that?  It’s been almost a year.  It took us that long to find you.  We never forgot about you.  It’s time to go home.”

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“Home?”  The prisoner’s question was barely a whisper, his voice cracked with dehydration and fear.

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Varric nodded and squatted down, bringing himself almost to eye level with the elf, trying not to recoil from the smell of piss and rotting flesh.  “Home.  Kirkwall.  Where you’ll be safe.  Danarius is dead, finally.”

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“Maker, it’s really him!” 

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“Hawke!” Varric scrambled to his feet to stop his companion’s approach but it was too late: Fletcher was in front of the cell, slowly sinking to his knees, his hands sliding down the rusted bars.

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“Fenris.”  Hawke’s voice was cracked too, but with guilt, horror, pain.  “Oh, my love… what has he _done_ to you?”

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Varric watched as his friends’ eyes met, confusion and grief reflected in both.

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“How do you know my name?” asked Fenris warily.  “Who _are_ you?”

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Hawke’s face slackened, his mouth moving slowly at first and building to a tremor; shaking his head repeatedly, he rose to his full height, his face creasing until it was barely recognisable.  He started backing off, only to meet the opposite wall and he turned away, covering his face with his hands as he bent double, unable to hold himself upright.

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“Forgive me if I have displeased you,” Fenris said dully, realising one of his visitors was a human mage.  “How may I serve you, Master?”

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“No,” Varric whispered, his eyes closing.  “Oh, no.”  This wasn’t the Fenris he knew.  This wasn’t even the Fenris he’d known the first time they’d met— _this_ Fenris was compliant, docile… biddable.

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Trained, broken, like a fucking animal.

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“In the Maker’s name, _why?”_  Hawke shouted at the low ceiling. _“_ What has he ever done to deserve—” He fell to his knees, balled fists pressed hard into his eyes as he wailed, the bottom falling out of his world.

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Fenris looked on impassively.

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A year of false starts and misinformation, of raised and dashed hopes, of wretched guilt and despair, promising clues and dead ends, all leading to this…

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Varric stepped closer to Hawke but hesitated, not quite knowing what to do or say.  “We’ll fix this.  We’ll… I don’t know.  We’ll find a way, okay?  Let’s just… let’s get him out of here.  Let’s get both of you out of here.  Come on.  I’ve had enough of this place to last a lifetime.”

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Fenris’s eyes snapped open.  He was in bed.

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His breathing was erratic, his stomach in a tight knot, his hair damp and stringy.  He turned to his side, seeing in the moonlight that Fletcher was awake, propped up on one elbow, watching him with fear in his eyes, though he did not speak at first.

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“Fletcher.  I…” He roughly cleared his throat, pushing up to a sitting position.  “I’m fine.  Just…”  His heart was palpitating, a fine tremor travelling through his body as the urge to flee came upon him.

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But to where?  He was the safest he could possibly be, here in this house and with this man.

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Fletcher also sat up, careful not to force his proximity on the elf even though he longed to comfort him.  “Was it… the markings?  The procedure?  Is that what you dreamt about?”

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Fenris gave a quick nod, swallowing hard as guilt tightened his throat.  He hated lying to Fletcher, but thought that if he didn’t say it out loud he might not feel as bad.

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He was wrong.

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“Excuse me, dear.”  Fenris got out of bed, crossing over to the window, which he pulled half-open.  Taking in a lungful of air, he noted the extra guards at the front of the property, but his eyes lingered on the dark corners of the courtyard, and wondered who or what might be lurking there.

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He heard the quiet movement of blankets and felt Fletcher’s presence behind him, could smell the scented oil that still clung to his lover’s skin after they’d bathed that evening.  They _had_ attempted to bathe together but it had turned into a fiasco, resulting in half the bath water being displaced onto the floor and Fenris’s stomach muscles hurting from laughing so much.

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His new life was a blessed one, full of joy and love and tiny miracles that most people would take for granted.  He could be a cantankerous bastard at times, but he was undeniably the happiest he’d ever been.

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How easily that happiness could be stolen from him.

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“I can’t… I can’t lose this,” he rasped.  “I cannot lose _you._ I _will_ not.  I _will n…_ ” He shook his head, unable to say more.

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“Oh, no, no, darling, don’t.  Please.”  Gentle fingers caressed Fenris’s taut, clammy back and he was pulled against Fletcher’s chest, the mage’s skin like home.

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Fenris pressed his nose into Fletcher’s collarbone, his fingers digging hard into the mage’s arms as he fought to maintain his composure.  Fletcher was the only person he’d ever been able to let his walls down with, but doing so here fully—succumbing to the intense fear he felt—would only worry his beloved further and he was not about to do that.

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Fletcher looked over Fenris’s shoulder, a deep, primal burning originating in his belly and rising up inside him.  His nose twitched as he thought of the maniac who continued to torment Fenris from afar.

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He cupped Fenris’s face in his hands, but the elf could not look at him.

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“You gave me your word that the Arishok wouldn’t harm me,” Fletcher said, his voice strangely calm.  “I know I’ve broken my word to you in the past.  I know I’ve let you down sometimes.  But you promised to marry me once Danarius is dead and you’ve never broken a promise.  I may not be a mighty warrior or even a decent mage, but I’ll think of something.  I will not be denied the opportunity to arrange the flowers at my own wedding and flounce around in a gaudy suit.  And let’s not forget the buffet.”

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Fenris spluttered against Fletcher’s neck, his breathing easing a little.

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Fletcher, still holding Fenris’s face, nudged the elf’s head upward.  “I love you.  You’re going to be my husband.  Danarius will not be invited to the wedding because he won’t live that long.  If ever you believe anything I say, believe me now,” he said, his tone turning deadly.  “My heart belongs to you and he will _not_ have it.  I give you my word, with every bone in my body.  I swear I will _not_ let you down this time.  Tell me you believe me, Fen.”

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The elf looked up, his eyes full of uncertainty, finally meeting Fletcher’s and seeing something he’d never seen before in them.  “I… believe you.  I believe you mean what you say.”

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Fletcher steered Fenris away from the window and shut it before pulling the drapes closed.  “How about that reading lesson?” he asked softly.

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“In the middle of the night?” a still-shaken Fenris said sharply before holding his hands up.  “Forgive me.”

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Fletcher was doing what he always did—instead of adding fat to the fire, he quashed it completely with humour or by changing the subject.  When they’d first met, Fenris found this strange and even annoying, but now it was one of the many quirks he loved about his mage.

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“Mother’s at Gamlen’s so we needn’t worry about waking anyone,” Fletcher said without reacting.  “I’m going to go downstairs, get some tea and biscuits and a couple of books.  Let’s live dangerously and get crumbs in the bed at 3am.  How does that sound?”

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“It sounds… wonderful.”  Fenris gave a pained smile as Fletcher pointed to the fireplace.

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“Why don’t you light a few candles while I’m gone?  I won’t be long.”

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“Yes, all right.  I… be careful.”

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His heart sinking, Fletcher laid his hands on Fenris’s shoulders.  “We’re surrounded by guards.  They checked the house from top to bottom before we locked up, remember?”

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Fenris quickly nodded.  “I am being foolish.”

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“It’s allowed.”  Fletcher kissed Fenris’s forehead and went to the door, glancing back to see the elf crouched next to the fire, looking so small and fragile.  Hard to believe he’d killed a man five times his size only a few days before.

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He knew Fenris had lied to him about the dream and he also knew how wretched that lie would make the elf feel.  Fenris had dreamed about the procedure before, but was usually irritable afterwards, hence Fletcher’s caution when questioning him about it.

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This, though… this had been something different altogether.  Perhaps a buried memory had surfaced, or maybe Fenris was just overwhelmed by the incessant adulation of the new Champion, something he would never feel he deserved.

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Whatever it was, Danarius had come close to breaking the man Fletcher loved more than his own life.  But he knew he could not give into recklessness this time, for Fenris’s sake.

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Fletcher was going to break Danarius when they met.  And he would do it deliberately and slowly with no risk to himself—Fenris could not marry him if he was dead.

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Deliberately and slowly.

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He slipped out of the bedroom and headed for the kitchen in search of the extra-large teapot.

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	119. Cold Light of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dark smile graced the warden's face. "Old habits die hard."

**The Hawke Residence, the following morning**

At any other time, Fletcher and Fenris having the house to themselves would result in a fun, if indolent, morning full of nug wrangling, general horseplay and a little petting, if not an impromptu sojourn to the bedroom (or parlour floor).

As Fletcher peered out of one of the dining room windows from behind the drapes, however, he suspected it would be a while before the rare and precious sound of Fenris's laughter was heard again. The night before, they'd read to each other until the sun rose in an attempt to distract their minds from turning to darker thoughts. After, they'd pretended to sleep for an hour or two, neither man wanting to worry his lover, before Fletcher had risen to prepare breakfast.

It had been a polite and stilted affair, during which they'd discussed the weather and how Fenris was looking forward to returning to the barracks. No mention was made of Fenris's dream and the almost-sleepless night both had endured. Their meal now sat half-eaten and cold on the dining table.

Even the nugs knew something was up and both creatures, even the irrepressible Tufty, had behaved themselves thus far. Their masters were quiet and apart within the house as opposed to together, while the one with white hair was even more tense and irritable than usual. Both animals had decided that staying out of the way was the best bet, and occupied themselves in the kitchen in the hopes of finding a few scraps, even though their food bowl was full.

Fletcher sighed and let the drapes fall back into place before glancing through the dining room doorway and up the stairs. Fenris was in the middle of a _second_ security sweep of the house, something he used to do in the old mansion, and something that now greatly saddened Fletcher because it was a huge step backwards. Fenris had come so far on his personal journey, but for all his claims to the contrary, he was terrified of his master's return and the thought of losing his new life.

All attempts at levity on Fletcher's part had so far fallen flat. He'd privately predicted as much but, feeling as helpless as the elf, levity was about all he could offer the man he hoped to marry when— _if_ —this latest obstacle was overcome. And what a bloody great big obstacle it was.

In less than a day, Fletcher had witnessed Fenris regress from a courageous, wise, gentle and witty man to the suspicious, humourless, intransigent elf he remembered from more than six months ago. It would only be a matter of time before the regression worsened, bringing hostility, paranoia and self-loathing to the party. Fletcher only hoped the elf's former all-encompassing hatred of mages and magic would not resurface.

He'd come _so_ far.

“Out! Yes, you as well! Do not pretend you cannot hear me!”

A loud crash accompanied Fenris's barked orders and Fletcher strained to localise the source of the noise, deciding it had come from the vicinity of the kitchen. Once there, he found Fenris's new sword propped against a wall and the elf, sleeves rolled up, chasing after the nugs with a thunderous expression on his face.

“Tufty! Come here!” shouted Fletcher. The nug immediately ambled towards him, tail swishing. Fletcher then went over to Sprinkles, picked him up and placed him at the entrance to the kitchen, shooing both animals out. “Go on, now. I'll come and play with you in a bit.” He closed the door and looked around for Fenris, who'd disappeared. “Love? What are you up to?”

“Attempting to organise this shambles of a larder,” came the irritated reply. “It's a wonder your housekeeper can find anything in here.”

Fletcher approached the larder but did not enter and stood at its entrance. “Maybe Maggie likes it that way? It _is_ her larder and she's never had any problems before.”

Fenris's head popped up from behind a large sack of flour. “Then she will have _fewer_ problems when I'm finished. Did you need me for something?”

“No, no, not really.” Fletcher paused, the resulting silence making him uncomfortable. “Um... how did your security check go?”

“You are humouring me,” said the elf tightly. He then looked at Fletcher— _really_ looked at him—and sighed at the mage's worried expression. “It... went well. Thank you for asking. If you'll excuse me, I need to get on with this.”

“You really don't have to, you know. Why don't we—”

“I said I _need_ to.”

Holding in a sigh, Fletcher nodded. “All right, I'll leave you to it.” Suspecting an offer of help would be declined, the mage turned to leave, hearing a groan from behind him.

“Fletcher.” Fenris clambered over the heavy sacks and stood at the larder door, waiting for Fletcher to turn back to him. “You are concerned, I know this, yet you continue to be _yourself._ And you are here, at my side. You truly have no idea how important those things are to me. I may... act strangely over the coming days. Please know, Lux Mea, that my love for you has not waned... nor will it ever.”

“I know that.” Fletcher watched as Fenris went back into the larder without saying another word. “I'll see you a bit later.”

Fending off the nugs as he left the kitchen, Fletcher walked back to the main part of the house, wondering what he was going to do with himself. That question was answered for him when a loud knock came at the front door. His stomach lurched for a second but then he remembered the guards that had been posted around the house.

First checking there _was_ a guard at the door, he opened it, finding a dwarf he was not acquainted with, who was wearing guard-issue heavy plate armour.

“Atrast vala, Hawke.” The dwarf nodded once in greeting. “Name's Ira of House Folgrund, former Warrior Caste, most recently of the Ball-Bashing Brigadiers. It's an honour to protect the Champion and his, uh... whatever _you_ are. I don't know what they call it Topside. We got a name for it in Orzammar, but it ain't complimentary.”

“Yes, there are a few names for it up here as well.” Fletcher shook the guard's hand. “That's a distinguished, if long-winded, job title you have there.”

Ira grunted in mild disapproval. “Ain't it just? Vonim says we gotta be polite for the sake of the humans and elves, with them being all _genteel_ and likely to get bent out of shape over everything.”

“I think you'll find that's the nobles he's referring to.” Fletcher lowered his voice. “Between us, you might make some friends if you drop the polite act around the nobles.”

The dwarf smiled with his eyes, as his mouth was obscured by a veritable shrubbery of a beard. “Oh, yeah? I'll remember that! Anyhow, I got some mage here wanting to see you. Says he's a friend of yours. Andreas, I think it was. Looks like he'd faint dead away if I so much as farted in his direction. Can we let him through?”

“Anders? Uh, I suppose so. Where is he?”

“'Round the corner. I ain't lettin' no one by without your say-so.” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Send his ass over here! Hawke said it's okay!”

After a moment Anders appeared, looking drawn and tired, his hesitant smile at Fletcher not returned.

“How's life on the surface working out?” Fletcher asked Ira while Anders twiddled his thumbs.

“Apart from the fact all human women are shaped funny and I'm going Stoneblind? All right, I guess. Not sure I like this 'not being drunk on duty' rule, though. Had to limit myself to two sodding flagons before breakfast. Two! Still, they're paying me to beat up idiots, and the food's edible, at least. Sure do miss nuglet, though.” He peered behind Fletcher at Tufty and Sprinkles, who were frolicking in the vestibule. “You plannin' on breeding those two?”

“They're both male.”

Ira looked horrified. “Then why the hell are they running around your house, stinkin' up the place?”

Fletcher shrugged, finally smiling. “They're my pets.”

“ _Pets?”_ Ira shook his head and stomped off, grumbling to himself. “Best of the vein to ya, I guess. Sodding soft-headed humans.”

“Thank you, Guardsman!” Fletcher called after him before inviting Anders inside.

At that moment, Fenris, having heard conversation at the front of the house, arrived in the vestibule, sword in hand. He halted abruptly, fixing Anders with a black look.

“Everything's fine,” Fletcher reassured him. “It was just one of the guards. Anders has come for a visit.”

“So I see.” The elf sheathed his sword, but did not take his eyes off Anders. “You know where I am if you have need of me.”

“Thanks, love. I'm sure we'll be fine.”

With a quiet huff, Fenris returned to the kitchen.

“Well, _he's_ as warm and welcoming as ever,” remarked Anders. “Has he been arrested or something? What's with all the guards outside?”

“Are you aware that half of those 'guards' are templars masquerading as guards?”

“What?” Anders moved to a window next to the door and warily peered out.

“There's a battle mage as well. Not sure who, but the ginger one's a bit skinny. Probably him.”

“What's going on, Hawke?” A nervous-looking Anders glanced over his shoulder. “Why didn't any of them stop me?”

Fletcher nodded towards the drawing room, waiting until Anders followed him. “They're Cullen's men. I'm guessing he's told them to lay off. I've stopped casting for the time being. Now, I'm fetching water from the well like everyone else.”

“Yes, yes, but _why_ are they here?”

Fletcher crossed his arms. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Been a while.”

Anders exhaled. “It has. I suppose I... I was thinking about you when the qunari started attacking. You were up here and I was in Lowtown. I wish we could have worked together like we used to. I know things have been strained between us, I just miss the old days. I'll admit it—I'm lonely, and you always could make me laugh. Justice doesn't really share my sense of humour, or any sense of humour, come to think of it.”

Fletcher sat down and invited Anders to do the same. “I hear you had your hands full in Lowtown.”

“I did, but I managed. Would have been good to have you there, but I know you were caring for Fenris. How is he? I don't imagine he came through _that_ fight with naught but a couple of scratches.”

Fletcher knew Anders didn't really care about Fenris, but kept his tone even when he answered. “He had the shit beaten out of him, as you'd expect. He's doing a lot better.” He almost added 'physically, anyway' to that, but was wary of telling Anders too much until he knew what his motivations were.

Anders nodded. “He's a strong one, all right.” He then sighed and clasped his hands together. “I'll get to the point. I want you to come and work at the clinic again. You've put your own money into it and you should be involved. We could start up your training and I promise not to be an arse about it this time. No strings, no weirdness. What do you say?”

Fletcher sighed. “That's a nice offer, but Sam Verus is tutoring me now.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Anders said immediately and, apparently, sincerely. “He's a fantastic healer and has a lot of experience under his belt. How do you get on with the practical work, though?”

“We can't do any practical. That templar of his is always hanging around.”

“That's what I thought. Maybe that's where I can help you.”

“Oh?”

“You could still go to Sam for your tuition and, if you wanted to, maybe help out at the clinic whenever you can. Once a week, we could go out of town and do your practical there, where there are no templars. We could work on your primals, too. Healers still need to defend themselves. From what I remember, Sam eschewed his primal studies at Kinloch Hold in order to concentrate on his healing.”

“But what could I practise on? There's no point healing something that doesn't need to be healed. I won't learn anything that way.”

“How about we go to the foot of the Vinmarks? There are always wild cats and wolves about. If they attack us we'll fight back, but not kill them. We could heal them and put them to sleep until we've gone. And if we're not attacked, we're bound to find an injured creature or two—there's a lot of territorial disputes between rival packs up there.”

“Sounds a bit dangerous,” said Fletcher dubiously.

“Well, maybe, but I'll protect us, and we can work on your fortification and barrier magic while we're at it. We can't do practical application without live subjects.”

“How did you do practical in the Circle, then?”

Anders's expression soured. “The templars would come in with injuries from their sparring sessions sometimes, but... at Kinloch Hold they bred mice and voles for that very purpose. They were injured deliberately for us to heal. I hated that part.”

“I... I didn't know that,” Fletcher mumbled.

“There's a lot people don't know about life in the Circle,” said Anders irately. “One of the templars did the actual wounding. He'd take a knife and cut them, or hold them under water for a bit. If he was in a bad mood he'd just whack them against the edge of a table. Showed no emotion at all. Of course, we were highly motivated to heal the animals quickly, especially when they squealed in pain. Unfortunately, not all of them could be saved.” He shook his head, his nostrils flaring. “At least _we_ won't need to do that.”

“Bloody hell, Anders. I can see why you wanted to get away from there.”

“I suppose there was no other way, and at least they didn't injure people. It was just the way it was done, you know? I remember that templar—nasty piece of work. Still, he got what was coming to him when Uldred staged his revolt. They tortured the bastard. That was when I made my final escape attempt, and I stayed escaped that time.”

“I'm glad you did, for your sake.”

“Me, too. So, what do you say, Hawke? Can we try to forget all the unpleasantness? I know I've been the cause of most of it and I just... well, there's nothing like almost being slaughtered or converted to the Qun to make you realise how few friends you have. Varric also had a word with me and made me think about a few things.”

Fletcher sat back and studied Anders for a moment. “Tell me one thing, then, and I want an honest answer. If you lie to me, I'll know.”

Anders frowned. “All right.”

“This visit of yours has _nothing_ to do with Fenris being Champion?”

“What do you mean?” said Anders readily, but there was wariness in his eyes.

“Fenris now has access to the most powerful people in Kirkwall—in fact, he _is_ one of the most powerful people in Kirkwall. What he says has a lot of clout. You've always had an agenda, and you can't deny that being 'in' with the Champion's closest friend can't hurt furtherance of that agenda. I know some consider me a fool and, most of the time, they're right. But don't underestimate me when it comes to the people I love, Anders.” Fletcher pointed ahead. “Now tell me the truth or walk through that door and _never_ come back.”

Startled by Fletcher's acuity, Anders considered trying to lie his way through, but even the thought of it made him feel exhausted. He closed his eyes for a second, his posture slouching, before he looked up at Fletcher. “The truth? All right—Justice told me I need to get back in your good books because you're popular, and yes, also because of Fenris. Wait a minute.” He quickly held a hand up when he saw Fletcher was about to interrupt. “Let me explain. Justice has 'advised' me to do things before, and sometimes I've refused. He... doesn't like it when I do that, and he lets me know.”

“Lets you know? How?”

“Let's just say I get the message. Leave it at that. What I'm trying to say is, Justice gave me a nudge to come here, but I came for my own reasons, too.”

Fletcher sat back, crossing his arms. “And why is Justice so interested in me and Fenris?”

“Because he thinks it'll be good for me to have influential friends. As for me, I just want a friend. I don't care about influence. I miss you. When I heard you were treating people in Hightown with Sam, I... felt jealous. I don't want to be like that.” He shrugged. “I want to start smiling again, and you used to make me smile a lot. So, yes, I do have an agenda, but I'll help you in return. I can teach you things Sam can't, simply because of his situation. And maybe in the middle of all that, we can try to rekindle our friendship.”

“That's all well and good,” Fletcher said in a firm voice, “but I'm making it clear right now—to you _and_ Justice—that I won't allow either of you to use Fenris _or_ my sister. Yes, I remember that conversation we had about getting Beth involved in Gallows politics. I warned you then and I'm warning you now—they are _not_ part of your agenda. Remember that and we'll be fine. Forget, and you'll have a bigger problem on your hands than lack of friends. You'll make enemies of both me _and_ the Champion.”

“Then I consider myself warned.” Anders offered his hand to Fletcher, who hesitated before shaking it. “I want you to know I never wrote to Beth. I asked Ruben to look into things instead, but I haven't seen him for a while. Anyway, you don't want to hear about that. As for Fenris, I doubt he even _needs_ you to protect him, but that doesn't mean I'm unaware of how protective you are. I want us to be friends again and I'd be stupid to try anything. I know this is my last chance.”

“Yes, it is. But... I suppose you've been honest about what Justice wants. Fenris won't be happy about this, though.”

“Then don't tell him.”

“I tell him _everything._ Let's get one thing straight—Fenris doesn't like or trust you, but he's never tried to pressure me into feeling the same way because he knows I care about you... or used to. And that's the only reason he leaves you alone. If you play games with us, that might change. As you said yourself, he's very influential.”

“I understand,” Anders said soberly.

“I'll contact you in a few days' time.” Fletcher stood up and Anders followed. “We've got some things going on here and I'll be tied up until then.”

“Is that why there are templars outside?” Anders waited for an answer that didn't come. “I'm not trying to pry, I just want to know if you need any help.”

Fletcher sighed. Being severe and unyielding didn't come naturally to him. Before meeting Fenris he would have sung like a bird, but his time with the elf had taught him to be more cautious. He thought back to their pursuit of Hadriana and how horribly Justice's presence had complicated matters. Danarius _was_ going to die and Fletcher would suffer no interference from anyone. “It's not something you can be involved in,” he said. “It's nothing _personal._ Know what I mean?”

Anders watched him for a moment and answered with equal caution. “I... think so. Well, if you change your mind—”

“I'll be sure to let you know. Thanks.”

They walked to the main door but Anders kept Fletcher talking for a while longer, enquiring about Leandra, Gamlen and even the nugs. He asked if Fenris had any lingering injuries requiring a balm or unguent, and told Fletcher if he needed any ingredients he only had to ask. He was the epitome of generosity and charm the entire time.

By the time he left, more than an hour had passed by. Far from being reassured by Anders's pleasantness, however, Fletcher felt very conflicted. Anders was being _too_ nice... wasn't he? Or had Fletcher grown so jaded and suspicious he couldn't recognise someone who genuinely wanted to change? Then he started to feel guilty. Why did Anders always make him feel like this? Or was it in fact Fletcher who was at fault?

With a groan, he decided to check on Fenris and make a cup of tea before giving the nugs their play time and exercise.

When he reached the kitchen, he was astonished to find it had been scrubbed from top to bottom, and the larder arranged in meticulous order. Fenris was seated on a bench, slumped over a rough wooden table which must have once served as the servants' dining area.

“It's all right, he's gone,” Fletcher informed the elf as he took a seat on the opposite bench.

“And what did he want with you?”

“To be my friend again. He was on his best behaviour and everything.” A quiet sigh came from Fenris, but Fletcher was quick to allay his concerns. “Don't worry, I'll be keeping an eye on him, and he knows nothing about what's going on. He's going to have to work very hard to regain my trust.”

“I'm certain I need not counsel you to be careful in your dealings with him.”

“You absolutely don't, my love. I won't allow him too close this time.”

Fenris exhaled, folded his arms across the table and rested his chin on them. “Good.”

“You've worn yourself out,” said Fletcher softly. “You've done a brilliant job, though.”

“It was not the cleaning that wore me out. _That_ did.” Fenris nodded to a nearby counter, on top of which was a very prettily-decorated cake.

Fletcher slowly rose, his mouth open as he walked towards it. “You _made_ this?”

“I... wanted to do something for you, to offset my former abruptness. Forgive me, my dear.”

“But there's nothing to forgive, silly!” Fletcher's eyes fell to the cake, which was decorated with sugared flowers and piped swirls of buttercream. “This is gorgeous! How did you have time to bake a cake with everything else you've done?”

Fenris stood up and approached the counter, his humility forbidding him from smiling, though he appreciated the compliment. “I found a book containing no-bake recipes. This is called 'cheesecake'. We had the ingredients so I thought I'd try it out. I did not fashion the flowers myself—they were ready-made, as was the buttercream. I had no idea making a cake would be so... arduous.” He shook his aching right arm.

Fletcher gave the elf a confused smile. “Cheesecake isn't usually difficult to make. I think you'd already overdone it with the cleaning, and that's why you're so tired. May I try a piece?”

“Of course you may.” Fenris plucked a knife from the rack and passed it to Fletcher. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“Oh, I'm sure I will!” Fletcher raised a slice to his mouth and was immediately hit by the pungent aroma of sweaty feet. Resolving to prepare a bubble bath for Fenris, he took a bite, chewing it and nodding his head. He then realised the smell was not coming from Fenris, but the cake. And it didn't taste much better. “Wow! That's... that's really something! So rich! I can't even... wow!”

“It tastes as cheesecake should?” asked the elf hopefully.

Fletcher swallowed his bite and coughed. “It _definitely_ tastes of a cake made of cheese. You've gone to so much trouble!”

“Why are your eyes watering?”

“Because I'm so emotional that you did this for me!” he rasped, hurriedly taking another bite, his face reddening as he chewed his second mouthful. “I ruv it! Rank roo!”

“Then perhaps it is about time _I_ sampled it.” Fenris reached for the knife but his hand was covered by Fletcher's as the mage forced the food down his gullet.

“You know what you're like with rich food, love.”

The elf looked puzzled. “Do I? What _am_ I like, then?”

“Oh, you know. Um... it might be a bit much for you in your current condition. With your ribs and everything.”

“My ribs are almost mended, and since when does one ingest food via their ribs?” He gave Fletcher a knowing look. “Why are you attempting to stall me? Do you intend to keep the entire cake for yourself? Do you expect me to be surprised by that?”

“You've got me there! I could eat the whole thing in one go!” Pleased that his ruse was working, Fletcher crammed the rest of the slice into his mouth. His body was having no part of it, however, and he started retching.

“Spit it out!” ordered the elf, slapping Fletcher's back. “You will choke!”

The piece of Cake Made of Cheese flew out of Fletcher's mouth, landing with a splat on the floor, but Fletcher continued to retch, clutching his belly. “I'm so—hyurk! Gahaaaagh! Maker! Fen, I'm so _hwuergh!”_

Fenris rushed to the tap and fetched a mug of water, which he passed to the stricken mage. A few sips later, the retching finally stopped.

“I'm sorry, Fen.” Fletcher wiped his streaming eyes, panting. “I tried so hard to eat it. I didn't want to hurt your feelings.”

“If you dislike cheesecake you should have said so. I would not have been offended.”

Fletcher looked at the elf with pity in his eyes. “I _do_ like cheesecake... but... it's usually made with _soft_ cheese. And not aged Stilton.”

“ _Soft_ cheese? I was unaware such a thing existed. Cheese is cheese, is it not?” Fenris moved to the book in question and flipped through the pages, landing on the correct one. His face fell as he read the instructions. “Ah. It would appear cheese is _not_ cheese after all. It is little wonder, then, that the mixture was so difficult to beat.”

“You mean... you _beat_ Stilton? How did you manage that? No wonder your arm's so sore!”

Fenris shrugged. “The book said a creamy texture was required. It was not easy.”

“You know, you could have warmed it on the stove with a bit of milk,” Fletcher said, trying not to laugh. “It would have softened.”

“ _Now_ you bloody tell me.”

“Sorry about that.” Fletcher started sniggering in earnest. “How much of it did you use? It must have taken some strength to work it!”

“Almost half a wheel of the stuff. I guessed the loss of sensation in my arm was an occupational hazard. Either that, or my old sprain has returned.”

“Sprain? What sprain? When did that begin?”

“I don't recall. Sometime around puberty, I would assume.”

Fletcher spluttered, slapping a hand over his mouth. As their eyes met, Fenris finally cracked. Within seconds, they were doubled over with laughter.

“My ribs!” wailed the elf, clutching his side with one hand and steadying himself on the counter with the other.

“See? I told you to be careful with them! I was only looking out for you when I stopped you from eating it!”

“I know!” Fenris stopped for a second, gasping for breath. “I am indebted to you for saving me from such a cheesy fate!”

His own ribs hurting, Fletcher reached for the elf and nudged his chin up, meeting the elf's gaze through watery eyes. “Maker, that's a beautiful sight,” he said tenderly between chuckles. “It's been so long since you laughed like that.”

Fenris's laughter segued into a wistful smile as he looked up. “And it has been a long time since you've needed to banish so foul a mood. You truly are my light.”

They came together in an embrace, which they held for long moments. _“This_ is why we're going to get through this,” Fletcher whispered into the elf's hair. “We're too good together. Nobody— _nobody—_ will ever come between us. I swear it to you.”

Fenris drew back and gave a genuine smile. “You are correct. I will not allow dreams or phantoms to destroy our happiness. We _are_ too good together. You allow me to believe. I believe in you, Fletcher... and I believe in _us.”_

“And we're going to be married.”

“Indeed we are.” Fenris glanced at his travesty of a cake and released Fletcher, moving towards it. Then, he proceeded to remove the sugared flowers from the top. Once he had all of them, he returned to Fletcher's side. “You once told me you would require a 'proper' proposal of marriage when the time came, and flowers were to be included in that proposal.” He reached for one of Fletcher's hands and dropped the decorations into his palm. “Here are your flowers.”

Fletcher looked at them in delight, pressing his lips tightly together.

“Fletcher Malcolm Hawke, would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?”

“Your wha—oy!” Fletcher protested around a laugh.

“Very well,” the elf amended solemnly. “Would you do me the great honour of becoming one with me, and remaining forever at my side?”

“I...” Fletcher blew out a slightly shaky breath. “I intend to do that anyway, but the answer's yes. A million times over.”

Their eyes met and they both laughed softly.

“That pleases me,” Fenris said, his voice rough, before he cleared his throat.

“Thank you for the flowers.”

“Not the cake, then?”

“Thank you so much for making it, but... let's pretend the cake never happened.” Fletcher slung an arm around Fenris's shoulders and started to lead him out of the kitchen.

“Works for me.”

“As you're at a loose end, I thought you could join in with playing with the boys today.”

“Did you, now?”

“Yes, and then a nice bath and a soothing massage for our Champion of Cleaning the Kitchen.”

Fenris turned to Fletcher, an eyebrow rising. “Massage?”

“Mm-hm. I'll even do your feet. We've got to have you in tip-top condition for when you return to duty.”

“That... was all very important, but did you say _foot_ massage?”

“I might have done,” Fletcher said, feigning nonchalance. Fenris touched his arm, turning them in a different direction. “Where are we going?”

“The well, to draw water. I doubt the nugs will expire if they are not played with at this precise moment. We will bathe now and you will massage my feet... among other things. As my husband, you have taken an oath to obey me.”

“But we're not married y—” Fletcher paused and nodded. “Yes, dear. Whatever you say. Race you.”

“You're on.” The elf took off at breakneck speed, leaving his laughing husband-to-be trailing behind.

**The Hanged Man**

It had been almost _too_ easy.

In a strange sort of way he missed the people of Ferelden—simple folk, yes, but friendly enough. The Marchers, as they were known locally, were very similar to the mud and dog-loving Fereldans, and had proven most receptive to his charms. He'd plied a small group with brandy and valerian the night before, and had consequently been invited to share a bed with three of them, men and women alike. How adventurous the simple folk were!

He had not been idle during the night. After slipping his bed-warmers more valerian in their after-sex drinks, he'd moved silently among all who dwelt here, memorising every nook, every mouse hole, _anything_ he could use to his advantage. And he'd found exactly what he was looking for.

After pilfering something resembling food from the kitchens, he'd ensconced himself in the attic, finding just the right spot. Moving a loose floorboard so it was slightly askew afforded him not only a small glimpse into the room below, but meant he would be able to hear any meeting or conversation within perfectly.

Now, the waiting. This was the worst part of any job, especially since he'd become a freelancer. Before, details like this would have been dealt with by those well beneath his station. All he would need to do was seduce (if he wished to, which he often did) and then kill the mark.

This job was unusual, however, in that he wasn't required to kill anyone, but to gather information. It was possible he would be needed when his employer arrived in town, but until then, he'd play the waiting game. He was being paid handsomely, and that was all that mattered.

He'd had no trouble gaining entry to the mansion, dismantling the (rather well-made) traps and planting the sealed letter. He had no idea what it contained, nor did he care. Again, an unusual thing to ask of an assassin, but so long as his benefactor kept the coin flowing, he'd paint himself red and stand on his head in the town square if such a thing was desired.

On second thought, no. He wouldn't do that. How unseemly.

What he'd gathered so far was this: Fenris—the subject of his enquiries—was a member of the city guard and had recently killed the Arishok in single combat, earning the title of Champion. Not a man to be trifled with, then. Of course, if his assassination had been ordered, he'd already be dead—unless he displayed the tenacity Warden Surana once had.

Fenris had wisely vacated the mansion in Hightown and now resided in another, where he cohabited with his apostate lover. This was apparently no secret, as the information had proven easy to come by. He'd also made various friends within Kirkwall, one of whom was a dwarf who pulled many strings.

Varric Tethras.

It was during the previous evening's merriment in the lounge that the assassin, while flattering his to-be companions for the night, had picked up on whispers of a meeting the following day between Tethras and someone who was also no stranger to subterfuge and cunning. The name Danarius had been mentioned, and so measures had to be taken to ensure the assassin also attended the meeting—albeit as a silent observer.

After a tedious wait, someone entered the room below.

The assassin laid down flat and peered through the crack. He could see two men: a dwarf and a raven-haired human who was dressed from head-to-toe in black.

“What's this about, Varric?” asked the human. Obviously Fereldan, but his accent was not of those who worked fields by day and spilled out of taverns by night, vomit and drool adorning their tunics. No, there was a refinement, a grace to the man's words: he was well-bred, there was no mistaking that.

The dwarf crossed to the door and locked it before inviting the other man to sit down. “Am I correct in assuming there's not a lot going on, warden-wise, right now?”

“Nothing slips past you, I see.” The raven-haired man reclined, crossing one leg over the other. “Just get to the point and tell me what you're after.”

“Loquacious as ever, huh, Chuckles?”

“I'm waiting.”

The dwarf sighed and sat down, giving the assassin a clear view of both of their faces. “Remember when you said you were going to keep tabs on Blondie?”

“I do. He acquitted himself well during the recent qunari insurrection.”

“Yeah, I get that. Reason I'm asking is... are you watching him because he's a warden? Or because he's a friend of yours?”

The raven-haired man scoffed. “I'd hardly go so far as to call him a friend. Not any more, anyway.”

“But you _do_ care about him. If you didn't, you'd have just hauled him off, right? Reintegrated him or whatever into the wardens or... something, I don't know.”

There was a long pause. “What's your point?”

“My point is—would you be willing to keep tabs on someone else? Who isn't a warden?”

“Because you're a friend of mine, Varric, I'll repeat this once only—what is your point? Once only.”

“Okay, okay. Remember Fenris? The guy who supposedly won the brood-off? The one we rescued from that insane blood mage?”

“Yes...”

“I'll give you the short version. He was a slave in Tevinter until a few years back. He escaped and found his way here. Made a good life for himself. He's got a family, money coming out of his ears—and those are big ears—a steady job, not to mention he's a bloody hero in his adopted city. He's a friend of _mine._ I've been putting the feelers out and his former master's due to arrive in Kirkwall within the week, maybe sooner.”

“Is that why Hawke's house is surrounded by guards?” asked the warden with sudden interest.

“How do you know about that? They're supposed to be discreet about it.”

“Oh, they are, but there's a tighter rotation around Hawke's place than on other details. There are dwarves there as well as a couple of templars and a mage. Saw them getting off the boat and then leaving the Keep wearing guard uniform. I doubt anyone else would have noticed.”

“Just how many of you _are_ there, Chuckles?” asked Varric in amazement. “Do you see everything?”

'Chuckles' shrugged. “As you observed, I've a lot of time on my hands. I like to know what's going on.”

“Huh. No kidding. Thing is, Danarius—that is, Fenris's former master—sent someone ahead, someone who's staying out of sight. I want _you_ to flush them out.”

Another protracted silence followed. The warden eventually rose and paced back and forth a few times before responding. “Think me heartless if you will, but as a warden it's become second nature for me not to become involved in personal disputes.”

“Oh, like you didn't become involved that night when Fenris and Ma Hawke were kidnapped?”

“That was not a personal dispute,” argued the warden.

“I don't see the distinction. You took sides and you damn well know it.”

There was an impatient huff as the warden continued to pace. “Distasteful though it may be to us, slavery _is_ legal in the Tevinter Imperium. If Fenris escaped, then his master has every right to reclaim his property. Although I would certainly not assist his master in doing so.”

“Sod it all, Chuckles! Don't give me that non-partisan warden horse shit! You helped rescue him from Quentin's estate! What I'm asking you to do isn't even as complicated as that! What's the problem?”

“The 'problem' is that as a warden I'm _required_ to be non-partisan. We are not of one nation. If a warden was seen to be acting against Tevinter—and that _is_ what this would be seen as—there could be huge ramifications. Do you think I _agree_ Fenris should be recaptured? Of course not, but I don't have the luxury of principles. When we rescued Fenris from Quentin there was no larger picture, and that is why I was able to involve myself.”

“All right! I... I guess I understand.” Varric loosed out a frustrated sigh and drank from a bottle of something.

“This person, the one who's hiding,” began the warden. “Are _they_ from Tevinter?”

Varric looked up, faint hope in his eyes. “We don't know for sure. If he or she is, they can run like the wind. Or fly.”

“How do you mean?”

“I had Danarius's entourage tracked until they left the Imperial Highway. That was a week ago. You do the math.”

The warden placed a hand on his chin and thought for several moments. “There's no way they could have arrived in Kirkwall yet, unless they've refrained from sleeping... no matter which route they're taking. Is the entourage mounted?”

“Only Danarius and his head bodyguard are mounted. The rest of the poor sods are on foot.”

“That will slow them down.”

“Right.”

“Then it's entirely possible our mark is a Marcher, or has been independently hired for the task.”

“Uh, you're calling them a 'mark' now?”

A dark smile graced the warden's face. “Old habits die hard.”

Varric pushed himself up and stepped closer to the warden. “Does that mean you'll help out?”

“It means I'll find out whether they're from Tevinter or not.”

“And if they're not?”

“Then I can indeed help you... flush them out. A word of warning, though—if they _are_ from Tevinter, where slavery is legal, I must recuse myself from the whole affair. That, I will not budge on.”

The dwarf's shoulders slumped in relief. “I'd appreciate anything you can do. It's just... I need to do _something_ while we're waiting for the hammer to fall. I can sneak around and get myself out of a pickle when I need to, but I've seen you in action and you're damned good. And I need the best because the person we're looking for is also damned good. Fenris and Hawke... they're my friends. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I can.” The warden moved towards the door. “In exchange, why don't you keep an eye on Anders during my investigation? It'll give you something to do other than fret.”

“I'll do just that,” said Varric warmly, “and thanks, Chuckles. I owe you one.”

The warden glanced over his shoulder. “What did you just call me?”

“Ha! Uh, thanks, _Nathaniel._ How's that?”

“Close. It's _Warden Howe_ to you. I'll be in touch, friend.”

With that, Warden Howe departed, leaving Varric to throw himself into a chair and drink the remains of whatever was in the bottle to his side.

In the attic, the assassin sat up, flexing his legs and stretching his back.

So his mark was a former slave? His employer hadn't told him _that_ part. But it was not an assassin's place to judge. It was none of his business, as much as it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

More wardens, though? Did he really want to cross them again? It hadn't exactly gone to plan the last time. And where had he heard the name Howe before? Wasn't the former Arl of Denerim named Howe? The one he and Lewi had caught in a crossfire of back stabs and lightning bolts as he'd gasped his last?

Wasn't he the one who'd introduced him to Loghain Mac Tir in the first place?

Come to think of it, the raven-haired man _did_ rather resemble him...

"Hijo de puta!" he hissed under his breath.

He shook his head, hardening his resolve. He'd never abandoned a job—well, except _that_ one, but there were special circumstances—and he wasn't about to start now.

So, it was to be a game of cat and mouse between assassins, then. And Zevran Arainai had no intention of being the mouse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hijo de puta! - Spanish for 'Son of a bitch!'


	120. Stab in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone was directly ahead of him in the tunnel—someone who'd been waiting for him.

**Viscount's Keep, guard barracks**

“Hawke?” Donnic looked up from his desk as Fletcher stepped into his office. “Fenris is on the Wall if you're after him. They're not allowed social calls up there.”

Fletcher walked up to the desk and stood behind the chair in front of it, but didn't sit down. “I'm not after Fenris. I know better than to disrupt one of his shifts.”

“What is it, then? Something wrong?”

“No, I just wanted to see how our captain's doing.”

Donnic frowned a little. “Fine? Look, I appreciate you calling, but I've a lot to do. Maybe I'll see you later in the Hanged Man.”

“You haven't been to the Hanged Man since you were made captain, and I can't go in there, can I, what with being under guard and everything? May I sit down?”

Donnic set his quill down and let out a sigh. “You've got five minutes, and that's because it's you.”

“Thank you.” Fletcher took a seat. “How's that shield arm of yours? Sam told me you were lucky not to break it when you smashed through the gates at the qunari compound. And those gates _were_ on fire.”

“Aren't those details supposed to be confidential? Don't you healers have a code of conduct or something?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Well, _I'm_ not going to tell anyone, and between healers I suppose it doesn't count.” He gave Donnic a charming smile and the captain sat back, shaking his head. “Besides, it's all going towards my education. You wouldn't deprive me of that, would you?”

“You're a complete chancer, aren't you?” A wry smile twisted one edge of Donnic's mouth. “Down to it, then. What are you after?”

“Me? I'm not after anything. As a healer, however, I'm prescribing you an evening of good booze, bad food, laughter and gambling. You and Fenris are in serious need of some fun.”

The office door opened, then, and in walked Varric, wearing an easy smile. “Guard-Captain! Just the man I was looking for!”

“There's a reason for the door,” Donnic pointed out. “It's for knocking.”

“Oh, I know what a busy man you are. Seems to me 'knocking' would be an unnecessary drain on your resources. Why, you'd have to stand up, walk right over here, ask who's there... you get the picture.” He glanced at Fletcher. “What brings _you_ here, Hawke?”

“I was inviting Donnic to a card game at my place tonight. The Hanged Man's out for obvious reasons. You in?”

“I wish I could, but I have so much to do,” Donnic began to protest, but was cut off by Varric.

“That was my very reason for being here! Great minds think alike, huh? Now, Hawke, you need to let your guards know who's coming. I was asking one of them how tight security is around your place this morning, only to be told to move along. They _do_ know there aren't any dwarven magisters, right? That's not really how the whole thing works.”

“Don't worry, I'll tell them who to expect.” Fletcher stood up, closed the office door and lowered his voice. “Do me a favour, both of you? Try not to mention magisters or anything connected with them in front of Fenris? He's really up and down, and at this precise moment, he's up. I'd like to keep him there, even just for one evening.”

“Can do,” Varric said with a smile.

“Yes, _if_ I'm able to come.” Donnic passed a piece of paper to Fletcher. “Before you go, have a look at this.”

“What's this, then?” Fletcher took a minute to read the notice. “The Grand Cleric's declaring an amnesty for apostates wishing to join the guard?” He looked at Donnic. “Why are you giving this to me? I'd make a rotten guard!”

“You're no fighter, I'll admit that, but if you were interested you could still serve the city. Sam Verus wants an apprentice, and he wants it to be you.”

Fletcher stared at Donnic as though he'd just sprouted an extra head. “Really?”

“Yes, he came to me after hearing about the initiative from Bran. He wanted to be sure it was genuine.”

“Doesn't he trust Bran's word, then?”

“It's not that—more like he doesn't trust the templars. When I told him it was the Grand Cleric's idea he seemed very interested. He's not getting any younger and wants to train his successor. He likes you, and thinks with proper, sanctioned instruction, you'd make a good go of it. You'd service the entire guard, the steward or viscount and their family, as well as any dignitaries. You don't live far away so I suppose you wouldn't be required to reside at the Keep.”

“Whoa! Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I doubt the templars will let me just stroll around the Keep. What's the catch?”

“There are several catches, but benefits, too. You'd need to undertake the Harrowing, plus you'd have to reside in the Gallows for an as-yet undetermined period of time. You'd have a permanent templar guard, of course. The advantages are that you'd no longer be an apostate but a sanctioned mage, you'd be paid the going rate and you'd have your own rank. Sam technically carries the rank of captain, same as me. Bet you didn't know that, did you?”

“Eh? So he could arrest someone? Command your men?”

“No, he's not part of the military arm of the guard. It means he has the power to relieve anyone of duty—viscount, steward or guard-captain included—if he feels they're medically unfit. It also means he's highly trusted and respected. How many mages can count viscounts among their closest friends?”

“Think about it, Hawke,” Varric said. “You could come and go as you please, which means you could visit Sunshine, _and_ you could throw the captain out on his ass,” he added with a wink at Donnic. “Opportunities like this don't come along every day. Think of it as an investment for your future.”

Fletcher's brow creased as he considered Donnic's offer. “Not that I'm saying yes, but exactly how long would I be required to reside in the Gallows? And what if I wanted to leave the city's employ? Would I be thrown in a Circle? Because that would be kind of a deal-breaker.”

“That's what they're thrashing out at the moment,” said the captain.

“Who?”

“The Grand Cleric, Orsino and Cullen. Orsino wants a finite period of time in the Gallows agreed upon to avoid the possibility of abuse, whereas Cullen says all mages must be judged on their own merits, so a set time period is meaningless. From what I've heard, Meredith isn't happy about the idea but she has to do what the Grand Cleric says, so I can understand Orsino's concerns about potential abuses of this 'time period'. As for the question of leaving the guard... well, that's caused quite a snafu.”

Fletcher blew out a breath. “What _have_ you started, Guard-Captain?”

“I know.” Donnic gave a slightly rueful smile. “I started it, and now I'm doing the decent thing by staying well out of it, as are Fenris and Bran.”

“I wonder why Fenris didn't tell me about this?” Fletcher mused quietly. “I would have thought he'd be in favour of me becoming sanctioned.”

“He didn't tell you?” Donnic's face fell. “Oh. In that case, do me a favour and don't mention this came from me?”

Fletcher shrugged. “I'll say I saw one of the notices. Which are going up _today,_ I trust, so I won't be telling him half-truths.”

“All right, they'll go up today. I doubt any apostate worth their salt will go directly to the templars anyway, so that should give Cullen and Orsino sufficient time to agree on something. Bran's given them until tomorrow. I admire his optimism.”

“They'll figure it out.” Varric adjusted Bianca and headed for the door. “Coming, Hawke? Bianca and I will give your guard escort some back-up. See you tonight, Captain! Seven bells!”

“Wait, I didn't agree to—!”

“Seven bells, Donnic, or we'll come looking for you,” Fletcher threatened. “And now I'd better go and tell Fenris about this before he hears it from someone else.”

**The Hawke Residence**

“So... you _are_ considering this, then?” Fenris slapped the rolled-up notice against his palm and paced while Fletcher looked on from an armchair in the parlour.

“I didn't say that, I just think it's an interesting idea. A lot of things would need to happen for me to consider it seriously, and those things haven't happened yet. Even if they do, I won't go ahead without your approval. Your _genuine_ approval.”

Fenris, facing away from Fletcher, stopped pacing. “What kind of man would I be to disapprove of the realisation of your dream?” He glanced over his shoulder. “You've always wanted to heal as a vocation. You would be a fool not to grab this with both hands.”

“I've always been a fool.” Fletcher stood up and moved to the elf's side, rubbing Fenris's arm. “I'm already living the dream. I have a fancy house, money... not that any of that really matters... friends, my health and my family. Plus,” he nudged Fenris's chin and turned the elf's head towards him, “I have you, Anima Mea. I know there's trouble coming, but apart from that—”

Fenris shook his head in dismissal of that thought. “No matter your connections and friendships, you remain an apostate. At least one of the templars knows of your status, and he's a knight-captain at that. Were you to be captured and detained, my new title and associated influence would not save you, as much as I would wish otherwise.”

“I would never ask you to intervene if that happened.”

“I know that, but my point is a valid one.” Fenris looked into Fletcher's eyes. “Perhaps it would be preferable for you to voluntarily submit to the Harrowing rather than have it forced upon you at a later date. It was serendipity alone that prevented the templars from discovering your status during the hostilities with the qunari. You have always been blessed with good fortune, but all things must come to an end.”

“Not all.” Fletcher kissed the elf's forehead.

“No, not all.” Fenris smiled for a second before a frown took his features. “I... do not wish for you to be subjected to the trials of the Harrowing, nor for you to be confined in the Gallows, but perhaps it is for the best? Once you have proven yourself trustworthy, the templars will release you... and you will be able to practise magic freely as a sanctioned mage. And one day you could become Kirkwall's most prominent and respected healer. A fine outcome, wouldn't you say?”

“We'd have a templar guard living with us,” Fletcher pointed out.

“I'm certain they would not be required to share our bed.”

“Good. Because if they're ugly... I've never needed to fake it with you, so I don't know how convincing I'd be.”

Fenris thumped the mage's arm and shared a laugh with him before his expression again grew serious. “You are decided on this, then?”

“Not at all. Everyone else seems to have decided, but I'm going to wait until it's been determined how long I'd be expected to stay at the Gallows, and what will happen if I move on or leave the city's employ. I'm not doing a thing until I have a wedding ring on my finger, anyway.”

“This is not the Fletcher Hawke I know,” said Fenris, feigning dismay. “Cautious, calculating and averse to wanton acts of recklessness... what inauspicious fate has befallen him?”

“That Fletcher Hawke is dead. He fell down an open sewer while racing for freshly-cooked pork ribs in Hightown. Came to rather a sticky, and stinky, end. The _new_ Fletcher Hawke, however, has a fiancé whose reproachful lectures are salty enough to cure bacon. And _Maker,_ the puppy eyes. So he thinks twice about doing daft things these days.”

The elf chuckled. “This fiancé sounds a wise fellow indeed. Not to mention, blessed with charm and good looks.”

“Charm? Now let's not go _too_ far,” Fletcher joked, receiving another thump for his trouble. He then stared into space for a moment, his eyes widening. “Hey! I've just had an idea! An actual good one!”

Fenris groaned and shook his head. “I knew you were not yourself. Come, rest for a spell.”

“Shut up, you.” Fletcher grinned at the elf, who snorted. “No, really, I've just had a brainwave. This problem of what happens if a mage wants to leave the guard after joining and so on... how about a register?”

Fenris tilted his head, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Each mage, once harrowed, would be put on a register. If they left the guard, they'd have to check in with someone at regular intervals, just to say, 'look, I still haven't turned to blood magic' or whatever. They'd probably need a templar with them until they found employment... or they could even voluntarily stay in a Circle to improve their education until they found a new position. Any mages failing to stay registered would revert to being apostates, but they'd be silly to do that after going to so much trouble. What do you think?”

“You could be on to something there.” Fenris clutched Fletcher's face and stared at him intently. “Are you certain you're not an impostor? What have you done with my mage?”

Fletcher playfully pushed him away. “I told you, he's been reborn. It's not a perfect plan by any means. It might cause resentment among mages already in the Circle, but maybe some of them could also be recruited? I don't know. I haven't really thought it through.”

“Those are matters for the Circle to consider. I should bring this idea to Knight-Captain Cullen's attention. If he sees it has come from a mage, perhaps he will be inclined to view that mage in a favourable light.”

One of Fletcher's eyebrows arched. “You're not taking it to Orsino, then?”

The elf shrugged. “I do not know Orsino well enough, and would not want another mage taking credit for your idea. I'm acquainted with Cullen and believe him to be an honourable man.”

“You still don't quite trust mages in general, do you? And no, that's not meant as an accusation. I understand why.”

“I do not trust anyone until they've proven to me they _can_ be trusted, no matter who they are. I will not take the idea to the Grand Cleric or Steward Bran for similar reasons. I have been thrust into the political arena and intend to study my contemporaries until I know what they're about. Donnic and Cullen are the only ones I'm willing to share information with at this point.”

“In that case, I apologise.” Fletcher smiled at the elf. “It seems the new Fletcher Hawke still has a lot to learn about caution.”

“Even an ape can be taught to perform simple tasks. There is hope for you yet.”

This time, Fenris was the one on the receiving end of a thump.

**Later that evening**

Fletcher, Fenris, Donnic and Varric were seated at a table next to a window in the dining room, which afforded them a good view of the square outside, even though the light was failing. They'd enjoyed drinks and a bit of banter before Fletcher had brought in some snacks. They were now relaxed and into the third round of Wicked Grace.

Fenris, naturally, had won the first two.

A knock came at the front door, and Fletcher rose. “That'll be the guard changeover,” he explained to Varric. “The new shift always announces themselves. Excuse me.”

When he opened the door, he was delighted to see an old acquaintance. “Vonim!” He shook the dwarf's hand and invited him inside. “Fenris, Varric, look who it is! We haven't seen you since the expedition, have we? How's the new job working out?”

“Good to see you, but I ain't here to socialise,” the guard said matter-of-factly. “Maybe we can catch up in the morning when my shift's done. Captain, all's quiet. Nothing to report.”

“Thank you. As you were.”

“Aye, Captain.” Vonim gave a slight bow and exchanged a nod with Fletcher on his way out.

Fletcher then returned to his seat and made himself comfortable. “Your men have been great, you know,” he said to Donnic, “especially the Ball-Bashers. I hope their deployment hasn't left you short elsewhere?”

Donnic shook his head. “This is exactly the sort of thing Vonim's unit is for, guarding dignitaries. Our champion's getting the same treatment the King of Ferelden would.”

Fenris shook his head and sighed.

“This isn't me playing favourites,” added Donnic. “Bran doesn't know all the details, but I told him there was a potential threat to you. He decreed that you, and all close associates of yours, are to be guarded around the clock and the city would pick up the tab. You _are_ the Champion. Of course, I already had it covered.”

Fletcher snorted. “Amazing, considering Bran once referred to Fenris as 'some elf' when he accompanied me to the Viscount's office. Looked right down his snooty nose at him, he did. Stuck-up sod.”

“Well, you're more than some elf now, Broody,” said Varric happily. “A lot more.”

Fenris leaned across the table and shook Varric's hand while looking at the others. “This is the only man in Kirkwall who does not call me 'champion'. I like him. I will even forgive the misnomer 'Broody'. Because, as we all know, I do not brood.”

“Not much,” muttered Donnic out of the side of his mouth while Fletcher sniggered. “As we're on the subject of names, I'm still waiting for the name of your new regiment, Sergeant.”

“'The Champion's Chosen',” Fletcher announced with gravitas.

“I _said_ no!” hissed the elf, as though they'd had this conversation before, maybe several times.

“What's wrong with that? It's perfect!”

“It is not perfect! Were I to use... _that_ title, it might cause envy or loss of morale among other units. Captain, will you back me up here?”

“Sorry,” Donnic sipped at his ale, “but I'm off duty. You're on your own.”

“Then you will not require a name until resumption of your duties.”

“Oh, no, I'm totally pulling rank here. I want a name, and I want it tonight. You've only one day left on the Wall. The day after that, you're to start assembling and training your unit. Which is called...?”

Fenris rested his head on his hand and stared at the table. Varric prodded his arm.

“You need to give your unit a deadly motif to show you mean business, but something more refined than the Ball-Bashers. Your guys are using swords, not hammers, so a little finesse is called for. Not _too_ much, though. How about... oh! The 'Sanitation Squad', because you take out the trash?”

Fletcher's mouth formed a circle. “That's even better than the Champion's Chosen!” he exclaimed, slapping the table.

“Or the Clean-up Crew?” Donnic suggested. “No, wait... our stonemasons have called themselves the Wrecking Crew. Too similar.”

“Do I get no say in this?” said the elf with a morose sigh before turning a crafty eye to the others. “Perhaps... 'Callidus Verberat Robore'. Fitting.”

“What does that mean?” Donnic asked. “Sounds a bit Tevinter-ish.”

“I _am_ Tevinter-ish.”

“I think I can take a stab in the dark.” Fletcher tut-tutted at the elf. “Are you questioning our intelligence, dear?”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Fenris droned in a flat monotone.

“Hold that thought a minute.” Donnic stood up and looked out of the window. “One of the guards is coming to the door. I'll get it.”

To Fletcher's worry, the captain unsheathed his sword and strode into the vestibule. Fletcher quickly followed but stayed out of sight, Fenris and Varric doing the same as Donnic opened the door.

“Captain, 'scuse the intrusion,” Vonim said, “but one of my people thinks they saw something move in one of the upper rooms—the master bedroom to be precise. I need to know if anyone else is in the house besides you four.”

“Hawke?” Donnic called.

Fletcher joined the guardsmen. “No, it's just us,” he said nervously, his heart racing. “The nugs are up there, but they can't get up at the window.”

“Could have been a reflection, but we need to check it out.” Vonim took a step back and beckoned to some of his people, three dwarves and two humans appearing at the door. “You all know the drill. Captain, I need you out here with me while they scour the house. They know this place inside out, so they'll do it fast.”

Donnic gave a grim nod and turned to Fletcher. “This is probably nothing, but I want you, Fenris and Varric to keep away from the window. Lock yourselves in. Ser McLoughlin and Knight-Enchanter Faryn will stay with you. Do it now.”

Fenris sped to the far door and bolted it, while Fletcher waited until the templar and mage entered before bolting the door on his side. Slowly, they gravitated away from the window, trying to watch the flurry of activity outside while the three dwarven guards searched the house.

“Excuse me, Messere Hawke, Champion.” The armoured female mage went to the window and raised a hand, Fenris grimacing as she warded the area. She then moved to both doors and did the same again, before standing in the centre of the room, raising her staff and mumbling under her breath. The room was temporarily lit up with what Fletcher recognised as a protective barrier, a spell his father used often, and one well beyond his own capabilities.

Knight-Enchanter Faryn then took a seat and informed the templar, McLoughlin, that she was finished.

“Are you all right?” Fletcher whispered to Fenris, who was clearly in discomfort, but nodded.

McLoughlin then moved to each door and concentrated hard for a few seconds. Caught unaware, Fletcher swayed and grabbed a nearby cabinet, Fenris quickly clutching his arm for support.

“What's that you're doing?” Varric asked the templar, with one eye on Fletcher.

“A nullification ward. Now that Knight-Enchanter Faryn has completed her casting, I'm ensuring no hostile magics can penetrate this room.”

“But wouldn't that affect our lovely mage protector as well?”

“She will not be able to cast in here for a short while, but neither will other mages.”

Varric frowned in confusion. “Then haven't you just cancelled out _her_ spells?”

The templar shook his head. “It's difficult to explain to those outside the Circle. Miss Faryn's magic is not considered hostile in this case, though I could choose to negate it if I wished. On this occasion, I don't.”

“This is just a precaution, of course,” said Enchanter Faryn, having noticed Fletcher's reaction. “Why don't we all sit down?”

Fenris pulled out a chair and discreetly guided Fletcher to the table. He and Varric then sat with him, but McLoughlin remained standing, mace drawn, his eyes on the window. Fenris took his mind off his own pain by watching Fletcher intently while he plotted the fastest route to his sword, which was in the parlour.

“I see your concern, Champion, and I assure you I'm quite well,” Faryn said for Fletcher's benefit. “The nullification will last for thirty minutes or so, or until Ser McLoughlin undoes or renews it. It can be unpleasant for some, but as a Circle mage I can shut it out. It's quite harmless.”

Fletcher mouthed a 'thank-you' to her and they waited in silence for what seemed like ages. Fletcher reached for Fenris's hand, giving it a squeeze, and was surprised when the elf did not let it go.

After an agonisingly long wait, the dwarves returned. Fletcher stood up, pressed his ear against the door and listened from inside the dining room as Vonim spoke to Donnic.

“Nothin'. Been 'round twice now, checked every window, every door, every chimney breast. No signs of disturbance or forced entry.”

“What about the door in the cellar that leads to the old slaver tunnels?”

“Locked up tight. My guess? A reflection of a bird or cloud in the window. Apologies, Captain. Some of my people still get spooked when things move in the sky. Think the clouds'll come crashing down on them.”

“Don't apologise for being vigilant.” Donnic sighed. “You're absolutely sure there's nothing?”

“Almost stepping in nug shit in the garden was the most interesting thing that happened. If someone _was_ inside, they can float through walls and locked doors. If you want to satisfy yourself, you could have Lieutenant Hunter's unit take a look.”

“No, that won't be necessary. I have every confidence in you and your men. Good work, Sergeant. Back to your post.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Fletcher sprang away from the door, doing a bad job of looking nonchalant, as Donnic entered.

“As I'm sure you just heard, my men found nothing untoward,” the captain said. “Knight-Enchanter, Ser Knight, thank you for your assistance. You can return to your posts.”

“After you.” McLoughlin gestured for Faryn to precede him. They both left, Faryn smiling at Fletcher on her way out.

“Let's move to another room,” Fletcher said irately. “I feel sick and Fenris isn't too clever, either. This room's full of magic and I don't know _what_ kind of shit that templar did. They're practically mages themselves, and yet they—” He groaned. “I'm not ungrateful, honestly.”

“Go through there.” Donnic pointed in the direction of the parlour. “I'll tell everyone you've moved to the other side of the house.”

“Is that really necessary?” asked Varric. “I thought everything was okay?”

“Captain's privilege to be annoying and keep everyone on their toes. There's nothing to worry about.” Donnic winked at the others and left the house to speak to the Brigadiers.

When he returned, Fletcher and Fenris were seated on a settee in the parlour, while Varric was crouched next to the fire, stirring the embers with a poker.

“Knight-Enchanter Faryn was brilliant,” Fletcher said enthusiastically. “I nearly fainted when the templar did his nullification thing, but she didn't blink. And that barrier she cast—it was even more powerful than my father's.”

“I can vouch for that,” Fenris said with a grimace.

“It was a strong one, wasn't it?” Fletcher wrapped an arm around Fenris's shoulders as Donnic entered and moved to the drinks trolley. “Are you feeling all right now, love?”

“I'm fine. You seem very taken with the Circle mage.”

Fletcher sat back with a wistful sigh. “That's the sort of mage I wish I was. One who can save lives but also protect themselves, and others. Beth told me about the knight-enchanters in one of her letters. They can summon magical swords from the Fade _and_ they can heal. What I wouldn't give to be able to do that. We could have sparring sessions, couldn't we, Fen?”

The elf smiled indulgently. “Is such proficiency within the realms of possibility at your age?”

“Oh, no. Knight-enchanters have to be trained in a Circle from a very early age. I suppose I'll have to stick to playing with _your_ sword, won't I?”

“Settle down over there!” A chuckling Varric rose from the fireplace and joined them on the opposite settee, Donnic setting down four tumblers of whisky on the small table in between.

“For once, I wasn't being smutty,” Fletcher said with a chastened grin as Donnic sat next to Varric. “It's just... it'd be great to be so confident when casting, and not to have to hide my abilities. And to be able to erect a barrier like that...”

“Are you thinking about the Grand Cleric's initiative, then?” Donnic asked.

“Thinking. That's all.” Fletcher ventured a glance at Fenris.

“We will speak of this later,” the elf said. “Clearly, you are _thinking_ about it a great deal.” He smiled slightly.

“Not to change the subject, but...” Varric pointed at the parlour window.

“Oh, what now?” Donnic set down his tumbler and stood up, having spotted a guard outside trying to get his attention. “Stay here.”

After a short but anxious wait, the captain returned. “Messenger from Darktown for you, Varric,” he said in mild annoyance. “You _do_ know we're trying to keep this residence secure, don't you?”

“Ah, the burdens of being popular.” Varric left the room to speak with the messenger, returning a minute later to collect Bianca. “Something came up. You three enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Fletcher stood up along with Fenris. “Anything wrong?”

The dwarf grinned. “Nope, just a little business I need to take care of. See you tomorrow.”

Donnic started to follow him out. “I'll have someone walk back with you.”

“I wonder what that's about?” Fletcher sighed and looked around the room, then over both shoulders.

Fenris touched his arm. “There is nothing to fear. My colleagues are thorough. They were being cautious, nothing more.”

“I'm just a bit edgy after having my mana blocked,” replied Fletcher with false chirpiness, smiling when the captain returned. “Donnic, you _did_ say there was someone keeping an eye on Gamlen's place, didn't you?”

“I did. If anything, Gamlen and Leandra are safer there—it's on one level, and there's only one way in."  He rolled his shoulders.  "Well, I should probably call it a night. Are you two all right?”

Fletcher nodded, while Fenris looked at him as though waiting for a prompt.

“If you're still worried,” said the captain, “you could stay at the barracks tonight.”

“No,” Fenris said, not wanting the captain to waste more precious resources, “we will not go into hiding. Thank you, Donnic. We are fortunate indeed to have such protection.”

“If you change your minds, just say the word. Thanks for the game.” He shook hands with both men before leaving. Not long after, Vonim entered the house and stood in the vestibule, waiting for the couple to come out.

“Captain says I'm to stay inside,” the dwarf informed them. “Lucky me. It just started raining. Poor bastards out there hate the stuff. Comes from the scary old sky.”

“Well, please make yourself at home,” Fletcher said. “You can take your pick of armchairs, there's books in the library... _if_ you're a dwarf who happens to be interested in the application of magic. And help yourself to food.”

“I'm good, Hawke, but thanks all the same.” Vonim unstrapped his maul and held it with both hands. “Just gonna take a walk around. You two let me know when you're thinkin' of hitting the hay—I'll take my boots off so I'm not clunkin' around everywhere.”

“Uh... we need to let the nugs out first, but in a minute, I suppose.”

“Watch out for the crap, then. Almost stepped in some myself. And announce yourselves to the guards out back.” Vonim went into the dining room, where he extinguished the torches on the walls.

**Half an hour earlier**

Zevran leaned against a wall to catch his breath. So much for his plan to infiltrate the Hawke household via the slaver tunnels that ran beneath. He'd done well to make it to the master bedroom unseen, but had not expected to be set upon by two pig-like creatures who dwelt within, both intent on _nosing_ him to death. Or was it snouting?

When they'd started squealing he'd abandoned his plan, and on his way back had almost bumped into a dwarven guard near the cellar door—about ten seconds after Zevran had hastily snapped the padlock shut!

He'd underestimated the guards, although if they were _true_ professionals they'd have noticed the padlock was warm following his handling of it. Still, it had been a little too close for comfort.

Not daring to light a torch, he began his journey back to the filthy cesspool that was Darktown through the pitch-black tunnels.

“Not very good at this, are you?”

Zevran froze. Unless the rats had acquired the ability to speak as _well_ as a biting wit, someone was directly ahead of him in the tunnel—someone who'd been waiting for him. He stayed as still as a statue, though his eyes were searching.

“You can't see me, can you? You really are an amateur.”

The other man was bluffing, surely? Unless he possessed the skills of a cat, he was also unable to see in the dark. Perhaps if Zevran inched slightly to his left, he could evade the visitor's grasp... he reached out for the wall, feeling his way along.

“If you keep going that way, you'll walk right into me. Wouldn't want to mess up that pretty blond hair of yours.”

Zevran halted again, acutely aware of how loudly he was breathing.

“Isn't it customary in Tevinter to declare yourself to a guest?” the mysterious stranger asked from the darkness.

“ _Tevinter?_ You insult me on so short an acquaintance!”

A gravelly laugh came from ahead. “Antiva, then. Excellent. It seems I _am_ free to interrogate you after all.”

Zevran drew a sharp breath in preparation to flee, realising his mistake instantly. His adversary had anticipated the move and, following an undignified scuffle, pushed Zevran face-first into the wall, a knife biting into the nape of his neck. He then proceeded to pat Zevran down with his free hand, tossing a number of daggers, phials and flasks to the ground.

Zevran winced as a large hand roughly probed around his inner thighs, moving perilously close to his balls. “Surely there is no need for such formalities, my friend? If you intend to ravish me, you have but to ask. I am powerless to resist one so... agile with his hands.”

“I'm flattered, but I don't indulge while I'm working.”

“Oh? At a later time, then?”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

The man stepped away, leaving Zevran unconsciously raising his hands in anticipation of a blow—one he would not see coming.

“I'm not going to hit you unless you give me cause. I'd prefer not to use my fists. It's rather uncouth, wouldn't you say?”

“How civilised of you,” remarked Zevran flatly. He listened as two hard objects were struck together several times, and was then startled when a torch sputtered into life. “Perhaps it is better I do not ask where you kept this, no?”

The torch was thrust into one of Zevran's hands.

“Walk ahead of me,” the man instructed. “Don't bother trying anything.”

“I am at your mercy.” Zevran bowed and did as he was ordered. “Where are we going?”

The man didn't provide an answer, nor did he speak again until they reached Darktown, where he told Zevran to drop the torch. It was then, in better light, that Zevran recognised his captor: Rendon Howe's son, the one who had met with Varric Tethras the day before.

Howe pressed a coin into a waiting youth's hand and watched as the youngster ran off. He then removed a large longbow from his back and held it at his side.

“We're going to the docks,” he said. “Keep walking.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then we'll attract the attention of the city guard. If you've been doing your job properly, you'll know your mark is not only a member of the guard, but close friends with its captain. Who do you think they'll side with?”

Zevran sighed, knowing he was beaten. “And what awaits us at the docks?”

“We're going to see a friend of mine, who's also a friend of the Champion. Answer our questions, and we might let you go. Your remaining option is one you probably wouldn't like.”

Zevran glanced at Nathaniel's bow.

“Just so you know,” Howe said quietly, “I never miss. But do feel free to run again. It's so seldom I get to practise on live targets.”

“And shooting an unarmed man in the back will not garner the attention of the city guard?”

“Let's call it... 'killed while obstructing a grey warden from doing their duty'. That's assuming the guards will see anything. There's a lot of water at the docks.”

“You make a convincing argument,” grumbled Zevran.

“Move,” Nathaniel ordered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Callidus Verberat Robore'--very loosely translates as: 'Brains over brawn'.


	121. Crow Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The last thing we want is for my friend here to become possessed by a Rage demon," Varric said. "That’s not going to end well for any of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to CCBug who, despite having a hell of a lot on her plate, found time to take a peek at the chapter and offer her usual invaluable advice.

** Kirkwall Docks, the following day **

“I dislike surprises,” grumbled Fenris, walking with Fletcher as they neared the docks for the first time since the Arishok had declared war upon Kirkwall. “Do you know what this is about?”

“Hm?”

“Are you listening to me?”

Fletcher’s mind was elsewhere. Just after breakfast Cricket had delivered a note, from Varric, to the Hawke residence, threatening to throw a tantrum if the guards outside didn’t let him hand it to ‘Awke in person. Fletcher hadn’t told Fenris about it, something he disliked doing, but it was for the greater good. 

For the time being, he needed to keep up the pretence that this was just another boring day. Except it wasn’t.

“Sorry, love, miles away.” He shrugged. “You were the one Bran summoned. Assuming he’d tell me before you, which he wouldn’t, I wouldn’t keep it from you.” He cringed inwardly at his words.

“I know, dear.” Fenris turned to the dwarven guards who’d escorted them. “Do _you_ know anything?”

“If they ain’t told Hawke,” one of them said, “you can bet _we_ don’t know shit.”

“Of course.” Fenris sighed. “I hear people. A _lot_ of people.” 

Fletcher rubbed the elf’s back. “It’s the docks, isn’t it? Maybe… maybe Bran’s going to show you the rebuilding efforts?”

“Or _maybe_ he’s arranged a parade.” Fenris glanced up at Fletcher. “You are a healer. Could you not devise a sick note for me? Or create a draught that would simulate my death?”

The mage gave him a sympathetic smile. “They’d still bring you down here regardless. And then they’d set fire to you.”

“I believe I could cope with that.”

“Come on. Let’s get it out of the way, whatever _it_ is.” With a hand on the elf’s back, Fletcher led Fenris around a corner to see what awaited him.

Fenris stopped dead. In two lines on either side of the thoroughfare was an assortment of templars, guards and reserve guards, all fully-armoured and standing at attention. Behind them, cordoned off, were hundreds of citizens and well-wishers. At the head of the lines were the most important people in Kirkwall: Steward Bran, Captain Hendyr, First Enchanter Orsino and Grand Cleric Elthina. Even Meredith had seen fit to grace the event with her presence.

And, in the centre of them all, next to the dockside, was a mysterious object, about twenty feet tall. A huge square of blue and red velvet covered the object, which was guarded by a complement of guards wearing fancy blue livery. And helmets with red feathers.

“Oh, Maker.” Fletcher groaned. “Of all the things _not_ to do.”

“A statue,” Fenris said in a world-weary tone. “I told them no sodding statues!”

Fletcher rubbed his jaw, grimacing. “I suppose this is to, um, honour you. You can do it,” he added encouragingly. “Just... smile. If you remember how.”

“Just smile, he says.” The elf walked forward as though negotiating his way through tar, flinching as flowers were thrown at him from the cheering crowd. 

A proud Leandra waved to Fenris from the crowd, eliciting a brief, strained smile from the elf. He doffed a respectful nod to her and Fletcher’s surly uncle before arriving at Donnic’s side, who leaned in close.

“I want you to know I tried to stop this,” whispered the captain, “but I was overruled as it might cause a diplomatic incident. Your name isn’t on it yet, and I’ve heard it doesn’t even look like you.”

The elf stared blankly at the Orlesian honour guard surrounding the statue’s base. “What must I do to expedite this... circus?”

“Just listen. Everyone’s going to say their piece, and then you’ll be asked to speak. That’s it.”

“I… what? _Speak?”_

“Say something short and heroic. They’ll love whatever you say. Hold on. Bran’s about to start.”

The steward waited for quiet and stepped up to a small plinth in front of the covered object, clearing his throat. “It was with some surprise that our city received this… gift from our Orlesian cousins this morn. Her Imperial Majesty Empress Celene, in her generosity, has deigned to commemorate our Champion’s victory over the qunari invaders.” He nodded at the Orlesian soldiers, who pulled the velvet square away, revealing a snow-white rendition of an elf with long, flowing hair.

To Fletcher’s side, one of the Keep’s stonemasons shook his head. “Do these perfumed ponces know what sea air’ll do to alabaster? I give it a century, maybe two, before it crumbles. Shoddy craftsmanship. But what do you expect from a bunch of frog-eating—” He was silenced by an unconvincingly stern look from Donnic.

There was some mumbling from the crowd as they tried to figure out whether it looked like Fenris or not. After some prompting from the guards, they hesitantly started to applaud.

“Why am I holding a shield?” Fenris asked Donnic, who was dying to laugh. “I also appear to be wearing a skirt.”

“It’s battle dress,” the captain said.

“And why is my hair four feet long and flying behind me like I’m walking into a gale? Were the statue not so heavy, I’d fear it would take off.”

“You’re lucky you’re not holding a broom and wearing a pinafore. I doubt Celene’s even met an elf who isn’t a servant.”

“Does this woman actually _know_ who I am?”

“She got the ears right, at least. And the sex. Just about.”

“It’s all about point-scoring,” Fletcher said quietly. “Remember what we talked about? Orlais will want to go one better than Ferelden, so they rush the commission of a statue without bothering to obtain a true likeness of you. Officially, Ferelden hasn’t given you anything yet. The Orlesians will _love_ that.”

“Spot on,” Donnic said.

The three men stopped talking while Bran thanked the empire of Orlais in as rigid and cool a manner as he could get away with, before inviting Donnic to take the plinth. Bran sailed past the small delegation, nose high in the air, and stood next to the Champion. “You have my sympathies,” he remarked while looking dead ahead. “With any luck, a freak tidal wave will sweep the monstrosity back to Orlais, where it belongs.”

Fenris nodded his agreement. “While leaving the dockside and its people intact, it is hoped.”

“Quite.”

Then Donnic began to speak. Thankfully he kept it short, ending his speech with a humorous admonition to the other delegates not to keep Fenris too long, as he was on duty.

The others took their turns, all saying, using a slightly different combination of words, how grateful they were to Empress Celene for her unique and original gift, and how heroic Fenris was.

Finally, it was Fenris’s turn. He stood at the plinth, wishing an earthquake or other natural disaster would claim him. He silently beseeched the sky, hoping for signs of rain, a thunderstorm… but there was nary a cloud in sight.

“I am humbled and grateful—”

“Speak up!” a wag from the crowd shouted. “We can’t ‘ear yer!”

Fenris growled under his breath and possibly uttered a Tevinter profanity. He girded himself. “I AM HUMBLED AND GRATEFUL—”

An almighty cheer rose up around the docks, followed by “Champion! Champion! Champion!”

“‘E’s right ‘umble, our champion!”

“Maker bless ‘im! ‘Old on… does them elves worship the Maker or wha’?”

“Nay, they worships twigs an’ leaves an’ all that. D’unt matter. T’is ‘is own business. Champion! Champion! Champion!”

“Told you!” Donnic shouted over the din. “Now just walk and wave on your way out! Job done!”

“What? I’ve been keying myself up this entire time and they’re going to drown me out with incoherent yelling?” Fenris clenched his fists. “Stultitia!”

“I can call for quiet if you really want to say something,” Donnic offered.

“No!” wailed the red-faced elf. “May I return to duty now?”

“Go to the Keep and visit the horsemaster. Your training’s to begin properly. And then, Sergeant, I need a name for your unit. Today.” Donnic smiled at the elf’s expression of abject misery. “There’s a bottle of brandy in my drawer if you need a tot.” He recalled Fenris’s escort with a wave of his hand. “Hawke? Are you going back to Hightown?”

“Um, no, there’s a bit of business I need to take care of here, first.” Fletcher stepped up to Fenris. “Are you all right?”

“Today has not started well,” complained the elf. “It will gladden my heart if I know a hearty meal and exuberant mage await me once my shift ends.”

“I guarantee it. Now you’d better go before all the important people want to actually speak to you.”

“I’m going, have no fear.” Fenris’s features softened briefly as he nodded a goodbye to Fletcher. He then set off with his dwarven escort, occasionally stiffly raising an arm at the baying crowd.

“Poor bastard,” Donnic said to Fletcher. “What’s this business you need to take care of? You’ll need an escort, wherever you’re going.”

“It’s just around the corner.” Fletcher pointed ahead. “An escort probably isn’t necessary.”

“Up to no good, Hawke?” asked Donnic in a half-teasing tone.

“No, but I’m arranging a surprise for Fenris,” Fletcher whispered. “I don’t want it getting back to him.”

“All right, then.” Donnic called one of his guards over. “Tail Hawke, but keep your distance until he’s concluded his business.”

“Yes, Captain.” 

“I’m going into one of the houses on the quayside,” Fletcher explained. “If you could wait a short distance away, I’d be grateful.”

“Can do,” answered the guard, who waited for Fletcher to walk ahead before following him.

Upon reaching his destination, Fletcher paused outside the door to the old Chantry safehouse, taking out Varric’s note and reading it again:

_Hawke,_

_Get your ass over to that place of ours at the docks, you know the one. Use our secret knock. That ‘reflection’ on your bedroom window last night turned out to be a person, and we have him._

_There seems to be some activity at the docks today so you should be able to slip by without fuss. Whatever you do, don’t bring Fenris with you. He’ll attract too much attention and besides, we need this guy alive to answer questions._

_V._

Fletcher looked around and knocked on the door in the style he and Varric had agreed upon ages ago, in case of situations like these. The door was opened and closed in the blink of an eye, and Fletcher bundled inside. Varric and Nathaniel were waiting for him.

“He’s in the next room.” Varric thumbed over his shoulder. “I guessed you wouldn’t want the guards involved in this, as there are certain things they’re not allowed to do. Also, like I said in the note, we don’t want our champion charged with murder.” He sighed. “I just hope I didn’t waste too much time.”

“No, you did the right thing.” Fletcher looked at the door separating him and the intruder. “Is he from Tevinter?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Unless he’s an excellent mimic, he’s Antivan. One of the Crows, I’d wager, but he’s given us little information… save this.” He passed a folded piece of paper to Fletcher.

“It’s another wolf, Hawke,” said Varric heavily. “We asked him what he was doing in your house and he told us quite freely he was to put that in a prominent place, then leave. He planned on slipping it beneath your pillow, just for the hell of it.”

“In our bed?” Fletcher’s nostrils flared. “He _touched_ our bed? If Fenris had found this—!” He charged towards the door, but was grabbed and pulled back by Nathaniel.

“Save your ire,” the archer said. “If you go in there in this state, he’ll think you’re weak.”

Fletcher strained against Nathaniel’s grip on his arms. “Do you know what finding that drawing would have done to Fenris? He can think I’m as weak as he likes! Wait ‘til I get my fucking hands on him!”

“He didn’t get near the bed, Hawke,” Varric said. “Tufty and Sprinkles scared him off.”

“Did they?” Fletcher stopped struggling and blew out a sigh. “Oh.”

Varric patted his friend’s arm. “Chuckles is right. Our man needs to see the anger build up in you, needs to see it’s real. If you start off angry, it’ll put him at an advantage.”

“We’ve tried the softly-softly approach,” Nathaniel said. “Varric’s idea, not mine. As a next step, I thought meeting you in person might remind him there are real people involved in this, not just ‘marks’. I want him to see you’re _not_ a professional going through a process, like Varric and I. You’re emotionally invested, and emotional men can be dangerous.”

Fletcher unfolded the paper and stared at the tracing of the wolf, imagining Fenris’s reaction if he’d discovered it. “Aren’t the Crows assassins?” he said without looking up. “Surely Danarius wouldn’t get someone else to do his dirty work for him?”

“I don’t believe our assassin’s necessarily going after Fenris,” Nathaniel said bluntly.

Fletcher’s head snapped up. “Then who…?”

“What better way to punish an escaped slave? Take away not only his freedom, but the one thing—the one person—who means the most to him. With you out of the picture, Fenris would have no impetus to escape again. It would break him.”

Varric grunted. “I changed my mind about the softly-softly approach pretty damn fast when Chuckles figured that one out. Popped our man right in the kisser.” 

“In his line of work, this is nothing personal,” Nathaniel said to the dwarf, “and that is exactly how _we_ must view it. ‘Popping’ him gets us nowhere.”

“Maybe so, but it sure felt good.” Varric rubbed his swollen knuckles. 

Fletcher reached for the dwarf’s hand and examined it. “I’ll need to heal this later on when we’re somewhere safer. Just how hard did you hit him?”

“Hard enough to make him think twice about killing my friends.”

Nathaniel sighed in impatience. “That’s the assumption, yes, but we don’t have all the facts. He’s trained to withstand physical punishment, but assassins rarely get the chance to see their marks as people.” He addressed Fletcher. “Antivan men usually put their mothers on a pedestal. Play on that. Tell him how this has affected _your_ mother, your family. You may be able to get through to him.”

“And what if I can’t? What if he denies everything? Are we just going to let him go?”

“No. If this doesn’t work, I’ll get what we need from him, but more… extreme measures may be necessary. He knows how it works. He’s seeing how far he can push us.”

Fletcher exhaled and released Varric’s hand. “Just take me to him. I make no promises, but I’ll try.”

Nathaniel rested his hand on the door knob. “Remember—he needs to know how this has affected your family. Play the ‘mother’ card to its fullest.”

“Fine.” Fletcher paused before pushing the door open, wondering what he’d find within. 

At the other end of the small room, seated at a well-laden table, was a handsome, smartly-attired elf who looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. Only his split lip, courtesy of Varric, indicated otherwise.

Fletcher slowly approached the table, his eyes on the platter of delicacies and wine bottles upon it. He picked up one of the bottles, reading its label.

“What’s this?” He turned to Nathaniel, who’d followed him in. “Chateau Obridne? Do you know how much this stuff costs? Are we holding a party here?”

“I told you he wouldn’t like that,” Varric muttered.

Nathaniel suppressed a satisfied smile. Hawke was reacting exactly as he’d hoped. “We are not barbarians,” was his smooth answer, forestalling Fletcher’s spluttered retort. “Why don’t you tell our guest about yourself and your home?”

“Guest? He’s certainly being treated like one.” Fletcher gave Nathaniel a black look before facing Zevran, his demeanour hostile. “My name’s Hawke, as you probably know. I’m nobody, really, a farmer from Lothering. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Lothering. It was a little village at the arse end of the Bannorn. Nothing but peasants and cow shit as far as the eye could see. But it was my home.”

Zevran decided it would be best not to reveal that he’d passed through the arse end of the Bannorn on his way to lay his ill-fated trap for the wardens so long ago. He remained silent.

“The darkspawn destroyed Lothering and killed my brother, so we fled here,” Fletcher went on. “I worked hard to get my place in Hightown. Personally, I couldn’t care less about having a big, posh house, but I did it for my mother. She lost her husband _and_ her son, and she deserved it. It was supposed to be where she lives out her dotage in peace and safety. Until _you_ sullied it. Thanks to you, that place will never feel safe for her again. And, thanks to you, she's now staying in a shithole with a man who'd have to suck lemons to look happy.”

Zevran opened his mouth as if to speak, but Fletcher didn’t give him the chance.

“No, _you_ don’t get to say anything,” he said, his voice rising in volume, his cheeks flushing slightly. “The only reason you’re still breathing is because she and my sister weren’t at home. I’ve heard about men like you. You’re paid to kill but you want fringe benefits, don’t you? Kill the son and then help himself to the ladies? Well, I’ll tell you something for nothing—”

“Kill the son?” Zevran took an elegant sip of wine from his glass. “I am not being paid enough to kill, my dear fellow.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Fletcher’s breathing quickened as a myriad of irrational thoughts flooded his mind. “And just how did you find my bedroom? Did you try my mother’s first? Have a good rummage through her smalls drawer, did you? People like you sicken me!”

At that, Zevran seemed mildly offended. “You have quite the imagination, don’t you?” He took another sip of wine. “I have no interest in your mother’s smalls, _or_ what she keeps in them.”

“Stop drinking that!” Fletcher slapped the glass out of Zevran’s hand, showering the elf with wine and glass as it smashed against him. He then brought the wolf tracing close to the rogue’s face. “This! Do you even know what this means?”

Varric unconsciously took a step forward, concerned for his friend, but Nathaniel placed a firm hand against the dwarf’s chest, shaking his head.

Zevran shrugged and attempted to brush some of the shards of glass off his thighs. “What does it mean? It is a wolf. Very tastefully rendered, no? I wish I could claim to possess such talent, but sadly—”

The sudden blow to his face stunned him into silence. He saw stars for a second and then an explosion of pain accompanied the taste of blood in the back of his throat. Through the ringing in his ears and the blurring of his vision, he could discern the chunky Fereldan man hopping up and down, flexing his hand and cursing hard enough to make a dock worker blush.

“And now you’ve a broken nose to go with your split lip,” Howe remarked aridly. "Not going well so far, is it?"

Zevran lightly touched his nose, hissing as his fingers made contact, and spat out some blood. “Your observational skills do you credit.”

“You okay, Hawke?” Varric asked, but Fletcher ignored him.

He stared at the wolf tracing, pictured him and Fenris enjoying breakfast in bed and fooling around as they’d done that morning. In their bedroom, their private sanctuary from the world where they slept and made love, and where this detestable man had dared to set foot. 

Then, he imagined Fenris finding the tracing under the pillow, and the dull terror in the elf’s eyes as he unfolded it…

Enraged and panicked, he pushed the table aside and threw himself at Zevran, causing the chair to collapse. They crashed to the floor, Zevran shielding himself with his arms as Fletcher rained punches down on him. “Sitting there, drinking wine and making fucking wisecracks? Well drink _this!”_

“Enough!” rasped Zevran, Fletcher’s weight on his chest forcing the air out of his lungs. “Call off your dogs! Call off your dogs!”

Nathaniel and Varric hastily pulled Fletcher off the elf and held him back while Zevran staggered to his feet, cupping his bloody nose.

Fletcher was shaking, a wild look in his eyes as Varric and Nathaniel took him to the room next door.

“Nicely done,” said Nathaniel. “He should be ready to talk soon.”

“I think he’s ready to talk _now,”_ Varric snapped back. “Hawke needs to calm down. He’s a mage in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I’m aware of that, and I don’t believe it will hurt for our friend in there to see a demonstration of his powers.”

“No, this has gone far enough!”

“You asked for my assistance,” the warden said, “and I believe this method has yielded the desired result. Now we need to press home our advantage and make our guest see that Hawke truly means him harm.”

“Nathaniel.” Fletcher, panting and voice trembling, met the warden’s eyes. “Go outside and keep a lookout for templars.”

“Hawke.” Varric held Fletcher’s arm. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Please, Nathaniel, do as I’ve asked.”

Nathaniel nodded once. “Remember, we need him alive. For now.” The black-haired rogue slipped out and closed the door, leaving them alone.

“Chuckles is wrong,” Varric urged his friend. “You don’t need to show him your powers. He’s ready to talk to us.” 

“Varric,” Fletcher took a few tremulous breaths, “I need your help. I need you to… I don’t know what I need you to do. I’m going to do something… just…”

“Come on, sit down,” Varric said. Fletcher slumped into a nearby chair, and the dwarf passed him his hip flask. “Here. Drink this. All of it, if it helps.”

“Thanks.” Fletcher pulled off the stopper and drank deeply from the flask. He wiped his mouth and sighed as Varric pulled another chair across, sitting next to him. “I could have killed him,” the mage admitted. “He was there, in our bedroom, while we were trying to take Fenris’s mind off things last night. All I could think about was… I couldn’t think straight.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. After a minute or two, he looked at Varric. “This is what Nathaniel wanted, isn’t it?”

“He did, but I was in on it too,” Varric said. “We talked and he asked me what your temper’s like, what it would take to set you off. I said probably not much. Nathaniel brought in that wine and food, and I told him you’d definitely react to that. He said ‘good’.” He groaned and scrubbed his face. “He wanted to torture the guy but I didn’t want to go down that road yet. This seemed… the better choice. I’m sorry. I feel like we used you.”

Fletcher, disarmed by Varric’s guilt, nodded. “We’re all trying to do our best here. You’ve done more than I’ll ever be able to repay, and the clock’s ticking. I understand.”

“Nathaniel’s good at what he does, I mean he tailed this guy all of yesterday. I don’t think he even stopped to eat. He’s ruthless, but we need someone like that, and he’s on our side. I knew violence might be necessary but when I saw you beating on him like that... I didn’t want that for you.” He shook his head. “I believe we’ve gotten through to him. Think you can go back in there and finish this?”

“What if I can’t, Varric? What if I lose control again? Just looking at him makes me want to burn him.”

“I get the feeling our guest won’t be as cocky this time around, but if you feel yourself getting wound up again, we leave and let Nathaniel take care of it. We need this information _one_ way or another. Like you said, the clock's ticking. At least we tried it our way.”

Fletcher thought about that for a moment. “All right.”

They stood up. “Let me question him, okay?” said Varric.

“Good idea.” 

“That was some pretty impressive cursing back there. Did you bust your hand?”

Fletcher raised his right hand to his face, unable to straighten his fingers. “Probably. I’ll fix it. Yours, too.”

“Then let’s give our friend a demonstration of those powers of yours. Just a taster.”

When they returned to the neighbouring room, Zevran was still standing against the far wall, his doublet slick with blood from his nose. 

“Okay,” Varric began. “The last thing we want is for my friend here to become possessed by a Rage demon. That’s not going to end well for any of us.”

Zevran watched Fletcher warily. “You’re a mage?” 

Fletcher faced Varric and took his injured hand. He concentrated for a second, a pale nimbus of light surrounding it. “Yes. I can heal people or set fire to them. They tend to prefer healing.” His voice was quiet, almost cautious.

Varric gave Fletcher a hopeful smile. “All better. Now, yours.”

Fletcher healed a chipped bone in his own hand and turned to Zevran. “I know what Nathaniel wants me to do. His threats won’t move you because you’re a professional. He wants me to snap, for you to see a man who genuinely wants to kill you.” He looked down at his own hand, which was still aching, and wiggled his fingers. “That’s probably true, but... that would make me no better than you, than Danarius.”

Varric joined in. “You know Nathaniel can and will kill you if we don’t figure things out, right?” he said to Zevran. “Why don’t you let Hawke heal that nose and then we can talk. You might get out of this alive.”

“And then we will shake hands and go our merry ways,” said Zevran in a sing-song voice, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood from his nose. “Perhaps exchange gifts on naming days. Or you will have your Howe kill me anyway. Such a weighty decision. How much time shall you give me to decide?”

Fletcher stepped closer to him, making a conscious effort to steady his breathing. “None. What happens afterwards depends on what you give us now. Let me fix that nose.”

“But... why?”

“Because _you_ may make a living out of harming people, but I don’t.” He fixed Zevran with an unwavering stare. “I hate you, but I’m still a decent man thanks to the way my mother raised me. I’m not going to let someone like _you_ change that. Now stand _still,”_ he ordered, anger creeping back into his voice.

Zevran backed away a little as Fletcher reached forward, closing his eyes, one hand making contact with Zevran’s face.

“Yes, that’s broken. This is going to sting. A lot, if I have anything to do with it.”

The spell complete, Fletcher stepped back while Zevran adjusted his healed nose.

Varric pointed at Fletcher. “This is Hawke, as you know, and I’m Varric, as you also know. The ice king with the bow is Nathaniel. Who might you be?”

Zevran shrugged, deciding he didn’t fancy the rest of his face being broken… or incinerated. “My name is Zevran Arainai, out of Antiva City, most recently of… wherever we are. It smells of fish.”

“Yeah, it’ll do that. Well, I believe you on the name, anyway. No way you could make _that_ one up. Guess your parents had a sense of humour, huh?”

“Ah, so we are making light-hearted banter, yes? You are the good guy and your friend is the heavy?”

“We’re both good guys, provided you’re willing to answer some questions.”

“Oh, I am more than willing. It seems the least lethal option, wouldn’t you say?”

“Only if you tell the truth,” Fletcher interjected.

“We’re not interested in who’s paying you,” Varric resumed. “We already know that. We need to know what he’s paying you _for._ Are you here just to intimidate Hawke and Fenris, or to kill one of them? Or both?”

“None of those things,” Zevran said. “As we have already established, I am not being paid enough to kill.”

Varric frowned. “Then why would someone hire an assassin just to snoop around?”

“Who says I am an assassin?”

“Oh, come on! Nathaniel said you were carrying enough poison to fell a high dragon.”

Zevran smirked a little, but desisted when faced with a cold glare from Fletcher. “Alas, you have cunningly smoked me out. I am indeed an assassin by profession.”

“One of the Crows?” asked Varric.

“Once, yes, but we… parted ways a time ago. These days I work for myself, but finding jobs while keeping a low profile is tricky. I take what I can get.”

Varric scoffed. “Ha! You parted ways with the Crows and you’re still alive?”

“Yes, hence the keeping of the low profile. My current employer hinted that I may be required to perform ‘other’ tasks once he arrives in town, which may or may not involve killing, but for now I am to gather intelligence and leave these drawings where Fenris will find them. I did not ask as to their significance. If they have intimidated anyone, I do not know why.”

“When’s he due to arrive in town?” Fletcher said.

“That, I cannot guess. I was told I would be sent for. There will be adverse, localised weather conditions in Kirkwall on that day—snow and winds, unusual for the time of year. That is to be the signal.”

“Can one mage create snow and winds on his own?” Varric said to Fletcher. “I remember you needed Blondie’s help that one time in Lowtown to get rid of the poison gas.”

“He’s a blood mage, isn’t he? Your people said he had about a dozen slaves with him. It’ll be those poor sods that power his spells. His equivalent mana draw is limitless so long as he has living subjects.”

Zevran cocked an eyebrow. “I see you’ve been gathering intelligence of your own.”

“We know a lot, but not everything,” said Varric. “We need you to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle. Exactly when were you given this job? Did Danarius himself meet with you?”

“No. It was arranged through an intermediary, as is usual. It was a dead drop, received five days ago. I am to meet with this Danarius fellow for the first time when he arrives in Kirkwall.”

Varric nodded. “Where are you going to meet him? Vinmark pass?”

A low chuckle rumbled out of Zevran. “You have it all figured out, my friends. Why do you have need of me at all?”

“Answer the question,” Fletcher demanded, “and we’re not your bloody friends.”

Zevran rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes, yes, the mountain pass. During my time here, I am to arrange secure lodgings out of town for two persons; hire fast horses; and find out what I can about Fenris. Thanks to your garrulous guard-captain, he is now famous as Kirkwall’s champion and saviour. My task was not difficult.”

“Then you’ll know he’s very heavily protected,” Fletcher said.

“Not as protected as you may desire. Your taste in bedroom furnishings is a little… ostentatious. You _really_ like golden silks, don’t you?”

Fletcher lurched forward but Varric grabbed his arm. “And I hear a pair of nugs had you shitting your pants in that golden bedchamber,” the dwarf said as Fletcher reluctantly backed down.

“Nugs? That is what they were? Yes, well, they were particularly tough and vicious nugs, then. It is true, they almost gave me away. I assure you, however, that there was no shitting of pants. My point is, no security arrangement is perfect. There are always flaws that can be exploited by those crafty enough.” 

“You mean those crafty enough not to get caught?”

“Touché.” Zevran laughed and waggled a finger. “You are a sharp little one, aren’t you?”

“I have my moments. And I’m guessing you’re to take these ‘flaws’ back to your employer?” 

“That _was_ the plan, yes, although at this moment in time it seems increasingly unlikely.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Varric released Fletcher’s arm and grinned up at him. “I think we should send our elf on his way and let him complete his job.”

Fletcher gave the dwarf a doubtful look. _“Should_ we? How’d you work that out?”

“Simple. He gives Danarius what he’s being paid for—information. Nobody said it has to be the _correct_ information.”

“That’s all well and good, but there’s one tiny flaw. We can’t trust him.”

“That’s where Chuckles comes in.” Varric moved towards the door and spoke to Zevran. “Wait here. We’ll be back.”

“I shall continue to enjoy this fishy, wooden hovel while you are gone,” answered the elf.

They went to the room next door and Nathaniel was called back in.

“We’ve got what we need,” Varric told the archer.

Nathaniel looked at the blood on Fletcher’s hands and tunic. “Is he still alive?”

Fletcher nodded. “I healed him. Varric has a plan.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“If you’re willing,” Varric said to Nathaniel, “we need to keep him somewhere—his name’s Zevran, by the way—until Danarius arrives. Zevran’s going to give him the wrong information.”

“Leading him into a trap.” Nathaniel nodded in approval. “You need me to ensure this incorrect information is delivered, I take it?”

“Yeah. It all depends if you’ve got the time. You’ve helped us a lot already.”

“Unless I’m called away by the wardens or there’s a development in the Deep Roads, I have no immediate plans. You and your friends downed tools at the mining site, few questions asked, when I asked you to. I’m glad to render assistance in return. Now that we know this Zevran is not of Tevinter, I can.”

Fletcher spoke. “Thank you. I _would_ shake your hand, but it’s covered in blood."

“We’d best get you cleaned up,” Nathaniel said. “You need to leave and take your guard with you. Varric and I will deal with our guest.” He started stripping out of his upper garments and passed Fletcher his water skin, which the mage used to wash the blood off his hands. “Give me your tunic.”

Clothing exchanged, Fletcher managed a chuckle as he looked at his leather-clad chest. “This is actually loose on me! That’s never happened before.”

“What about him?” Varric nodded at the neighbouring room. “He’s a bloody mess. Literally.”

“Alienage market,” Fletcher said. “You should be able to pick up something elf-sized. Tell them it’s for the Champion. They’ll throw it at you.”

“Leave it to me.” Varric headed for the door. “I’ll pick up something for Nathaniel, too.”

“And now I can shake your hand.” Fletcher clasped Nathaniel’s hand with both of his. “I won’t forget this, I swear.”

“I’m not doing this for you. My brood-off victory was called into question by certain parties,” Nathaniel quipped, his eyes slowly settling on Varric. “I demand a rematch, and I won’t get one without Fenris.”

“You’ll get one,” Fletcher whispered, emotion welling up inside him. He abruptly turned for the door and headed out with the dwarf.

Varric gave him a minute to compose himself before speaking. “So. You going to tell Fenris about this?”

Fletcher drew a deep breath as they slowly walked along. “I’ll tell him _most_ of it when he’s finished his shift. I’d better tell Donnic about the snow, so he can get some people together when the time comes. The rest, he doesn’t need to know about for now.” He looked around. “It’s going to happen soon, isn't it? I can feel it.”

“And we’ll be ready when it does,” Varric said with conviction.

Fletcher glanced down at his friend, his best friend, and swallowed hard. “I know you’re going to kill me, but…” He dropped to one knee and pulled the dwarf into a quick hug before standing and walking off, his guard falling into line next to him.

Varric sighed and straightened Bianca. “Maker, we’d _better_ be ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Stultitia! = Folly!


	122. The Best-Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Until this moment, I had thought you incapable of such selfishness! I am trying to protect you!"
> 
> "And I'm trying to protect _you!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Carrie for squeezing this 8,000-worder into her crazy life. You're the best!

**The Hanged Man**

Zevran was shoved into the dimly-lit cellar and ordered to sit on a barrel by Nathaniel, who closed the main door and leaned against it, arms folded.

“This is to be your home until we hear from your master,” the black-haired rogue said. “Danarius, wasn’t it?”

Zevran rolled his golden eyes. “That is his name, yes, but master? No. I am no slave,” he said with haughty disdain.

“A snob as well as a poor excuse for an assassin? Your virtues have no beginning, do they?”

“So, first of all you have your Fereldan oaf beat me, and now you aim to crush me with words. How charmingly southern of you.”

“Welcome to the Hanged Man. A small piece of the south in the Free Marches, just for you.”

“Such a gracious host.” Zevran watched as Nathaniel turned towards the door and opened it. “Where are you going?”

“Out. You’ll stay here until I return.”

Zevran let out a derisory laugh. “And you call me an amateur? Do you not see the tunnel leading off this charming hole?”

Nathaniel smiled with his eyes only. “Let me explain what’s happening at this very moment. Your likeness is being circulated to every member of the city guard, as are your plans. My associates have explained to the guard that your usefulness will cease if you attempt to escape. If you’re seen without either me or one of my associates, they have orders from their captain to kill you on sight.” 

_“If_ they can catch me.” 

“I don’t see them having much trouble. From what I witnessed in the tunnel, you have no stealth skills, and I certainly didn’t find any trap-making equipment on you. That’s where you and I differ. Try the tunnel, by all means. Also… a tiny detail… I have your knives and flasks.”

“Why would I need weapons when I have... other attributes?” Zevran said with a glint in his eye, arching his back and tossing his hair over his shoulder.

Nathaniel looked utterly bored. “Sadly for you, the guards aren’t swayed by a pretty face… _or_ displays of whorish debasement.”

Zevran waggled his eyebrows. “And you, my tenebrous, brooding fellow? Such skilled hands must crave the feel of supple Antivan skin, yes? Or are you a leather man?”

“Even if I did fancy men, which I don’t, I expect they’d need to actually look like men for there to be an attraction. Which means you’re out of luck on all fronts.” 

Zevran sat up straight, his lips pursed. “I take exception to that remark.”

“That’s about all you will be taking during your stay here.” Nathaniel continued on his way, but almost bumped into a slightly breathless Varric as he left. “I was coming to look for you.”

“Yeah, well, those steps are a bitch.” The dwarf entered the cellar and waited until Nathaniel had closed the door. “Here.” He walked up to Zevran and pushed a wrapped bundle into his hands. “Food. That’s all you’re getting for today, so make it last. And before you ask, no, you don’t know it isn’t poisoned, but I guess you’ll have to take your chances.” Varric then returned to Nathaniel and passed him a small, leather-bound folder. “Grizzly and his men are on the case. Said to give this to you. He wants it back, though, and in one piece.”

“Oh?” With a small frown, Nathaniel opened the folder and read the two documents within for a few minutes. “Well, well… this _is_ interesting. Seems the city guard has a file on you,” he said to Zevran. “Zevran Arainai, acclaimed companion of the Hero of Ferelden during the fifth Blight, no less. You didn’t mention that.”

“Nathaniel Howe, son of Rendon, Butcher of Denerim, no less,” Zevran retorted. “He made the most common gurgling sound when I slit his throat.”

Unmoved, Nathaniel shook his head. “I don’t think so. From what the warden-commander told me, you pranced around like a ballerina, waving your daggers to little effect, while he and your friends did the dirty work. You might have nicked Father’s skin a bit, but it was, in fact, the King of Ferelden who ended his life. A sword through the heart will usually do that.”

Zevran’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You know Llewellyn Surana?”

“He’s a friend of mine… in a fashion. The king, too. They told me about you, but I didn’t put the name to the description until now.”

“You consort with the men who killed your father?” Zevran asked in astonishment. “Do you not even care?”

“Should I?”

The Antivan shook his head. “Mierda santa. You are as cold as a Chantry sister’s bed.”

“Where’s Hawke?” Nathaniel asked Varric.

“I don’t think our friend here needs to know that.”

“Perhaps being guarded by incompetent dwarves?” ventured Zevran.

“So what happened?” Varric asked Zevran in a sympathetic tone. “I read your file on the way here. You were a hero after the Blight! You could have had the ear of the king, your pick of positions in the royal court… how d’you wind up doing something as sordid as this?”

“Sordid? My profession is one of the oldest in the world!”

“So’s prostitution,” Nathaniel pointed out.

“Now who is the snob? Both professions provide a service, one that is popular and, more often than not, necessary. And let us not pretend that a position in the court of Ferelden would be any less ‘sordid’ considering my skills. I do what I am best at.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“All right.” Varric touched Nathaniel’s sleeve before addressing Zevran. “You were one of the good guys once. You must have _some_ decency in you. Do you really know who you’re working for? What’s behind all this?”

“I have a reputation,” said Zevran, while Nathaniel snorted and started walking around the perimeter of the cellar, “for professionalism and discretion. I do not ask, nor do I care.”

“Then maybe it’s about time you learned the truth,” Varric said. “I just cut a deal with the captain of the guard on your behalf. If you co-operate with us and help us stop Danarius, you’ll be let go, no questions asked. You can collect whatever he’s paying you, we don’t care about that.”

“And I should take you at your word, why?” 

“Nathaniel?”

The warden produced a document from the leather folder and passed it to Zevran. After giving him a minute to read it, Varric spoke again.

“This guarantees you immunity from prosecution, interrogation and yada yada yada. That, there, is the seal of the Kirkwall Guard.”

“And the second one?” asked Zevran.

“The seal of the Steward’s Office. Bran himself agreed to this. This is the Champion we’re talking about. Kirkwall looks after its heroes. Trust me, you wanna be on our side.”

“Hm.” Zevran folded the letter and pocketed it. “And if we do not stop Danarius?”

“I imagine he’ll kill you,” Nathaniel remarked. “So it’s in your best interests to help us. If you double-cross us, though, _I’ll_ kill you.”

Zevran’s honeyed voice took on a wry tone. “When you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

“That’s the spirit!” Varric patted the Antivan on the arm before pushing a barrel closer and perching himself on it. “Now listen up. I’m going to tell you exactly who you’re working for, and what he wants with the Champion. You seem a pretty decent guy to me, although the Void will freeze over before Hawke believes that, but I digress. I get the feeling you might not need as much strong-arming to screw over your employer once we’re done.”

“I am, like the rest of my kin, all ears,” Zevran said, pleased with his quip. Met with Nathaniel’s glacial stare, he turned his attention back to the more affable dwarf.

**Viscount’s Keep, guard-captain’s office**

“You’d better sit down, Hawke.” Donnic closed his office door and pointed to the seat opposite his own.

“Why have I been brought here? Is something wrong? Is Bethany all right? Mother?”

“No, it’s about you. Sit down.”

“Me?” Fletcher slowly took a seat, not quite sure what he’d done wrong, but wary nonetheless.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’ll give me honest answers. This isn’t the time for your unique brand of humour. Understood?”

“Donnic, you’re scaring me.”

The captain drummed his fingers against the desk and looked Fletcher squarely in the eyes. “What did you do to Zevran Arainai?”

“What?” An involuntary nervous laugh left Fletcher’s lips. “What are you talking about?”

“When you left that residence at the docks, your guard escort noticed you’d changed clothes, _and_ that you were rubbing your right hand and wincing.”

“What? That doesn’t mean a thing!”

“I said this isn’t the time. Tell me. I’m trying to save you from the templars here, so talk!”

“What?”

“Stop saying ‘what’!”

“O-okay! I’m sorry! I, uh, we, I mean…” Fletcher paused for breath. “I beat him up a bit.”

“With magic?”

“Magic? How can I beat someone up with magic? I used my fist, hence the wincing! And what’s this about the templars?”

Donnic rubbed his brow and grunted. “Did you use _any_ magic at all?”

“Well, yes, I healed him afterwards, I broke his nose and…” Fletcher’s face dropped. “But... we had someone looking out for the templars! They couldn’t have known!”

“A templar doesn’t need to be in plain sight to detect mana usage, do they? You were followed.”

Fletcher stared, slack-mouthed, at the captain for a moment, his mind and heart racing. “Then… then why didn’t they apprehend me in the street?”

“Because you’re the Champion’s companion, that’s why. They knew who you were and went to Cullen for advice. You’re lucky they didn’t go to Meredith because there’s no way you’d be here now if they had.”

“Cullen,” Fletcher said heavily. “I was on my last chance with him.”

“I had a visit from him not long ago.” Donnic paused and worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “He wants to be civilised for Fenris’s sake. You have twenty-four hours to put your affairs in order. You’re then to voluntarily present yourself at the Gallows. If you don’t, they’ll come for you, Champion’s boyfriend or not. Sorry, Hawke. I tried to delay—”

Fletcher sprang forward in his seat, panicked. “But I can’t! Not with all that’s going on with Fenris! Danarius is on his way, in case you’d forgotten! There’s no way I’m not going to be with him when that bastard arrives in town!”

Donnic pushed himself up and stood behind his chair, gripping it with both hands. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure a way out of this. I could appeal to Bran because of who you are, see if he can step in, but—”

“No,” Fletcher said decisively. “I’d never use Fenris’s position for my own gain, and neither would he.” 

“I had a feeling you’d say that. I’m not optimistic Bran would agree to that anyway, or that he’d even have any influence with the templars.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” Fletcher asked in desperation. “I’d be perfectly willing to go to the Gallows after this is all sorted out, you know that! Just not yet! Fenris and I have talked about this and even he wants me to be Harrowed and become Sam’s apprentice! Well, he doesn’t exactly _want_ me to be Harrowed, but… bollocks!” He slapped the desk with his palm and stood up, turning his back on Donnic and folding his arms.

“The only way I can see you getting around this is by appealing to Cullen directly,” Donnic said. “It doesn’t sound like the templars as a whole are after you, or they’d have nabbed you already. I did try negotiating with him, but in all fairness he’s doing his duty. Mages aren’t the only ones under scrutiny at the Gallows.”

Fletcher glanced over his shoulder. “How am I supposed to appeal directly to Cullen?”

“Write him a letter. If you’re quick, it’s changeover in half an hour. I’ll have the dock patrol give it to the boat man.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker for me to give it to the boat man? I was going to visit Mother at Gamlen’s anyway.”

“No, you’re to stay here, at the Keep. In light of what Varric told me today, I’ve decided it’s no longer safe for you to be at the house. Fenris is being brought here as we speak. I’m going to get him started on training his unit, give him something else to think about.”

Fletcher heaved a sigh. “All right. I don’t suppose you have any vellum?”

“I do.” Donnic pushed his inkpot and quill across the desk and took a sheet out of his bottom drawer, laying it out flat. “Don’t get your hopes up about this, Hawke. Cullen’s men have made a report to him. He’s got to be seen to act.”

“I know… but I’ve got to try.” Fletcher sat down again and picked up the quill, then paused. “Fenris thought of a name for his unit.”

“Oh, yes?”

“‘The Reckoning’.”

Donnic nodded, a wan smile on his face. “I like that. In fact, it’s perfect.”

“I know! He’s also named his new sword ‘Venenum Stulti’--Bane of Fools. That was my idea. He thinks it’s a bit vulgar, but I liked the way it sounded in Tevene so he indulged me. He… he does that a lot, you know. Indulges me.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t do it, Donnic. What if Cullen says no?”

“Look, Hawke, we all know this isn’t going to be permanent. You’ll be Harrowed and then you’ll start your apprenticeship with Sam.” He shrugged. “I just can’t say how much time will pass between the two. They haven’t sorted that part out yet.”

“But I need to be here now! I’m not going to the Gallows until Danarius is taken care of. I’m not!”

“Just write your letter. If he says no, we’ll have to think of something.”

“Like what?”

Donnic gave Fletcher a look of impatience. “If that letter isn’t done by the time handover’s finished, it won’t be going. I suggest you get a move on.”

“All right, all right!” Fletcher sighed and inked the quill, hurriedly writing a salutation to Cullen. “Donnic,” he said as the captain went towards the door, “thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to alter the rota before handover, think I’ll put myself down for a patrol. I’ve been itching to kick someone’s arse since that little misunderstanding with the Qunari. And boy, do I need to kick arse today.”

~o~O~o~

Fletcher penned his letter in time, although he wasn’t completely happy with it. After handing it to the patrol bound for the docks, he kicked his heels at the barracks until Fenris arrived with his guard escort. Sensing that Fletcher wanted to talk, Fenris took him to his shared quarters, which was empty, and closed the door.

Fletcher looked at the four bunk beds, all neatly made-up. “Will I be staying here with you?”

“Alas, no. You’ve been assigned guest quarters. Ironic, isn’t it, that tonight a wanted apostate will sleep in a more comfortable bed than Kirkwall’s Champion?”

“You’ve heard about that, then?” Fletcher said glumly. “I was about to tell you.”

Fenris gestured to his bottom bunk and they sat next to each other. “Lieutenant Grant informed me of that on our way here, as well the deal struck with this… Zevran.” He drew a slow, deliberate breath. “The captain also told me you mean to appeal against Cullen’s directive, or at least delay it.”

“I’ve already done it. There’s a letter on its way to Cullen right now. Don’t worry, Fen, I was polite and all that. I don’t really know what else I can do.”

“Mm.” Fenris pushed himself up and moved to the window, where he looked out across the training yard.

Fletcher watched him, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic about it.”

Fenris looked out of the window for a little while longer before turning back, his expression serious. “Have you considered that, in our current situation, this may be for the best?”

“What do you mean?” Fletcher’s tone was defensive, and Fenris knew he needed to tread carefully.

“How’s your hand?”

“What’s my hand got to do with anything?”

Fenris took his place next to Fletcher again and reached for the mage’s right hand, examining its inflamed knuckles. He kissed the middle one. “You gave him quite a pasting, didn’t you?”

“He was in our bedroom.”

“So I heard.”

“Fen, tell me what you meant by ‘for the best’.”

Keeping hold of Fletcher’s hand, Fenris looked into his eyes. “I have been thinking… do you remember when I told you about the Fog Warriors? About… how I obeyed Danarius’s command to kill them without question?”

Fletcher snatched his hand away and stood up. “No. I know what you’re going to say and it’s not going to happen. You wouldn’t, I know you wouldn’t.”

“Can you be certain of that?”

“Yes! You’re not that man anymore! You’re not just some puppet, y-you’re an intelligent person with his own feelings and opinions! You don’t…” Fletcher shook his head, his face flushing. “You’d never hurt me. I know you wouldn’t.”

Fenris rose, going to stand in front of Fletcher. “I would sooner die than see you hurt,” the elf said tenderly, “which means I _welcome_ Cullen’s orders. Even Danarius would not attempt to breach a Circle.”

“Then… then you’ve got to come with me! I’ll go if you do! You can stay there until the templars have caught Danarius! You’ll be safe there! I’m sure we can arrange something… you _are_ the Champion, after all.”

The elf huffed. “I must be here to meet Danarius. You _know_ that, Fletcher. I need to witness his death with my own eyes. And I need to know you will be safe when the time comes.”

“No! My place is at your side!” Fletcher moved away from Fenris, unable to look at him. “I need to be there, too!”

“Do you not understand? Danarius has a host of demons at his beck and call. He is capable of mind control! He could turn you into a puppet with a mere thought! Could you live with yourself if he ordered you to cut me down? Could you cope with that scene being played out each time you closed your eyes, for the rest of your life? Knowing you were responsible for my death, while not being granted the mercy of your own?”

Fletcher didn’t answer, though his breathing was audible. 

“In the Fade,” Fenris went on, “I betrayed you. I tried to kill you. I could see what I was doing but I had no will over my own body. Even my thoughts were not my own. That was one demon’s doing--one that looked into my heart and knew exactly what I wanted, saw exactly what I feared the most. It twisted those things until I wanted, _needed_ to kill the man I love. One demon, Fletcher. Danarius has many, and will summon them to the physical world where death is real and final.”

Fletcher stepped away from the elf’s touch to his shoulder and gulped hard. “Let’s… let’s just wait and see what Cullen says.”

“Listen to me. Cullen has publicly declared his intention to capture you to the captain. He is not going to change his mind. It would be better for all concerned if you went willingly. I will take you there now.”

“I said no, Fen.”

“So what do you intend to do, then?” the elf said in exasperation. “Abscond?”

“If I have to, yes.”

Fenris grabbed Fletcher’s arm and pulled him around to face him. “Until this moment I had thought you incapable of such selfishness! I am trying to protect you!”

“And I’m trying to protect _you!”_

Fenris paused, lowering his voice, but his growing tension was evident. “Were I in your position, I would feel the same. There would be no reasoning with me. But you are a mage, Fletcher, one who is not yet Harrowed. You are more susceptible to a blood mage’s influence than anyone else. And let us not forget your emotional nature. If you were to lose control of yourself, you would provide any demon with a bridge to this world--with you as its host.”

“When have I been reckless lately?” the mage demanded. “When have I lost control?”

Fenris clasped Fletcher’s sore hand and raised it, turning his knuckles upwards. “You broke a man’s nose and your own hand because he entered our bedroom.”

“What else should I have done? Tweaked his nose and told him not to do it again?”

“Can you look me in the eye and tell me you were in complete command of your faculties at the time? Can you?”

“That… that’s not fair!”

“It _is_ fair and it _is_ relevant. Zevran Arainai merely entered our home to plant something he claims not to know the significance of. Danarius systematically brutalised the man you love, and now wants him dead. The two are worlds apart. You are gentle at heart and yet, when incited, you are capable of fury. A mage who loses control is at their most vulnerable, and at grave risk of possession.” Fenris sighed softly. “It is for these reasons you _must_ be kept out of any fighting.”

“I don’t need to fight,” Fletcher said weakly and without conviction. “I’m a healer. I-I healed you when you were fighting the Arishok, didn’t I? I cared for you afterwards. I _can_ protect you.”

Fenris gave a sad smile and raised a hand to caress Fletcher’s cheek. “Your care and love have truly given my life meaning. But Danarius is incapable of seeing beauty or magnificence in anything but his egregious need for power. He will sense the bond between us and seek to break it, as will his demons. They will turn us against one another. It can only end in ruin for us both.”

A tear trickled down Fletcher’s cheek. “But I love you. I’d never turn against you. And you wouldn’t turn against me again, I know you wouldn’t. What we have is more powerful than anything Danarius could conjure up.”

“But therein lies the danger. The purer the sentiment, the greater the potential for corruption. What we have... could be the very thing that destroys us. Your desire to protect me, laudable though it is, rings hollow. You _cannot_. I’m sorry.”

Fletcher slowly shook his head, regret in his eyes and voice when he spoke. “No, _I’m_ sorry, Fen.”

Fenris’s eyes lowered. “You’re finally going to break my heart, aren’t you?”

Fletcher wiped his own eyes. “My place is at your side, in life _or_ death.”

“Lux Mea, you are a stubborn fool.” Resigned, Fenris turned for the door. “I pray it does not prove your undoing. If you were to…” He loosed a shaky sigh and opened the door. “I tried. At least I tried.”

“Fenris—”

“I have my unit to assemble,” the elf said without looking back. “They need to know their new name.”

“It’s a good one,” Fletcher called, but Fenris was already walking away. Fletcher went back into the room, his insides heaving, and kicked the foot of Fenris’s bunk. “Shit!”

**The Gallows, apprentice wing**

Bethany had settled into life at the Gallows and, although she missed her home, family and friends, she was surprised by how much she was starting to enjoy being part of a Circle. She’d made new friends here, and was quickly becoming known to the templars as a responsible and trustworthy mage.

As a result of this, she’d been asked to mentor one of the apprentices, something she’d jumped at. Such a duty usually fell to the senior enchanters, but there were a small number of Harrowed mages who were also selected once they’d proven their maturity and disciplined command of magic. Bethany had worked hard to do just that.

She’d been paired up with a fifteen-year old girl named Edwina, or ‘Plummy’ to her friends after her refined dialect and speech. No one knew of her origins nor did Plummy speak of them, but Bethany strongly suspected she’d come from a noble family. Plummy was a sensible girl on the whole and one who would one day make a fine enchanter, but occasionally she showed her age and did something downright silly. It was at these times that Bethany thought of Fletcher, a man in his late twenties capable of feats of silliness a teenager would be in awe of. Maker, she missed him.

Today was study day for the apprentices and no casting would be allowed. In fact, there was to be no casting at all in the Gallows today (until further notice) because a Harrowing was taking place. Although the templars seemed to go about their business as usual, they were in fact on high alert.

Bethany recalled her own Harrowing: she’d come close to being taken in by a demon masquerading as a friend, but thankfully had noticed one or two things that seemed off. When her ‘friend’ had finally offered her something that seemed too good to be true she’d rejected it, thus successfully passing the trial.

It would be a year or two at least before Plummy was ready for hers, and it was Bethany’s task to ensure she was prepared for it without actually telling her what it involved. Although they’d only been together for a week, Bethany already knew they were going to be friends.

“Shall we take a break?” she asked Plummy, snapping the dry, heavy tome they’d been studying closed. “Tea?”

“Oh, I’d love a cup.”

“Go on, then. It’s your turn,” Bethany said with a cheeky smile.

Plummy groaned in a way only teenagers could, hauled herself up and made a show of trudging away. “You’re such a slavedriver.”

“One lump for me, thanks.”

“I know! I remember from the umptillion other cups I’ve made you!”

“That’s not a number,” clucked Bethany. “Do I need to ask your mathematics tutor for extra homework?”

“Ugh!”

Bethany giggled to herself as Plummy headed for the small kitchen area. She stretched her arms, taking an idle look around the huge library they were in, wondering why an extra templar had been posted there today. The apprentice wing was as far from the Harrowing Chamber as it was possible to be, so surely that wasn’t the reason?

She watched the templar for a few moments, noticing he or she (it was difficult to tell due to the armour and helmet, although they were quite tall) seemed a little furtive, and kept glancing at the other templars posted by the door as he/she walked around. Surely it wasn’t a mage in disguise? She’d heard one of the mages had got a hold of a templar suit before she’d arrived there, and had walked around the Gallows for almost a whole morning before it was discovered they were missing. They’d done it as a lark, with no intention of escaping, but the templars hadn’t seen the funny side. 

Was one of them really stupid enough to attempt an escape during a Harrowing?

Although Bethany would not normally interfere with the plans of others, she knew that if this was indeed a mage up to no good, their punishment would be severe--the templars took Harrowings extremely seriously and would suffer no disruptions or depletion of their manpower.

With a sigh she stood up and walked vaguely in the direction of the mysterious templar, taking a book from the nearest shelf and pretending to read it as the armoured person passed by.

“You’re not supposed to be in here, are you?” she said softly, not looking up from the book. “What are you doing? Do you know what they’ll do to you if you’re caught?”

“You must be mistaken, Miss,” a masculine voice said from behind the helmet. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m on duty.”

“Oh… in that case, I apologise, ser knight.”

“As you were, Miss.”

“Right you are.” She turned away from him but was struck by the familiarity of his voice. Suddenly, she realised who he was. “Ser Ruben?” she whispered. “You don’t work in here, do you? Aren’t you usually on duty in Templar Hall?”

He stopped in his tracks and also reached for a random book, smoothing a fine layer of dust off its surface. “I said ‘as you were’.”

“Is something going on?” She stepped a little closer to him, maintaining a casual countenance. “Go on, tell me. Nothing exciting ever happens around here.”

“Miss Hawke.” His tone was sharp but it quickly softened. “Please. Do not draw attention to me.”

“All right. I’m sorry.” She replaced the book on the shelf and quickly returned to her table. She did not look at Ser Ruben again, nor did she look up, until Plummy returned with their tea.

“I heard the knight-commander coming up the hall,” the apprentice told her. “Maker, you’d think she was chewing a wasp by her voice.”

“Shh!” Bethany elbowed her. “She might be on her way here.”

“I think she was.”

The templars at the door stood to attention as Meredith swept into the library, a look of mild disgust on her face as she scanned the large space. Then, upon spotting Ruben, she beckoned to him with one finger. He marched up to her and gave her a salute she did not return.

“Ser Ruben, you will explain to me why you have left your post for the second time in as many days. I also seem to recall your penchant for wandering the halls after lights-out. Do you have a nervous disorder? Should I send for a healer?”

Ruben went to speak but Meredith held a palm up. “I will spare you further ignominy by conducting the rest of this conversation in my office. Do _not_ tarry.”

Bethany and Plummy watched from their small table as Meredith left, and strained to hear the discussion between the three templars at the door.

“It wasn’t us,” one of the regular templars said quietly.

“I know.”

“You’d better go. I hope you’ve got a good story this time.”

Ruben girded himself and exited, disappearing from sight.

“What do you suppose that was about?” whispered Plummy in excitement. “Sounds like he’s in trouble.”

Bethany, who was staring at the door, failed to hear what Plummy had said. She slowly stood up. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Beth! Don’t get involved! You’re always telling me that, aren’t you?”

“Who said anything about getting involved?” She opened the book they’d been studying. “I want you to be able to recite the Vodic table by the time I return.”

“Ha! Easy!”

“In Arcanum.”

“Aw, Beth!”

“No arguments. Get cracking.”

Leaving behind a morose Plummy, Beth approached the templars at the door.

“Where are you going, Miss Hawke?”

“Call of nature,” she said, hopping from foot to foot. “I don’t think I can wait for an escort! Take pity on me, will you?”

The templars looked at each other, one of them shrugging. “You do know that if you start casting today the whole place will come down on you? I’d strongly advise against that, particularly if you’re in the latrine.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I should have let you know earlier, but being a girl you don’t always get much warning. Honestly, I’m about to burst!”

The templar who’d spoken shifted slightly and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I suppose you’d better go, then. No funny business, and you’re to come straight back.”

“Of course! Thank you ever so much!” She walked past them, grimacing for effect, and slipped around the corner.

~o~O~o~

Knight-Commander Meredith walked back and forth alongside her desk, hands folded behind her back, as Ruben stood stiffly, his helm tucked under his arm. “Well? This dereliction of duty seems to be a habit of yours, Ser Ruben. Can you explain yourself to my satisfaction?”

He stared at the far wall, showing due deference by not looking directly at her. “I can explain myself, Knight-Commander, though I would not presume to determine whether such an explanation will satisfy you. That is your privilege alone.”

“I should hope so.” She sat at her desk and looked up at him. “Speak.”

He licked his lips. It had taken approximately two minutes to walk to her office and he’d formulated an excuse on the way there, but it was a flimsy one, and he knew it. Whether she believed him or not, he knew she’d be watching him from now on, not something any templar in the Gallows would welcome.

As he was about to speak, there was a knock at the door. Meredith sighed in annoyance. “Yes?”

The door was opened by one of her subordinates, who swiftly bowed and straightened up. “Forgive the intrusion, Knight-Commander, but there is a mage here to see you. She said it’s important.”

Although somewhat vexed, Meredith wondered why this particular mage hadn’t called on Orsino instead of her--she did not receive many mage callers. “Very well. Show her in.”

The subordinate did as ordered, and brought the mage in. Upon spotting her, Ruben’s eyes widened. 

“State your name for the knight-commander.”

“Bethany Hawke, your, uh… commanderness.” She coughed.

One of Meredith’s eyebrows crept up, the rest of her face frozen. “My title is knight-commander. You will kindly use it when addressing me.”

“Oh yes, of course. Well, Knight-Commander, I wanted to thank you for the way you train your templars. I’ve been here for about a month, and they’ve shown me nothing but kindness.” She did a double-take at Ruben. “Oh! _You’re_ here! You’re exactly the kind of templar I was talking about!”

“Could this not have waited?” Meredith demanded as Ruben fought hard not to cringe. “What is this about?”

Bethany gave the templar leader a rueful look. “This is a little embarrassing. I was homesick, you see, and I was having a cry in the library. I thought I’d hidden myself properly, and yes, I know I’m not supposed to hide, but I didn’t want anyone to see me. Particularly with the apprentices around, you know? Didn’t want them thinking I was soft or anything because sometimes you have to be a bit firm with them. They’re only young, of course, but—”

“Is there a point to this, mage?”

“Uh, yes, I’m just coming to that. There were a few templars on their way to the Hall, and they must have sensed my emotional distress, because one of them found me.” She pointed to her left. “Him. What was your name again?”

He held in a sigh. “Ser Ruben.”

“That was it. His colleagues told him he shouldn’t linger, but he said he wouldn’t be a moment. He asked me if I was all right and if he should send for the first enchanter. Well, silly me, I started crying more, didn’t I?”

Meredith leaned forward slightly. “You do not appear to have been crying.”

“I have this cream for puffy eyes. I went to put some on because, as I said, I didn’t want the apprentices to see me upset.”

“Your acting skills require improvement, Miss Hawke,” Meredith said. “If you were in the library, then you will have heard me speak. Do you really expect me to believe you were surprised to find Ser Ruben in this office at this very moment?”

Bethany tutted and let out a dramatic sigh. “All right, I admit it. I knew you’d both be in here and I concocted a story. You’re right--it wasn’t a very good one. But I was telling the truth about being upset. That was why he was in the library. I didn’t want him getting into trouble on my account. Your templars really are very nice people. They do their jobs of course, but I heard stories about them when I was on the outside, and they’re just not true.”

“It is unusual in the extreme to receive such plaudits from a mage,” said Meredith suspiciously. “There is almost always an ulterior motive involved.”

“Well, maybe I haven’t been here long enough to become bitter, I don’t know, but we’re all in this together, aren’t we? We may as well _try_ to get along, at least.”

Meredith stared at her.

“That was all I wanted to say, anyway.” Bethany smoothed down her robe. “Thank you for your time, Knight-Commander, and I’m sorry for the little fib. It wasn’t meant maliciously.”

“Bethany Hawke?”

“That’s right.”

“You may go.”

“Thank you.”

Bethany was shown out and the door closed.

“Is her account true?” Meredith asked Ruben.

“Yes,” he said readily. “I know I should have proceeded to the Hall, but I could not leave her in that state. For did not Andraste teach that compassion is the higher octave of sacrifice?”

“She did, and her teachings should not be ignored, but here we observe more mundane rules. If you were concerned about Hawke’s emotional state, you should have informed the first enchanter, or at the very least the templars who were on duty in the library. I appreciate the Starkhaven Circle may have been different, but you have been here long enough to know the difference. I do not need to tell you the dangers of becoming over-familiar with the mages.”

“Indeed you don’t, Knight-Commander. I was errant, madam, and will endeavour to walk a straighter path.”

“And I will be watching when you do. See that you do not stray.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander!” He bowed low.

“You are dismissed.”

He straightened and turned for the door, but before he opened it, she spoke again:

“Let this be the last time we speak in this office, for your sake.”

“Of course, Knight-Commander.”

Once outside the office, Ruben briskly walked past a few of his colleagues and, once clear of them, forcefully exhaled.

“Psst! How did it go?”

A look of horror came to Ruben’s face when he spotted Bethany lurking in an alcove, and he quickly beckoned her closer. “Start walking,” he said. “If anyone asks, I’m escorting you back to the library.”

“All right.” They walked along for a few seconds but Bethany couldn’t contain herself. “What did she say? Did she let you off?”

“Why did you do that?” he said, sounding agitated. 

She gave a half shrug. “I dunno.”

“You don’t _know?”_ He stopped and glanced around; no one was nearby.

“I suppose I’m just that sort of person. Plus, I’m nosy.” She smiled at him. “I thought I might find out what was going on, and I wanted to see if Meredith is as scary as everyone says she is. At least I got one question answered.”

“Whatever your reasons, I’m going to give you some advice. I gave you similar counsel when first you arrived, but you do not seem to have heeded it.”

“I remember what you said. Keep my head down and don’t draw attention to myself. That’s what I’ve done. I’m not disruptive, I have excellent control and I’m mentoring an apprentice. And that’s why Meredith believed me. She… did believe me, didn’t she?”

He groaned and started walking again, Bethany following. “You forced me to lie to her.”

“Did you have a better explanation cooked up, then?”

He held his tongue for a moment as they passed a templar in the corridor. “That’s beside the point.”

“I see. So what were you doing in the library? And why was your presence there such a bad thing?”

“The knight-commander does not know the name of all mages in the Gallows. There are too many for a start, and she does not have a great deal of contact with them. She now knows _your_ name. That is not something to aspire to. You had better be careful from now on.”

“Why is everyone so tightly wound-up in here?” she asked. “You’re all so suspicious!”

Just before they reached the library, Ruben came to a halt again. “You answered your own question inside Meredith’s office. You have not been here long enough. Give it time. Until then, Miss Hawke, do not make a name for yourself. Be average. And, most of all, mind your own business. Now return to your studies.” He walked away from her, replacing his helm.

“You’re welcome!” she said petulantly as he broke into a light jog. Deciding she’d been absent long enough, she stepped back into the library and joined Plummy at their table.

“Your tea’s gone cold,” the young woman informed her.

“Figures.” Bethany plopped down into her chair. “No good turn goes unpunished, does it?”

**The Hanged Man, later that evening**

Nathaniel and Zevran had spent much of the day together, and by now had depleted their respective repertoires of insults and jibes. To an outsider, their conversation could almost be called civil, but there was a palpable sense of mistrust between them. Despite Zevran’s assurances that he was on board with the plan, Nathaniel remained sceptical.

Zevran was stretching his legs, taking a leisurely stroll around the cellar. “So I am to tell Danarius mostly the truth, apart from one or two details? Why not add more false details? What is the point of going to so much trouble for so small a gain?”

Nathaniel, who was seated on the floor with his legs crossed at the ankles, looked up from the piece of wood he was whittling with a dagger. “You don’t ascend to the Magisterium by being an idiot. I’m certain Danarius already knows more than we credit him with. The details we’re changing are the ones he couldn’t possibly know about. There are certain things he _will_ know. He’s heading straight for Kirkwall, so he knows Fenris is here. He’ll also have heard an elf was proclaimed Champion recently, despite being a _common slave_ in a former life.”

Zevran made a pfft sound and took a swig of cider from the bottle Varric had given him. “Just because I do not wish to be mistaken for a slave, it does not mean I would spit on one in the street.”

“You’ve changed your tune since learning of the Champion’s past.”

“I have changed nothing. You are a very cynical man, aren’t you? Your father’s influence, no doubt.”

“He taught me some things, I’ll give him that.”

“Like never trusting anyone? Does that not make for a horribly dreary existence?”

Nathaniel hissed as a splinter entered his thumb. “I trust my instincts. That’s enough.”

Zevran waved a hand in dismissal. “You are such dull company.” He resumed his stroll, but found prolonged periods of silence with Nathaniel unnerving, so he continued to talk. “As an elf, wherever I go I am assumed to be either a slave, a servant or, when in Antiva, an assassin. As though an elf could never be anything else. Yes, I am aware that I am one of those things, but the assumptions become trying after a time.” He sighed and finished off his cider.

“In the world we inhabit, elves can be little else,” Nathaniel said. “Heroes of Ferelden and champions notwithstanding.”

Zevran felt a smile bloom inside him, but didn’t allow it to manifest. “If you get incredibly lucky, then yes.”

Nathaniel examined his carving for a moment. Dissatisfied with it, he tossed it to the floor. “Lucky? I wouldn’t call having to fight dragons and arishoks ‘lucky’. I’m not sure I could have done either and come out alive.”

“Is that a hint of modesty I detect beneath the hard, unyielding shell?”

“Let me guess--this is where you tell me you like hard, unyielding things.”

“That is a given, no?” Zevran returned to his barrel, sitting on it. “I sense a certain… affinity developing between us, my fine warden.” He placed a hand on his belly. “It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling, right here.” 

“That’ll be the cider.” Nathaniel glanced across the cellar and held a hand up, indicating Zevran should be quiet. Hearing activity outside, he stood up and went to the door, opening it and stepping outside. There, he held a whispered conversation with someone. When he returned, he had company.

“This is Guardsman Diarmund,” Nathaniel said, introducing a strapping man in guard-issue plate armour. “I’m wanted upstairs, so he’ll be keeping you company for a while. Before you ask, Diarmund usually patrols the… _gentleman’s_ clubs in Hightown, and he’s heard every chat-up line going, so I wouldn’t bother.”

“I have not yet given up on you, my raven-haired sentinel,” Zevran called after him, sighing when Diarmund pointed to the far end of the cellar, his other hand on the hilt of his sword.

Nathaniel climbed up the ladder leading to the Hanged Man’s taproom, exchanging a nod with Corff as he stood tall and brushed sawdust off his trousers.

“Varric’s waiting outside for you,” said the tavern’s proprietor.

“Thanks.”

When he found Varric fifty yards or so across the street, the dwarf was looking up at the night sky.

“The wind’s up tonight.” Nathaniel rubbed his arms and shivered as his hair whipped around his face.

“What do you make of that?” Varric asked soberly.

Nathaniel squinted in the direction Varric was looking. “A large cloud formation.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. We were to look out for snow, not clouds and high winds.”

They stood there in contemplation for a short time, watching the denizens of Lowtown go by. Then they spotted the two-man templar patrol walk past. They’d removed their helms, and were looking at exactly the same spot in the sky. After a hurried conversation they split up, both men running in the opposite direction to the other.

“Now why would the templars be so interested in a bunch of clouds?” Varric said. “No one else was looking up, and they sure as shit didn’t take off like their lives depended on it.”

Nathaniel’s eyes went upwards. “Because those clouds aren’t natural.”

“Right. Maker, he got here faster than I thought he would.”

“He’s not here yet.” Nathaniel started walking back to the Hanged Man. “It looks like my new friend and I are heading for the Vinmark Pass.”

“I’ll grab those furs I’ve got stashed in my room.”

“Good. I’ll have the guardsman bring him up.”

“Nathaniel, wait a second.”

The warden turned around, mild amusement in his eyes. “What, no ‘Chuckles’?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a few guards up there with you? What if Zevran decides twelve against one’s a safer bet? And let’s not discount that bodyguard. Fenris was once Danarius’s bodyguard, and look what he can do.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “I’ve worked with enough mages to know they can detect life forms up to a furlong away, possibly more. I’m guessing Danarius won’t take too kindly to an honour guard showing up.”

“But won’t he detect you?”

“I won’t be close enough to Zevran for detection. I’ll be way behind him, with an arrow trained on his back in the event he does decide to betray us.”

“Can you shoot a furlong with your bow? I know Bianca couldn’t make that distance.”

“If the wind’s with me, I can effectively hit a target a furlong away. If not, I’ll probably need to enter the sphere of detection briefly, but I’ll be out of there before Danarius can blink, don’t you worry.”

“‘Don’t you worry’. Huh.” Varric stared at the ground, his hands in his pockets. “Zevran still seems to think you’ll be going up the mountain on horseback.”

“Horseback? I think I may be warming to him. He’s rather funny. Come on, let’s get inside.”

“You wanna tell him, or shall I?”

“Let him work it out for himself. The distinct lack of horses outside should give him a clue.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it.” Varric looked towards Hightown, wondering if Fenris and Hawke had noticed the unusual weather phenomenon and how they’d react. Poorly, if he knew them. “If there’s anyone up there,” he said quietly under his breath, “just… keep them safe, okay? Let’s not pretend I can promise you anything in return, because I’d be lying. I’m just asking for a favour. Thanks.”


	123. The Higher Octave of Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran mock-pouted. "But we've been through so much together. I shall miss you terribly."
> 
> Nathaniel unstrapped his bow. "Just remember--if you betray us, I shan't miss you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to the wonderful Carrie. Get well soon!

**Viscount’s Keep, the following morning**

Fourteen members of The Reckoning, Sergeant Fenris’s new unit, were assembled in the training yard while the Champion went through some stances.  Fenris had deliberately selected the newly-commissioned reserve guards for this training session; the regular guards were either on duty or were watching from the sidelines.

There had been snow fall overnight, unusual but not unheard of for the time of year, which had been trampled in, creating a smooth and slippery surface.  This presented a challenge to the less experienced two-handed warriors, who were accustomed to training on dirt or gravel.

“Put more weight on your right leg,” Fenris instructed Adrian, one of the new intake, as the green guardsman balanced his broadsword horizontally at his shoulder, both elbows crooked and held above his ears as he gripped the hilt.  “Your rear leg--the right one, in this case--is your foundation, an invisible scaffold.  You and your weapon are a structure, and if your foundation is unsound, the whole structure will crumble.”

“This is a tricky one,” Adrian puffed, his shoulder muscles on fire.

“But highly effective,” Fenris said, turning to the rest of his unit.  “Would you consider this to be a defensive stance, or an offensive one?”

“It’s got to be offensive, sir,” another of the new intake said.  “He’s left himself wide open.”

“Wrong,” Lieutenant Grant said from the rear of the small crowd.  “It’s a feint, designed to trick your opponent into believing you  _ are  _ wide open.  With a twist of your wrist you’ll have their sword on the ground before they can blink.”

“As our deputy captain is so knowledgable,” Fenris teased, “perhaps he would care to demonstrate?”

Grant squeezed past a few people, stepped into the training ring and unsheathed his claymore.  “At your service, Sergeant.”

Adrian moved aside, excited to see the two seasoned warriors face off.

Grant assumed the feint with ease, while Fenris geared himself up to attack.  “Where should I target him?” the elf asked.  “Darcy?”

“Left flank, sir,” replied one of the female members of the unit.  “If all of his weight’s on his right leg, you might be able to connect and throw him off-balance.”

“I don’t believe the sergeant ever said  _ all  _ of your weight should be on the right leg,” chided Grant.  “That’s asking for trouble.”

“Prepare yourself!”  Fenris lunged forward on his left foot, a shrill  _ whoosh _ piercing the air as he swung his sword in a horizontal arc.  Almost instantaneously, Grant brought his own sword down hard upon the elf’s, sparks flying as it clattered to the ground.

“He disarmed the Champion!  Bloody hell!”  Applause and excited chatter rose up around the ring while Grant picked up  _ Bane of Fools _ and handed it back to the elf.

“Indeed.”  Fenris shook his left arm, grimacing, as he examined his new sword for notches, finding none.  “And once you’ve mastered the feint, you will be able to disarm  _ him.” _

“I went easy on him,” said Grant.  “If I’d put full power into that swing, he’d be nursing a broken wrist.  Which would render wielding a two-handed sword problematic to say the least.”

“Let the Champion do it to you, sir!” Adrian gushed.

“No chance.  He  _ would  _ break my wrist.  And it’s  _ Sergeant Fenris  _ while you’re on duty, Private.  We respect rank in this regiment.”

“Yes, sir!  Sorry, sir!”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Fenris said as Grant stepped out of the ring.  “The key is downward momentum and distribution of weight.  Lieutenant Grant is approximately ten inches taller than me and weighs considerably more, but if your stance and centre of gravity are correct, such factors should not matter.”

“Did you use that feint on the Arishok, Sergeant?” asked another new recruit.

Fenris smiled lopsidedly.  “Had he  _ given _ me the chance to feint, it would have been interesting to see if my statement about height and weight differences not mattering held true.”

“And what was the name of the stance where you crushed his nuts, sir?” 

“I saw that!” replied Darcy.  “I was in the Keep!  Squealed like a stuck pig, he did!”

The recruits fell about laughing.  Fenris waited for a moment and then lightly cleared his throat.  Like magic, absolute silence fell, the recruits nervously standing to attention.

“I… improvised,” Fenris said slyly.  “Name the move if you wish, but it will not be taught here.  Useful in a tight spot, though.”  The recruits relaxed a bit and smiled.  “Let us adjourn.  We will resume at nine bells.”

The recruits saluted and dispersed.  “Can’t believe we’re training with the Champion!” some of them whispered to each other.

“It’s Sergeant Fenris!” Grant shouted after them.  “If I hear ‘champion’ one more time, it’ll be the Wall for you lot!”  He turned around to find Fenris smiling up at him.  “You need to be stricter with them.  If I hadn’t been here, they’d have had you signing autographs.”

The elf shrugged.  “I believe I managed to restore order quite well without the need for yelling.”

“Yes, well, I disarmed you.”

“Using one of my own feints.”

A rare smile broke Grant’s stern countenance.  “This used to be  _ my _ job, you know.  Just making sure you’re doing it properly.”

“You miss it, don’t you?”

“I do, and I’ve just realised I pretty much took over that entire session.  Sorry, Sergeant.  Force of habit.”

Fenris frowned.  “Not at all.  Your contribution was invaluable, Lieutenant.  Who else can I demonstrate perfect swordsmanship with to a group of raw recruits?”

“Well, that’s good, then.  Still, I’ll steer clear next time.  This is your show now.”

“That is your choice, of course.  If I may ask… will you still find time for horse training among your new duties?”

“I doubt it.  Now I  _ will  _ miss that.  Word of advice.  Don’t let them promote you too high.”  He sighed.  “Melanie’s the one you want for training now.  What she doesn’t know about horses wouldn’t fill a thimble.”

“So you’re abandoning your student?” Fenris asked with a straight face.  “As capable as I’m sure Melanie is, I’m disappointed you’d just… give up.”

“No, I have too much to do around here,” Grant said with regret.  “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“I know you spend most of your spare time gallivanting around with Hawke, but if you’re willing to sacrifice a few hours a week outside work, maybe we could come to an arrangement?  I’m sure the captain won’t mind us using guard resources if we ask his permission.”

The elf pretended to consider this.  “I would be more than willing to pay you for your time.”

“Oh, sod off.  You’ll be making an old man stuck behind a desk feel useful again.  That  _ was  _ your plan, wasn’t it?”

“Plan?  I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”  

“You’re a rotten liar.  How about an hour after our shifts, say… Monday, Wednesday and Friday?”

“Sounds perfect.”  They shook hands, both men laughing when their eyes met.

“Glad to see you both so cheerful,” Donnic said from behind them as he approached.  “Are you all right, Fenris?”

“Yes, Captain.  The training is proceeding as anticipated.  Lieutenant Grant has kindly offered to continue my horse training outside of work hours.  Would you be agreeable to us using the stables and paddock while not on duty?”

“Fine with me, just check with Melanie first.”

“Thank you.”

Donnic stared at Fenris for a moment, an odd expression on his face.  “You’re... not concerned about the snow we had during the night?”

“The snow?” Fenris said in confusion.  “No… it proved little obstacle to our training session.”

“That’s all right, then.”  Donnic suddenly remembered he’d never told Fenris about Zevran’s revelation that Danarius’s arrival at the Vinmark Pass would be heralded by snow… and it looked like Hawke hadn’t told him, either.  Donnic wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not, but at the moment Fenris was happy  _ and  _ safe, so he wasn’t about to rock the boat.

“Are  _ you _ all right, Captain?” asked Fenris, puzzled by his question.

“Fine.  Well, I must get on.  Does Hawke usually sleep in so late, by the way?  I haven’t seen him this morning.”

“This is not late for Fletcher.  He will rise when he’s hungry, have no fear.”

“He  _ should _ be up,” Grant said.  “He had a letter this morning, brought by courier.  I think someone took it up to him.”

“Oh.”  Donnic’s eyes met with Fenris’s.  “He’s in the small suite above the mens' bathhouse, so the noise should have woken him by now, anyway.  Maybe he’s taking his time getting ready?”

Grant scoffed.  “Unless he’s found a crack in the floor and he’s having a good look.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Fenris joked, ignoring an unpleasant fluttering in his chest.  “I suppose I’d better call on him.  Five minutes, Captain?”

Donnic nodded, his brow heavy.

“Just remember you’re on duty,” Grant reminded Fenris.  “The prisoners don’t get conjugal visits, so the guards definitely don’t.  Although five minutes… it’d be enough for me to go twice.”

Expecting a humorous comeback from the elf, Grant was surprised when he walked off without another word.

“He’s got a lot on his mind,” Donnic said quietly.  “And he still doesn’t know what the snow signifies.  I’ll tell him as soon as we’re alone.”

“Just trying to keep things normal for him, Captain.  I quite like little Fenris.”

“I wouldn’t let him hear you call him that.”

They headed for the office.  “What do you think I am, suicidal?  I saw what he did to the Arishok.  This Danarius is in for a world of pain.  Can’t wait to meet the depraved old cunt.”

“You and the rest of the regiment… and Hawke.  Maker, I feel bad for him.  Talk about lousy timing on the templars’ part.”

They reached the office and briefly discussed the day’s deployments.  Approximately four-and-a-half minutes later, Fenris returned.  He closed the door and entered, his eyes glued to the floor, his shoulders rounded.

“Sergeant?  What have you got there?” Donnic asked.

Fenris walked up to the desk and placed two opened letters down with finely-trembling hands.  He leaned on the desk, palms down, his jaw twitching.

Donnic and Grant exchanged a look.  “Are you all right?” Grant asked.  “Where’s Hawke?”

“He’s done it.”

“He’s done what?”

Donnic reached for the letters and read the first one:

_ Fenris, _

_ I know what I’m doing.  Please don’t look for me or worry about me.  I’m safe. I’ll be there when the time comes and I swear I’ll prove to you I can stay in control.  I know you’re angry and I’m sorry.  The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you, but I can’t let you face him without me.  Not that you’ll need me, but I want to show him that he  _ _ didn’t _ _ break you--that you found peace and happiness--before he dies.  Please understand. _

_ I love you. Fletcher. _

“Maker’s balls.”  Donnic passed the note to Grant.  “Fenris, sit down.”

The elf either didn’t hear, or ignored his captain, and pushed away from the desk, walking towards one of the filing cabinets with his hands on top of his head.  “I’ll wring his bloody neck when I find him!  Of all the impetuous, ill-conceived—!”

Grant, having read the note, rose and tried to steer Fenris towards a chair.  “Come on.”

The elf roughly shrugged off his touch.  “No.”

Donnic nodded towards Grant’s chair, indicating he should leave the elf alone and return to his seat, which he did.  Donnic then read the second letter, which was much briefer:

_ Messere Hawke _

_ My original instructions stand.  There will be no further correspondence. _

_ Knight-Captain Cullen. _

“He did not even read that letter!” Fenris blustered.  “It was pushed under his door.  I opened it!  Why would he leave before he knew of Cullen’s decision?”

Donnic sighed and watched Fenris, who’d turned to face a wall, his body rigid with pent-up energy.  “Apart from the obvious places, any idea where he might be?  If he’s planning on being around when Danarius comes, he can’t have gone far.”

Grant stood up.  “I’ll ask the guards on the outer doors.”  He left the office but re-entered not a few seconds later.  “Templars are here, Captain.  Eight of them.  Want me to stall them?”

“Do we want to stall them?”  Donnic asked Fenris.

“Fletcher has already placed us in an inequitable position.  I will not further compound his stupidity by lying to the templars.”

Donnic looked at Fenris in concern before nodding at Grant.  “Show them in.”

Grant invited the senior templar into the office while a further seven waited outside, before leaving for the outer doors to question his colleagues.

“Guard-Captain, Champion, my name is Knight-Templar Mills,” the armoured woman said with a deep bow.  “I am here under the command of Knight-Captain Cullen.”

“Greetings, Knight-Templar Mills,” Donnic said.  “We know why you’re here and we’re not going to get in your way.  Tell me what you need.”

“Oh.”  She hesitated for a second, surprised by Donnic’s unexpected helpfulness.  “We, uh, need to search the Keep from top to bottom, preferably without hindrance, but I’m aware some areas may require a guard presence or supervision.”

Donnic nodded.  “Some of my people are sleeping following a night shift so I don’t want them disturbed, but if you’re willing to wait until the midday meal, their quarters should be vacant.  Also, I don’t want any men entering the females’ bathing area or quarters, and let me know before you search Bran’s chambers and the Treasury.  I’ll go with you.  Other than that, you have the run of the Keep.  I’ll assign someone to you--they can point you in the right direction.”

“Thank you.  We’ll accede to your instructions.”  She straightened her posture and drew a deep breath.  “Captain, Champion, I mean no disrespect, but I must ask if either of you knows of Hawke’s whereabouts.”

“We don’t,” Fenris said wearily.  “I saw him last night, before he retired.”  A pained look came over him.   _"Why _ did I not stay with him?”

Donnic spoke.  “Because your sleeping quarters are down here and you conduct yourself appropriately, Sergeant.  You had no idea he was going to run off.”

Fenris averted his gaze and started pacing the office while Mills continued.  “We questioned his mother on the way here,” she said.  “Although she claimed not to know where he is, she didn’t seem surprised he’s gone missing.  I suspect she’s fobbing us off, but I can’t force her to talk.”

“Leandra Hawke is a woman of exemplary character,” Fenris said tightly, turning back to face Mills.  “She does  _ not _ ‘fob’ people off, as you so eloquently put it.”

“As you say, Champion.”  She coughed lightly.  “Well, if you’ll excuse me.  If you learn anything...”

Donnic opened the door for her.  “Of course.  And please let us know if _you_ learn anything.”  They bowed to each other before Donnic closed the door.  He looked at Fenris, who was standing still, his eyes closed.  “You know something, don’t you?”

“I know nothing, Captain, I swear it.”  Fenris opened his eyes and finally sat down when Donnic pointed to the chair.

Donnic sat in the opposite chair.  “When I said you had no idea Hawke was going to run off, you reacted.  Mills didn’t notice because she doesn’t know you, but I do.  Anything you tell me is between us, Fen.  I’m speaking not as your captain, but as your friend.”

Fenris rested his chin on his hand and again closed his eyes.  “My answer remains unchanged.  I do not know where he is.  Although…”  He sighed and looked up.  “We had a conversation yesterday, more of an argument.  He implied that if Cullen were to refuse his appeal, he might abscond.  And yet he left _before_ Cullen’s response arrived.”

“So even though you had an inkling, he still took you by surprise.”

“I didn’t believe he’d actually go through with it.  I thought my disapproval was enough to deter him.  What a fool I am.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door and Lieutenant Grant let himself in.  “Guards on the outer doors haven’t seen Hawke,” he said, “although they started their shift at six bells.  As he was here in an informal capacity, he wasn’t signed in or out, but those men know him and would have remembered him leaving.”

“He went during the night, then,” Donnic deduced.

“Why?” said Fenris in frustration.  “Why then,  _ before _ Cullen’s letter arrived?”

Donnic looked up at Grant.  “Go and to talk to Varric Tethras.  He’s bound to know something.  Remember what we talked about last night when it started snowing?  I’m sure he’s already aware, but put the screws to him if you need to.   _Verbally_ , mind you.  We can’t have Hawke out there on his own, templars or not.  Play on that.  Varric cares about him.”  

“Understood, Captain.”

“Templars or not?” Fenris demanded.  “What do you mean?  Is Fletcher in danger of some other kind?  And why do you keep going on about the snow?”

Donnic held a hand up to Fenris and addressed Grant.  “Before you leave, assign someone to the templars--make sure they don’t go where they’re not supposed to.”

Grant ventured a final worried look at Fenris before bowing and closing the door.

“I’m sorry, Fen, I wanted to make sure we were alone.”

“Why?  Will  _ someone  _ tell me what is going on?”

“I think Hawke left during the night… because of the snow.”  Donnic groaned at Fenris’s look of consternation and took a bottle of whiskey out of his drawer along with two glasses.  He half-filled them and pushed one across to Fenris.  “Have a drink.  There’s something I need to tell you.”

**Vinmark Mountains/Kirkwall Pass**

After a cold, miserable night negotiating the foothills of the Vinmarks and enduring Zevran’s incessant flirting, Nathaniel decided it was time for them to separate, as they’d reached flatter ground.  Although the Pass proper was a way off, perhaps an hour away, Nathaniel felt exposed along the stretch they were on--it was perfect for an ambush or the posting of sentries at the very least, and he did not want to be spotted.

He wondered if it had been such a good idea to wear his black leathers as they marked him out against the fresh snow, but his grey-white furs softened his silhouette somewhat.  He halted, taking a drink from his waterskin (which contained brandy, cream and milk) and waited for Zevran to catch up.

“Want some?”  He offered the waterskin to the elf, who took it with a smirk.

“I had always heard that Fereldans are a bunch of milk drinkers.  Now I have proof.”

“Really? I’d always heard that Antivan quasi-assassins bring water when traversing freezing mountain ranges.”  He rapped his fist against Zevran’s water skin, slung across the elf’s hip, its contents frozen solid.  “You  _ did  _ mention you like hard, unyielding things.  Would you two like some time alone?”

Zevran drank a little of the spiked milk slush and wiped off his white moustache, laughing as he handed the skin back to Nathaniel.  “You are in savage form this morning!  How magnificent you are to behold!”

“Not bad for a milk drinker.”

“No, Warden.  You are not bad at all.”

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows and pointed ahead.  “I believe it’s time for us to part company.  You’ll continue to follow the path while I fall back.”

Zevran mock-pouted.  “But we’ve been through so much together.  I shall miss you terribly.”

Nathaniel unstrapped his bow.  “Just remember--if you betray us, I shan’t miss you.  I’ll be nearby, and I’ll be listening.”

“And what if Danarius decides to betray me?  Is our budding perhaps-more-than-a-friendship to end here before we have declared our true feelings?  And why do you not simply shoot Danarius?”

“Because he hasn’t done anything… yet.  Any unwarranted, hostile action I take against a Tevinter could have serious repercussions for the wardens.”

“But who will know?”

“I’ll know, for one.  Plus, such an action may place  _ you _ in danger.   I doubt he’s naive enough to believe you’re here alone.  He’ll have made preparations.”

“So you  _ do  _ care,” Zevran purred, a hand over his heart.  

“Not really, but Varric asked me not to get you killed unless you give me no choice.  He’s soft like that.”  Nathaniel unhooked a long, thin pouch from his belt, passing it to Zevran.  “Here.  Your daggers and a special weapons coating I made.  Be careful with it--it’ll melt your fingers.”

Zevran didn’t even try to hide his astonishment.  “You are… giving them to me?”

“Danarius is an extremely dangerous individual,” Nathaniel warned.  “Besides, he’ll be suspicious if you show up unarmed.  Be in and out of there as quickly as you can.  And  _ don’t  _ flirt with him.  From what I hear, he’s rather partial to elves.  Now get going.”

Nathaniel walked off and quickly scaled a small rock cluster, concealing himself from direct view of the Pass.  

Zevran held his fluttering stomach, tucking the daggers into his belt and keeping the phial of coating in the pouch for the time being.  He secured his furs tightly around his neck and looked back; Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen.  “Wish me luck, Warden,” he said somberly.

**The Hanged Man**

“Morning, Guardsman.  What’ll it be?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”  Lieutenant Grant leaned against the bar, lowering his voice.  “Is Varric in his room?”

“Oh,  _ you’re _ not going to search the place as well, are you?  I’ve only just got my barrels straight after the templars turned the cellar upside down!”

“I’m not here to search anything.  I just want to speak to Varric.  Is he here?”

Corff huffed and stared at his hands, which were splayed across the bar.

“He’s not in trouble,” Grant said.  “There’d be more than one of me if he was, wouldn’t there?  Look, just nod.  That way, you haven’t told me anything.”

Corff pulled a face and nodded.

“Thanks.  You’ve been really helpful.”

Following further rigmarole to get into Varric’s quarters, Grant finally gained access.  He’d expected the dwarf to be supremely evasive and he wasn’t disappointed.  He decided to play along for a while until a chink appeared in Varric’s armour.

“Hey, you’re the horse guy!” Varric said, inviting Grant inside after a protracted discussion from behind the door.  “You’re teaching Fenris to ride, right?  How’s it going?”

“I’m not here to discuss that.”  Grant pointed to an armchair in the corner.  “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

“Ah, that’s the ticket.”  Grant sank into the comfy chair with a groan.  “These old knees aren’t what they used to be.”

Varric rolled his eyes in empathy.  “I hear that.  So, Guardsman, what brings you to my humble abode?”

Grant smiled across at the dwarf.  “I think you know why I’m here.”

Varric returned his smile, sitting on the edge of his bed.  “I’m flattered you’d credit me with omniscience, but sometimes a dwarf needs a clue of some kind.”

“Most people I know would credit Varric Tethras with something else, which the youths usually abbreviate to BS.  How’s that omniscience now?”

“I think it’s getting the gist,” chuckled the dwarf.  

“So.  How about we stop playing games?” said Grant in a pleasant tone.  “I need to know where Hawke is.  And I need to know now.”

“Beats me,” Varric said on a sigh.  “The templars already grilled me earlier, and I told them everything I know, which is nothing.”

“I’m not interested in what you told  _them_.  I’m interested in the truth.” 

“And I wish you all the luck in the world with the pursuit of it, my friend.  Drink?”

“Not while I’m on duty, thanks.  You and Hawke… you’re pretty good mates, am I right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And what about Fenris?  How’d you get on with him?”

“Our revered Champion can be a little cranky, but he’s a good guy.  Keeps Hawke in line most of the time, which isn’t easy, trust me.”

“Except this time.”  Grant sat further back and meshed his fingers together in his lap.  “The poor sod doesn't know whether to shit or go blind.  Blaming himself, doom and gloom, the usual.  He’d probably start self-flagellating if the captain hadn’t locked all the whips away.”

Varric nodded in understanding.  “He takes things  _ way  _ too seriously.  I offered to put him on my tab, but he won’t hear of it.  Proud, wants to pay his own way.  I keep telling him he needs to get drunk once in a while.  Last time he did that, though, dear, departed Aveline almost arrested him.”  He smiled wistfully.

“I imagine he’d _need_ a drink this morning.  He found out that not only has his lover gone on the run from the templars, but the snow we had during the night means Danarius has reached Kirkwall.  Nobody bothered to tell him, you see, until today.  I’m sure they had their reasons, but he hasn’t taken it well.”

Varric’s smile slipped a little.  “He’ll be okay.  He’s got a lot of people looking out for him.”

“Well, that’s what Danarius is going to discover, isn’t it?  It’ll come as quite a shock to learn that his former slave is now a sergeant in the Kirkwall Guard, not to mention the city’s Champion.  That’s a hell of a lot of people standing between him and Fenris.  You know what I’d do if I was Danarius?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me.”

“I’d find out who he’s closest to and abduct them.  Great bargaining chip to have.  He’d probably torture them and he’d almost certainly kill them when they ceased to be useful.”  He appeared to think for minute.  “Isn’t he a magister?  You know what else he could do if he really wanted to fuck with Fenris?  He could use this close friend--let’s say Fletcher Hawke, for example--as a blood sacrifice.   _ In front of Fenris.   _ Or is that too far-fetched?”

Varric said nothing, but his smile had vanished.

“Danarius can’t get to Leandra Hawke or Gamlen Amell because they’re in protective custody.  Bethany Hawke’s in the Gallows.  As we don’t know where Fletcher Hawke is, that leaves the person who’s harbouring him.  There’s got to be someone, hasn’t there?  I really need to find them because I’m sure they’d rather tell me of their own free will than do it as a blood mage’s thrall.  We could even put  _ them  _ in protective custody before Danarius gets his filthy hands on them.”

“Right.”

“Of course, that would leave Fletcher Hawke on his own out there.  I’ve heard those magisters can manipulate people’s minds.  Hawke knows everyone, doesn’t he?  Someone’s bound to let slip where he is.  Which brings us back to our original quandary.  I dread to think what Fenris would do if Danarius caught Hawke before the templars.  Wait, actually, I  _ do _ know.  He’d give himself back to Danarius in exchange for Hawke’s life without a second thought.”

Varric's eyes were glazed over, his imagination playing out Grant's hypothetical scenarios in all their horrific detail. “But Danarius would kill Hawke anyway.”

“Yes, he sounds the sort to do that.  Anyway, must be off.”  Grant gripped the arms of the chair and pushed himself up.  “Thanks for the sit-down.  Wish I could stay longer.  You take care of yourself, now.”  He moved for the door, taking his time, mentally crossing his fingers that he’d got through to Varric--if he actually _did_ know anything.

“Hey… just… wait up.”  A long, loud sigh accompanied Varric’s request.

Grant turned around, feeling a little sad to see the dwarf’s hunched form, but he needed information, and he needed it fast.  “Yes?”

“This person you were talking about, the one who may be harbouring Hawke.  What if… what if that person had given their word not to say anything?  What if Hawke had trusted them?  That person’s word might not mean shit to most people, but to Hawke…”  

“Allow me to be blunt, Varric.  This ‘person’ will be doing a lot more soul-searching if Hawke ends up dead and Fenris recaptured because they didn’t do anything now.  Once we know where Hawke is, the templars will have him in the Gallows, where he’s  _ safe,  _ and any other parties involved under guard protection before Danarius comes down the mountain.  Yes, Hawke might be pissed off that a friend broke a promise, but it’s not the worst thing that can happen, is it?  Not by a long shot.”

After several minutes of contemplation, Varric shook his head.  “Guess I’d better start talking, then.”

**Lirene’s Fereldan Imports**

Ruben walked into the shop, minus templar attire, and waited for Lirene to become available.  He was used to frosty receptions from the Fereldan woman and, as she entered from a room in the back and set eyes on him, he knew today would prove no exception.

“It’s you.  Your lot have been crawling all over Lowtown today.  Do you know Anders is terrified down there?  Why don’t you just get it over and done with?  I suppose you’ve come to capture the dangerous apostate yourself and get all the glory?”

As Ruben had not long ago received a dressing-down from Meredith, he found Lirene nothing more than a minor irritant, but his Chantry education forbade him from displaying antipathy towards those less fortunate than himself.  Still, he wished the woman would give it a rest sometimes.  “I’m off-duty, as you can see.  You were the one who told me not to come here wearing templar uniform.  Are you going to let me speak with him?”

“No, I  _ can’t _ see you’re off-duty.  How do I know that for a fact?”

“Madam, I assure you that if my brethren  _ were _ looking for Anders, they would have found him by now.   Besides, we don’t capture ‘dangerous apostates’ alone.”

“No, because the templars are a load of bullies who need to go around in groups.  If they’re not looking for Anders, then, who  _ are  _ they looking for?”

“Did the templars who called on you earlier not tell you?”

She placed her hands on her hips.  “I wasn’t here.  Just came back to a proper mess.  Are your people going to compensate me for that?”

Ruben had just about had enough for one day, and drew a slow breath to calm himself.  “I can see you’re not interested in a civilised conversation.  Kindly tell Luka I was here with important information, but was turned away.  Good day.”

“What information?” she demanded.

“Information for Luka,” he said, tamping down his irritation.  “I appreciate your vigilance, but I am equally vigilant.  Either I tell him, or I tell no one.  How would you like to proceed?”

“I suppose you’d better go down, then.  But if you try anything—”

“What are you going to do?” he asked with disarming gentleness.

She uncovered the trap door and flipped it open.  “Nothing, as usual.  People like us don’t have a voice.”

“Thank you,” he said, wondering what had happened to make Lirene so bitter as he descended the steps, ensuring he closed the trap door before calling for Anders.  “Luka?  It is I.  You have nothing to fear.”

A pale-looking Anders emerged from the rear of the clinic, standing beneath a lit torch.  “Ruben.  It’s good to see you,” he said genuinely.  “I feel like I’m going mad down here.  Have they called off the search yet?”

“They are not looking for you, Brother.  Be at ease.”

“Honestly?  But I thought…”  Anders mewled in relief, releasing a tremulous breath.  “Then who?”

“Your friend, Hawke,” Ruben whispered.

“You  _ what?” _  Anders looked utterly stunned, his eyes darting from side to side.  “Why?  What’s he done?  Have they caught him yet?”

“I don’t know.  Apprehending apostates is not one of my duties, so I was not part of the investigation.  Knight-Captain Cullen is directing it, but I have not seen him today.”

“Shit!”  Anders moved to the chair at his desk and slumped into it.  “Maker, I always thought Hawke was so careful!  Mind you, so was Bethany…”  He blew out a breath and stared at the flickering candle on his desk for a moment before looking up at Ruben.  “Can you get a note to him?  Assuming he’s been caught?”

Ruben shook his head.  “No, Brother.  I have today received a warning from the knight-commander.  I need to keep my head down for a while.  She caught me leaving my post, or rather, someone informed her.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.  I  _ did _ find out something that may interest you.”

“Oh?”  Anders eagerly sat forward.

Ruben glanced over his shoulder and squatted next to Anders’s desk, speaking very quietly.  “Ser Alrik is allowed no further contact with the apprentices because he presided over an unsanctioned Rite of Tranquility.”

“Of an apprentice?” Anders said, horrified.

“Yes.  It was not Freya, Mallory’s child, but another several months ago.  He was censured and stripped of rank, but he is a favourite of Meredith so kept his commission by the skin of his teeth.  There is talk of his former rank being restored.  He was previously knight-captain.”

“Knight-captain?  But that would mean he’d have the same power as Cullen!  And how many months ago are we talking about?”

“Close to a year.”  

“Alrik did the ritual on Karl,” Anders said in alarm, “six or seven months ago.  Do you think—?”

“No.  Karl Thekla’s Rite  _ was  _ sanctioned by Meredith,” Ruben confessed.  “He was said to be… subversive.”

Anders shot up.  “That’s no reason to make a Harrowed mage Tranquil!  The Rite of Tranquility is supposed to safeguard mages who have no control over their powers, not to be used as a punishment or deterrent!”

“I know.  Almost as disturbing is the fact that Alrik again has free rein to perform the Rite… and threaten mages with it.”  Ruben sighed.  “I have heard many things about him, and none of them are virtuous.  Cullen commands great respect because he is a decent, even-handed templar.  Alrik is equally respected, but only because he inspires fear.  If he is promoted, there will be a fundamental shift in Gallows politics and methods.  I do not look forward to that day.”

“Then we need to  _ do  _ something!”

“Peace, Luka.”  Ruben stood up and laid a hand on Anders’s arm.  “You speak the truth.  There is something wrong in the Gallows.  And I have only scratched the surface.”

Tears formed in Anders’s eyes and his voice faltered.  “You… you  _ support _ me?”

“I do, but Brother… I cannot actively gather evidence as things stand.  Meredith is watching me.  All I can do for now is listen and observe.”

“Then that’s even more of a reason to get Hawke involved.”  Anders scrabbled around for a scrap of paper.  “I know I’ve asked a lot of you, but I must get a message to him.  Do this one thing for me and I swear I won’t ask for anything ever again.  Please.   _ You _ want things to change, too.”

Ruben looked displeased but nodded.   _ “If _ and  _ when _ he is caught, he will be under heavy guard until he is Harrowed.  I will not risk any contact with him until then.  Argue if you like, that is my final word.”

“I’m not going to argue.  Not this time.”  Anders grabbed Ruben and pulled him into a tight embrace.  “Thank you.  Thank you, Brother.”  He then released him and wiped his eyes, putting his hand to the piece of paper he’d been seeking.  

**The Gallows, knight-captain’s office**

Cullen and his assistant were busy working on the rotas when a knock came at the door.

Cullen groaned.  “Oh, not again.  Enter!”

The door was opened by an apologetic-looking templar, who hesitated before speaking.  “Knight-Captain, I’m sorry—”

“As much as I welcome a respite from this tedious task, Matthew, it will never be finished if we’re constantly interrupted,” Cullen said in mild exasperation.  “What is it this time?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the Champion is here to see you.  He asked for you by name and will speak with no other.”

“The Champion?”  Cullen frowned and rose to his feet.  “Well, don’t keep him waiting, man!  Send him in!”

“At once, sir.”  Matthew stepped out of the room and showed Fenris in.  He then bowed to his superior and went about his business.

“Hail, Champion,” Cullen said, rounding his desk.  “Had I known of your arrival, I would have prepared a more fitting welcome.  Please, be seated.”

Fenris remained standing, looking not like the fearsome vanquisher of qunari his adoring public knew, but more like a fragile boy, cowed and frightened of the consequences his next action might bring.  “I would speak with you in private.” 

“Yes, of course.”  Cullen knew the Champion to be a reticent man, but there was something strange about his manner on this occasion, and he wondered about it.  “We will continue this later,” he said to his assistant as she stood up to leave.  She closed the door to his office, leaving the men alone.  “Is something amiss, Champion?  You appear disturbed.  Greatly so.”

Fenris had not met Cullen’s eyes since entering the office, and he continued to stare at the ornate oak desk, distractedly running a finger along its surface.  “I understand that you are conducting a search for the apostate, Fletcher Hawke.”

Cullen’s shoulders drooped and he sighed.  “I realise he is a… close friend of yours, but you must understand that he has been given more chances than is prudent.  He has left me with no choice but—”

“I am here to provide you with his whereabouts.”

A weighty silence hung in the air.  Fenris still did not look up.  After a minute, Cullen cleared his throat.  “I was informed that you were questioned this morning, and claimed to know nothing of his whereabouts.”

“I didn’t.  Now I do.  Hawke confided in a mutual friend and they… broke a confidence because they saw it to be in Hawke’s best interests.”

“May I ask who this ‘friend’ is?”

“I have what you seek,” Fenris said, something dangerous insinuating itself into his words.  “Is that not enough?  Do you require a pound of flesh in addition to Hawke’s capture?”

“No,” said Cullen softly, startled by the change in Fenris’s demeanour.  “May I ask, then, if you have spoken with Hawke?  If he is well?”

Fenris closed his eyes for a second as though rebuking himself for his outburst.  “I have not seen him.  I cannot…  _ will _ not.  This… this is not easy.”

“Forgive me, Champion, but I don’t understand.”

“Neither will he,” Fenris said, his voice hushed, his eyes slowly opening.  “I hope one day he will forgive me, but for now I must do what is best for him… and his mother.  She has already lost one son.  I will not be responsible for the loss of another.”

“Is he involved in something that may cause him harm, then?” Cullen asked, choosing his words with extreme caution.  “From what I have seen of him so far, he does not seem the type.”

“You misunderstand.”  Fenris finally looked up, his eyes wide and glistening.  “He is a danger to no one, but he is  _ in  _ danger.  There is no safer place for a mage to be than here.”  

“Are you talking about… I have heard that your former master will arrive in Kirkwall shortly.  Is that what…?”

Fenris took a moment to answer, as though it was an effort to speak.  “He is already here, at the Vinmark Pass.”

The colour drained from Cullen’s face.  “What?  Are you safe?  Should you be here alone?”

“I am not alone.  A four-man escort awaits me at the gate.  One of your own is among them.  Captain Hendyr would not give me leave to come here without them.”

Cullen exhaled.  “Tell your captain that I will make more of my men available and will transfer them to his temporary jurisdiction until this menace is excised.  And it  _ will _ be excised.”

Fenris’s gaze once again fell to the desk, his eyebrows meeting.  “One day I will find a way to repay you.  All of you.”

“No debt will ever exist between us, Champion.  I owe you my life, as do all who dwell here.”  He sighed, realising Fenris was at risk of becoming overwrought.  “But to the matter at hand.  If Hawke is in danger as you say, we should act swiftly.”

“Even if he despises me for this… you  _ must _ bring him here immediately.  Swear it to me.”

Cullen straightened up and touched a fist to his chest.  “I swear it to you in the sight of our Blessed Lady.”

Fenris made a slight nod.  “He is lodging at the Journey’s End tavern in Hightown under an assumed name--Barlin Bryant.  Upper level, room 12.  If…”  Fenris’s breath caught and he composed himself before resuming.  “If you require directions...”

“I will find it.”  Cullen stayed where he was, watching the laboured rise and fall of the Champion’s shoulders, the elf’s face slightly turned away from him.  “I understand how difficult it must have been for you to come to me.  If it helps, he will never know where this information came from.”

“He will know.”  The Champion’s voice was unsteady, and he fully turned away, but could not hide the emotion in his words.  “Do as I’ve asked.  And do it quickly.  Please.”

“I will see to it personally.  And know that he will not come to harm under our tutelage.  I give you my word.”

The elf nodded, but did not speak again.

“I will take some trusted men with me… moderate men.”  Cullen moved to the door, but paused.  He never relished capturing apostates unlike some of his colleagues and had long seen the act as a necessary evil, but this capture would be particularly poignant.  He knew Hawke was no danger to anyone, but he had his duty.  Still, something in his heart ached at the significance of the Champion’s gesture.  “Would you like someone to escort you out?” he said to Fenris’s back, “or…?”

Fenris shook his head, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“Then I will take my leave.”  Cullen noiselessly picked up his sword and shield.  Although essential tools of his trade, he was relieved the elf did not see him ‘gearing up’.  He looked back at Fenris.  “Acts of compassion may exact a heavy toll upon the benefactor, but such tolls leave us richer in the eyes of the Maker.  Scant comfort though it is, do not doubt that you have shown compassion today.”  He stepped out and closed the door, giving his men instructions not to disturb the Champion until he was ready to leave.


	124. The Lesser of Two Evils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am what you choose me to be. If you wish to call me ‘Fenris’, I will not object."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter focuses solely on Fletcher's induction into the Circle. We'll catch up with Fenris & Co. in the next chapter.

If there were two events guaranteed to make the Gallows templars tense and humourless, they were Harrowings and new arrivals. What really perturbed them, though, were new arrivals immediately following a _failed_ Harrowing... especially once news of both events had spread.

Today, Knight-Captain Cullen was on his way back from the mainland with a _capture_ as the templars called it, but this was an unusual case in that many of Kirkwall’s templars already knew the apostate. It was widely and wrongly assumed that the reason the Champion had visited earlier (a visit they’d been ordered not to speak about) was to dissuade Cullen from pursuing Hawke, an appeal that had failed.

The templars knew Hawke’s stay in the Gallows was not to be permanent, but this in itself had the potential to create more tension. Would Hawke stay quiet about this, as the templars hoped, or would he tell the other mages? And how would they react? Would there be escape attempts or worse?

And what if Hawke failed _his_ Harrowing and had to be slain? Or, what if he passed and then proved unsuitable for release for whatever reason? Would he cause trouble? There were problems aplenty in the Gallows already, and its guardians simply didn’t need more.

These things were on the minds of Knights Smyth and Willoughby who were on duty in the _Welcoming Committee Room_ , as it was informally known, or WCR for short. This was an office with adjoining quarters situated well away from the other mages and apprentices, where _captures_ were processed while they awaited their Harrowing. The men on duty had been told that their ward had just arrived, and to be ready for him.

After a short wait, Cullen entered the office along with Hawke, the mage’s wrists bound by enchanted shackles designed to deny mana output. The templar Smyth had seen Hawke before, both at the Gallows and around Kirkwall, and hoped the apostate would not draw attention to this as he bade him to sit down.

Hawke wasn’t his usual self: he was silent for a start, and the usually happy-go-lucky man wore a mask of suspicion and muted hostility. Thankfully, he did what he was asked and took a seat, looking around the stone-walled room with large brown eyes.

“Probably not what you’re used to, hm?” Smyth said good-naturedly while Cullen moved to a corner where he watched proceedings.

Fletcher didn’t say anything at first but eventually sighed, his posture slouching. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Very well. Your hands, please, palms up.”

“Why?”

Smyth picked up a sharp knife from a nearby table, where Willoughby was holding a large glass phial. “I need to take a sample of blood.”

Fletcher pressed his hands tightly against his chest. “What for?”

“Hawke,” Cullen said, “I’m certain you are well-versed in how a phylactery is created. Let us not do this the hard way. You will not like the hard way.”

Fletcher glared at the knight-captain before addressing Smyth. “How much will you need?”

“Just a little prick.”

Fletcher’s eyes again moved to Cullen. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

The knight-captain rolled his eyes, a wry smile on his face. “Like I haven’t heard _that_ one before.”

“I _told_ you he wasn’t ready!” they heard a man shout from a distance away, “but none of you bastards would listen, would you?”

“Who’s that?” Smyth asked, his head snapping up.

“Williams,” Cullen said in a grave tone, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as they continued to listen.

“Six years I mentored him, and for what? So he could lose his head to a templar’s sword? He was _nineteen!”_

“Healer Williams, you need to calm down. Come with—”

“If you want to keep that hand, you’ll not touch me again!”

Cullen shot an intense look at Smyth. “Get Orsino. Quickly. Willoughby, stay here with Hawke.” Both men left the office in a hurry, the door slamming closed behind them.

Fletcher also went for the door but was body-blocked by Willoughby. “Stay there, Hawke. I’m on my own here and there’s only one way I can subdue you without drawing my sword. Neither of us wants that.”

“ _Subdue_ me? I only want to see if that man’s all right! What’s happened to him?”

“You’re not allowed contact with other magi yet.” Willoughby sounded tired, defeated. “Please. I don't want to hurt you.”

Fletcher gave him a curious look but relented. “Fine.” He returned to his chair while Willoughby moved to the door and they both listened.

“Healer Williams,” they heard Cullen say. “I know you’re upset, and you have good reason to be. You invested six years of your life into your apprentice—”

“He had a name!”

“Yes,” Cullen said softly, “his name was Ackerly. We all knew him. We all watched him grow into a fine young man.”

“ _You_ didn’t watch him grow up. You’ve been here how long? A year or two? I’ve known him since he was five! Don’t act like you knew him!”

“You’re right—I didn’t know him that long. And you’re right, he _wasn’t_ ready. But he should have been ready more than a year ago. I think you know that.”

“Says who? Where is it written that an apprentice must be Harrowed as soon as they hit eighteen? Who actually made that rule, because I want to speak to them!”

“There _is_ no rule, Rhys, as you well know,” another man said in an authoritative tone. “This display is beneath you.”

“Is that Orsino?” Fletcher whispered from inside the office. Willoughby turned back briefly, checking Fletcher was still seated, and pressed a finger against his lips.

“But First Enchanter!”

“That will be quite enough. Look—the templars are armed. Let us not invite further tragedy.”

There was a pause before Orsino spoke again:

“We’re all saddened by what happened, none more so than you. But there is another who also suffers—silently, without outlet, because it was his duty to slay our friend. Do you truly believe he _wanted_ to do that? The templars could have made Ackerly Tranquil, but instead gave him a chance at being a mage. He failed. These men did what they had to in order to safeguard the rest of us. I doubt they enjoyed it.”

Fletcher heard an inhibited intake of breath followed by a shaky release, and he looked up at Willoughby, whose gauntleted hands were tightly clenched at his sides.

Outside there was a brief lull, broken by Williams, who spoke more softly this time:

“I didn’t mean… I-I’m just… he was so young.”

“And that’s the most difficult part to accept, isn’t it? That we’re still here and he’s not? You were an excellent mentor, but the hard truth is that some are never ready, no matter how much we wish it to be so. Come on. You’re better than this.”

“I’m... sorry, First Enchanter. Knight-Captain.”

“Stand down,” Cullen ordered his templars.

“Knight-Captain,” Orsino said, “may I take Rhys to his quarters where we can speak in private? I’ll accept full responsibility for his conduct, but we all know him to be a reasonable man under normal circumstances. I assure you there will be no further outbursts.”

“One templar will accompany you,” Cullen said, “and then you may have your privacy.”

“Thank you, Knight-Captain. Rhys? Please come with me.”

Willoughby stepped away from the door and went to the small table where the knife and phial had been left. “Thanks for not stabbing me in the back,” the templar said flatly, staring blankly at the knife as he fingered it.

“Are you all right?” Fletcher asked carefully.

“I… yes.” He gulped and let out another wobbly sigh. “They...” He looked up, though averted his eyes. “They don’t always go like that, you know—the Harrowings. They, uh, they’re usually… better.” Willoughby slapped the knife onto the table, harder than he’d intended, and folded his hands behind his back, watching the door.

“You were there, weren’t you?” Fletcher guessed. “Were you the one who had to… are you sure you’re okay?”

“How old are you?” Willoughby asked, evading Fletcher’s question. “Late twenties?”

“Yes, why?”

“You’ll be fine. If you’ve come this far without…”

“Without?”

Willoughby strained to listen to the sounds outside the office. “Nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You’re not going to be at _my_ Harrowing are you?” Fletcher asked in quiet dismay. “Surely they wouldn’t subject you to that again so soon?”

“No. Shh.”

Both men looked up as Cullen and Smyth returned. “Did you hear any of that?” Cullen asked Willoughby as he closed the door.

“Yes, sir, but I’m… I’m fine. Hawke heard it, too.”

Cullen sighed and looked at Fletcher. “I regret you had to hear that. It is a rare occurrence, but one that affects us all when it happens.  It will have no bearing on your own Harrowing.  We are all individuals.”

“Hey, if my sister can pass it, so can I,” Fletcher said in a feeble attempt at levity, ostensibly not looking at Willoughby. “I don’t suppose I can see her?”

Cullen shook his head. “Not until you’re Harrowed.”

“When will I be?”

“That’s at the knight-commander’s discretion, depending on the reports she receives, but it needs to be soon. It depends on you. First we will craft your phylactery, then we will see how you settle in. You will find it strange here at first, but conduct yourself responsibly and there is no reason why your Harrowing and integration should not go smoothly. Ackerly’s Harrowing was... not a great surprise to many of us.” He retreated into his thoughts.

Noticing the templars’ discomfort, Fletcher decided to move on. “What about these shackles? How long do I have to wear them for?”

“Guess,” Smyth said, and Fletcher groaned. “The only alternative is to place a nullification ward on your quarters, which will make you feel weak and ill. The shackles are the lesser of two evils. Are they chafing you?”

“No, they’re fine.”

“Of course, they will be removed when you’re eating and performing ablutions or eliminations, although you must do so under guard.”

“Eliminations?” Fletcher gawked at the templars in horror. “You mean you’ve got to _watch_ me when I…?”

“We’ve got to be there,” Smyth answered. “I’ve no intention of _watching_. Look, we don’t like it any more than you do.”

Fletcher crossed his arms. “My heart weeps for you, I’m sure.”

“Strangely enough,” Cullen drawled, “most new arrivals are afflicted with chronic constipation, which mysteriously resolves itself shortly after their Harrowing.”

“I’ll bet it bloody does!”

Cullen glanced at Smyth and Willoughby, who were doing a sterling job of not smiling. “I’m sure you’d prefer to take your Harrowing sooner rather than later,” he said to Fletcher. “As I said, it depends on you.”

“All right, I’ll be good.” Fletcher held his hands up and allowed Smyth and Willoughby to take their blood sample, which they did quickly and relatively painlessly before dressing Fletcher’s hand. “I could have healed that, you know.”

“You will have ample opportunity to apply your healing skills...” Cullen began.

“Yes, after my Harrowing. I get it. So what happens now?”

“Do you have things in hand here?” Cullen asked the other two, who replied in the affirmative. He then spoke to Fletcher. “These men will stay with you until your Harrowing takes place, whenever that may be.”

“Are you leaving?” Fletcher asked, suddenly anxious. “Could I speak to you for a minute before you go? In private?”

“All right. For a minute.” Cullen nodded at Willoughby and Smyth, who took the hint and stepped out. “What is it, Hawke?”

“I’m not ‘Messere’ Hawke any more, then?”

Cullen sighed in impatience. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? If you must know, we use proper titles here. Technically you’re an apprentice, but you’re a little long in the tooth for me to call you that. After your Harrowing you’ll officially be known as Mage. That is not considered an insult in the Circle, as it might be outside. Should you choose to specialise in any particular field, your title will change again to reflect your area of study. Was that all?”

“So why am I to be Harrowed immediately when your apprentices have to wait until adulthood? Is it to do with being an adult, or is it something else?”

“It’s partly to do with being an adult, but not only that. Most apprentices have resided here from a very young age. During that time, they’ve been taught certain things. You have not. As a mature apostate, you’re considered extremely dangerous for that reason… officially, anyway.”

“But then isn’t the Harrowing riskier for someone like me?”

“No. You may not have been ‘taught’ the Chantry’s way, but apostates often teach themselves or learn from other apostates. Incorrectly, of course, but enough to stay out of temptation's way. Even an untrained swordsman can strike a blow if he hits hard enough. Adults hit harder than children.”

“I see.” Fletcher nodded and stared into space.

“Now what do you _really_ want to say, Hawke? I don’t have all day.  Me and my men have wasted quite enough of it chasing after you.”

“It was Fenris, wasn’t it?”

Cullen kept a neutral expression. “What do you mean?”

“I only told one person where I was, and they wouldn’t have just come to you. I was thinking on the boat over and I _know_ it was Fenris. He must have been so worried. Well, of course he was! What did I expect? How did I ever think I could get out of this?” Fletcher placed his head in his hands and blew through them. “I’ve been such an idiot.”

Cullen looked down at Fletcher, feeling a fleeting sympathy for the man. “I’ve witnessed far greater feats of idiocy in my time, believe me.”

“You obviously haven’t known me long enough.” Fletcher uncovered his face and ventured a sheepish look at the knight-captain. “If you see him, would you tell him I’m sorry? I don’t expect you to be a messenger service or anything, it’s… well, I know him, and he would have felt awful. I want him to know I’m not angry with him. Just with myself.”

“I will be seeing the Champion tomorrow during our weekly Consortium meeting. I will pass on your message… assuming it applies to him.”

“Thank you,” Fletcher rasped. “I only wanted to help him, to keep him safe. Ha! As if I could do that. I’m… I’m so worried about him.”

“I must go,” Cullen said. “I will keep you apprised of events on the outside when my duties allow.”

Fletcher stood up and held his shackled hands out, managing an awkward handshake with Cullen.

“Now you will put this business out of your mind,” Cullen stressed. “In order to pass your Harrowing, you need to be strong-willed, focused and have a clear head. And you _must_ pass it. Do you understand? If you wish to help him, do this one thing.”

Fletcher drew a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” Cullen called the others back in. “Willoughby, we will meet later as arranged. Get some rest while you have the chance.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cullen then left, taking Fletcher’s blood sample with him.

After allowing a few seconds for his captain to depart, Smyth leaned back against a wall, his arms folded. “How did you end up in here, Hawke? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I thought I knew you,” said Fletcher. “You’re usually part of the Market patrol, aren’t you? Twilight shift? I’ve seen you in the Hanged Man a few times.”

“We call it the graveyard shift here, but yes.” Smyth smiled a little. “Do you have all of our patrol routes memorised?”

“Pretty much. I _am_ an apostate.”

“You _were._ We’ll have to see about getting those routes altered, then. Listen—thanks for not letting on that you know me. There would have been questions.”

“I’m not a complete arsehole, you know. One of your lot once did something very nice for my father. So I’m guessing _you’re_ not all arseholes, either.”

“Well, _we’re_ not, anyway.” Smyth pointed to Willoughby and then at himself. “We’re going to be spending the next day or so together, and it’ll go a lot faster if we’re nice about it. Shall we show you your temporary quarters? They’re not too bad.”

“All right.” Fletcher followed the templars through another doorway, which led to an open-plan dwelling. At one end were three beds; at the other a bathtub, ewer and towels; and in the middle was a table with three chairs, a small pile of books and a chessboard atop it. There was a further door at the far end.

“The latrine’s next to the office,” Smyth said.

“I should warn you, I snore,” Fletcher told his new room-mates, looking at the beds.

“And I should warn you that I share quarters with Willoughby and you don’t know the _meaning_ of snoring.”

Willoughby managed a weak smile and went to the far door, opening it, daylight streaming in. “There’s a little garden area here for you to get some fresh air.” He inhaled a lungful of air, a faraway look in his eyes. “Well, they call it a garden, but there aren’t any flowers or vegetables.”

Fletcher stepped outside and was grateful the grassy, high-walled area did not provide a view of Kirkwall—he would have spent most of his time moodily staring at it, wondering if Fenris was still... He breathed in steadily, hoping the knot in his stomach would abate, but to no avail. “Do either of you play chess?” he asked the templars, hoping for a distraction.

“I do,” Smyth said. “How about we bring the table outside? It’s a nice enough day.”

“Sounds good to me.” Fletcher gave the templars some room as they carried the small table and two of the chairs out.

Smyth joined Fletcher at the table and looked up at Willoughby. “Get some sleep. We’ll be all right here.”

Willoughby glanced over his shoulder, looking at the beds.  “I shouldn’t, really.”

“What did the knight-captain say? ‘Get some rest’. I don’t think Hawke’s going to cause me any problems apart from the occasional half-baked insult. Why’d you think we were assigned to him? To give you a bit of a...” He shrugged.

“I won’t be any trouble,” Fletcher promised. “I don’t want anyone watching me take a crap for longer than’s necessary.”

“All right. I’ll… I’ll try.” Willoughby trudged into the main quarters and closed the door.

When Fletcher looked back, the board had been set up. “Is he all right? Your friend?”

“Yes, he just needs to catch up on his sleep. Your move.”

**Later that night**

“Hawke, wake up.”

Fletcher moaned and wriggled about, his expression that of a child who’d been denied his favourite toy for being naughty. “It can’t be morning already!” he bleated, opening his eyes. Standing above him was a fully-armoured Smyth, along with Willoughby, who was still dressed for bed.

“Up you get,” Smyth said. “Got a robe here for you to change into.”

Fletcher squinted to see the men in the dim candlelight of their quarters. “But… where are we going?”

“The Harrowing Chamber. It’s time.”

“But I’m in bed!”

“So were we. When the knight-commander says it’s Harrowing time, it’s Harrowing time.”

“Really?” Fletcher pushed himself into a sitting position, looking up as a folded robe was handed to him. _“Really?”_

“Put that on and then… I’d recommend you use the latrine before you go. Hurry up. They’ll be here in a minute.”

“Who?” Now indignant and very awake, Fletcher shrugged the robe over his head and reached for his boots, grumbling to himself. What had happened to the friendly men who’d played chess and taken supper with him (even though Willoughby had hardly spoken a word all evening)? Was this the part where they distanced themselves in case they had to kill him?

His thoughts were interrupted when another two templars wearing helms entered without knocking. “Is he ready yet?” one of them asked.

“He needs to use the latrine first,” answered Smyth.

“No, I don’t.”

“Trust me, you do. At least try to pass water.”

“I’ll go with him,” Willoughby volunteered with a sigh. “This way, Hawke.”

In a daze, Fletcher followed the unsuited templar through the office and into the small latrine area, where Willoughby removed Fletcher’s shackles and turned his back.

“How are you doing?” Fletcher whispered, fumbling with his robe. “Did you get some sleep earlier? I didn’t want to ask in front of Smyth.”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with me,” Willoughby said, facing the door. “You have enough to think about.”

“But you’ve been so quiet. Are you always like that, or…?”

“Please, Hawke, just drop it.”

“Okay, okay.” Fletcher tried his best to relax enough to urinate, but wasn’t having much luck. “Why is it so important for me to… you know, go?”

“It’s best to have an empty bladder for your Harrowing.”

“Oh, that’s really going to open the floodgates, isn’t it, knowing that? I don’t suppose you can tell me why?”

“Because it’s exhausting, and you’ll sleep for a whole day afterwards. You don’t want to wake up wet.”

“Oh, great. That’s lovely.”

“Just do your best.”

Fletcher concentrated on his breathing and closed his eyes, but saw Fenris in his mind when he did, and he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Fenris. He was supposed to be strong-willed and clear-headed, wasn’t he? And how was he supposed to be those things when he knew Fenris would, at this very moment, be alone in a cold bed, possibly having nightmares about Danarius with no one there to comfort him when he awoke?

Eleven minutes later he finally found success, and the floodgates did indeed open, albeit in dribs and drabs. Willoughby reapplied the shackles and they stepped outside where the three templars, all wearing helms this time, were waiting for him.

“Let me guess… _you’re_ Smyth, aren’t you?” Fletcher pointed out one of the templars, but none of them answered. He sighed as one of them opened the office door, gesturing for him to go first.

“See you soon,” Willoughby said, his eyes moving to the floor. “You’ll... you’ll be fine.”

Fletcher looked at him, but didn’t get the chance to say anything as he was hurried out.

Willoughby closed the door behind them, resting his forehead and palms against it until his heart settled to a steady beat.

It was going to be another long night.

~o~O~o~

The Harrowing Chamber was a huge, grand affair. Under any other circumstances, it could be considered quite beautiful—its tall, stained glass windows depicted various legends and heroes in Thedas’s history, while the blue-grey marble floor and matching pillars were polished to an immaculate shine. First Enchanter Orsino was here, and he gave Fletcher a discreet nod as he entered. There were also half a dozen templars in addition to the three who’d accompanied Fletcher. The only one not wearing a helm was a beautiful but severe-looking blonde woman, standing at the centre of them.

“Welcome, Apprentice Hawke,” she said in a voice that was anything _but_ welcoming. “Or is it ‘First Enchanter Hawke’ of Starkhaven?”

Fletcher cast his mind back to the day he and Varric had bullshitted Ser Karras at the Coast before handing the blood mages to the templars. He affected a confused expression—he was good at that. “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“Let us hope not,” she said with a frozen smile. “No matter. We have you now. I am Knight-Commander Meredith. You will follow me.”

The clanking of nine suits of armour assaulted Fletcher’s ears, a circle of glinting steel surrounding him as he followed Meredith to a solitary plinth holding a large bowl of shimmering blue liquid. His skin began to tingle and he felt a deep impulse to do something, but what, he didn’t know.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” Meredith said. “Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin. Your magic is a gift, but it’s also a curse, for demons of the Fade are drawn to you, and seek to use you as a gateway to this world.”

“This is why the Harrowing exists,” Orsino said from behind Meredith. “The ritual sends you into the Fade, where you will face a demon, armed with only your will.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter, but the apprentice must find his own way.” She gestured with an open palm towards the bowl, looking at Fletcher expectantly.

Fletcher had had a smartarse ‘Am I supposed to drink this?’ comment prepared, but that was forgotten as the lyrium reached out to him, calling him home. It had been like this in the Deep Roads, but this time there were no barriers between them: no axes, no rough dwarven hands, no yelling in his ear… there was nothing. Nothing but him and the lyrium.

His bound hands began to move of their own volition and his entire field of vision was filled with azure perfection.

“I’m coming.”

~o~O~o~

It took him a minute to adjust to his surroundings, but he was lying on his back in the Welcoming Committee Room. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his hazy vision, but everything appeared slightly out of focus.

Was it over? He _did_ feel exhausted, as Willoughby had warned him would happen. He closed his eyes, more than happy to succumb to sleep’s embrace.

Then his nose twitched as a very familiar scent reached it: bergamot and lavender. “I know that smell,” he mumbled, struggling to re-open his eyes. When he finally managed, he could see someone sitting beside him, though they were indistinct. “Is that you, Sis?”

“Brother,” she said kindly, waiting for his vision to resolve. “You made it. Well done.”

“Did I?” He rubbed his eyes again, his arms feeling weak and limp. “I… I don’t actually remember anything.”

“I don’t remember mine, either. Maybe that’s for the best. I wouldn’t worry about it now.  Worrying is such an effort.”

“But…” With great difficulty he forced himself up, sitting at a right angle to Beth. “Anders remembered _his_ Harrowing. He told me about it in a lot of detail. There was a mouse who wanted to turn into a bear, but it was really a Pride Demon. The mouse was too proud, you see, and wanted to be bigger. Tougher? Or something. Oh, I don’t know.” He buried his head in his hands, wishing his lethargy would lift.

“Don’t think so much. It’s simply too much effort, isn’t it? Get some rest, Brother. Sleep.”

“I’m not sure I want to now. I feel funny.” He yawned, blinked several times and opened his eyes as wide as they’d go, but his vision remained blurred.

“All the more reason for you to sleep, Brother. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Ah, you always know best, Sis. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Miss Hawke, this mage has slept long enough! It’s time for him to get up!”

Fletcher groaned, his eyelids fluttering as he teetered on the brink of sleep. Then he cried out as he was roughly grabbed by the arm and hauled up. His eyes snapped open. “Willoughby? You’re hurting me! Let go!”

The templar released his arm but then clasped Fletcher’s jaw, coming nose-to-nose with him. “This is no time for sleep!” he yelled. “You have things to do! Wake up!”

“Oh, do leave him alone,” Bethany urged without any real urgency. “Can’t you see he’s tired? We’re all tired. Come and sit down for a bit.”

Willoughby clasped Fletcher’s shoulders and shook him, none-too-gently. “Hawke!”

“Maker! What’s so important?” Fletcher droned with another yawn as he lightly pushed the templar away.

“You’re now a mage, Hawke, and mages can’t lose their focus. Your mind must be free and active. Answer me this: What has an eye, but cannot see?”

“What?” Still reeling from exhaustion, Fletcher gave Willoughby an incredulous look. “I don’t know! A storm?”

Willoughby nodded, a look of triumph on his face. “I’d also have accepted ‘needle’.”

“Why are you ask—”

“Shut up and listen! Remove my skin and you’ll cry, though I shall not. What am I?”

“Willoughby, what—”

Willoughby slapped the table to his side, startling Fletcher. “Answer the bloody question!”

“All right, keep your knickers on!” Fletcher repeated the riddle under his breath. “That’s easy! An onion. Now will you tell me the point of all this?”

“Do you still feel tired?”

“Um… not as much, no.”

“Good!”

“Fletcher,” Bethany, who was now standing up, said, “the templars have to give you sufficient time to rest. I can’t possibly think what could be so important, so you need to come back to bed and sleep.”

“Hold on, Sis.” Fletcher rubbed his eyes again and turned to Willoughby. “I’m quite good at riddles. Give me a difficult one this time.”

“Difficult one coming up.” The templar bowed and straightened up. “What is greater than the Maker and more terrible than the magisters who blackened the Golden City? The poor have it, the rich don’t want it, and if you eat it, you’ll die.”

“Blimey, that _is_ a hard one.”

“You asked for it.”

“Why are you trying to confuse him with your ‘Maker’ nonsense?” Bethany accused the templar, trying to guide her brother back to the bed. “Fletcher, you know there is no Maker—you’ve said so many times. Come, rest yourself.”

“I’ve never said there was _no_ Maker, I’m just not sure.” Fletcher, who felt much more alert, began dissecting the riddle. “If I eat it I’ll die? Well, there’s deathroot, poison… but why would the poor have that? The poor don’t have much of anything, really… and who’s greater than the Maker? The Chantry would say no one. No one… that’s it, it’s got to be…” He locked eyes with Willoughby. “No.  The answer is ‘nothing’.”

Willoughby grinned. “Good for you. And now you have your focus back, you might see that which you didn’t before.”

Fletcher frowned and looked around the room, noticing that Beth had stood up. “Wait… what were you sitting on?” he asked her.

“The bed of course, Brother,” she answered.

“No, you weren’t. It was like you were sitting on a chair, but there isn’t one there. Were you just _hovering?_ Nobody’s thigh muscles are that strong!” Adrenaline coursed through his gut as his body reacted chemically to the fear his brain was yet to assimilate.

“This templar has confused you with his babble about the Maker,” she said. “You need _rest,_ Brother.”

Fletcher tried in vain to blink away the blurring of his vision. “No, I don’t want to rest. Why can’t I see properly? Is this…” He turned full circle, taking in the entire room. “It can’t be. I’d _know_ if I was in the Fade. I’m a mage!” He went for the door and opened it, immediately stepping into another room, identical to the WCR, but it was completely devoid of people or furniture.

“Behind you.”

“Shit!” Fletcher whipped around, panting, and was met by a another familiar sight. “Fenris? You made me jump!”

The elf stepped closer, wearing the armour he’d had on when he and Fletcher had first met. “Forgive me, my dear. Your sudden appearance also startled me somewhat, it has to be said.”

“Sorry, I-I didn’t…”

“Of course you didn’t. Are you well?”

“I… no. You’ll tell me the truth, won’t you? This is the Fade, isn’t it? _This_ is my Harrowing.”

“There seems little need for me to tell you that which you already know to be true.”

“Then why doesn’t it _feel_ like the Fade? Why am I so… removed?” He raised his hands, which were unbound. “The shackles… I must still be wearing them.”

“Those crude bindings merely block mana production. They do not disconnect you from the Fade. This ‘feeling’ is a trick, no doubt, on the part of the demon that resides here. You may have already encountered it.”

“I… I think you could be right.” Fletcher gulped, clasping his hands together as they were shaking. “I need to sit down.”

“Then sit.” Two wooden chairs appeared in front of them, Fenris taking a seat on one of them.

“How did you do that?”

Fenris shrugged. “I didn’t. You did.”

“But that’s not possible. This isn’t my domain, and I’m no Dreamer.”

Fenris crossed one leg over the other and studied the mage for a moment. “Your perception is so linear. What makes you think this is _anyone’s_ domain?”

“What do you mean by that? What… _are_ you?” Fletcher moved his chair slightly away before sitting down.

“As you are the one who created me, I cannot answer that. You required a steady and logical presence, so your mind manufactured one. A coping mechanism, if you like.”

“So you just look and sound like Fenris? You’re really me?”

“I am what you choose me to be. If you wish to call me ‘Fenris’, I will not object. There is always a choice.”

Fletcher blew out a sigh and tried to collect his thoughts. “You said I might have already encountered a demon? I saw my sister, or someone who looked like her, and a templar. Bethany kept trying to get me to sleep, and I felt really tired when I was talking to her, like I couldn’t think straight.”

“And the templar?”

“He was violent! Look!” Fletcher held up his arm, evidence of fingerprints on his skin where Willoughby had grabbed him. “Although... he _did_ help me get my focus back.”

Fenris sneered. “A cunning ploy designed to trick you into believing it was aiding you. Do you not see? They vie for their plaything. Hunger succeeded in wresting you away from Sloth. How uncouth and expected of them.”

“So you’re saying they’re both demons? But Orsino said there would only be one!”

“This is a test, is it not? What good is a test if its solution is already known?”

Fletcher watched Fenris, his thought processes more acute now. “How do I know _you’re_ not a demon?”

“You don’t. You can choose to accept my counsel or not. If not, walk away or slay me. There is always a choice.”

“Slay you? How am I supposed to slay anyone? I don’t even have a weapon.”

“You possess a weapon far more powerful than any sword or staff.” Fenris tapped his temple. “The answers you seek are there. You simply need to make the correct choice.”

“All right.” Fletcher exhaled. “You’re the only one who’s making any sense here. You’re the only one who _acts_ like you. Beth’s not acting like Beth at all. Willoughby… I don’t know him that well, but he was quiet and a bit nervous before. Here, though, he’s the complete opposite. He’s a maniac!”

“The templar committed murder upon a helpless mage in the name of his so-called Maker," Fenris spat.  "Something has broken inside him and now he cannot find rest. This echoes in the Fade, giving rise to Hunger.”

“Hunger? A hunger for what?”

“There are many possibilities. A hunger to atone, to kill again, to end those who forced him into such an act… perhaps he hungers to join the one whose life he cut short, to end the screams and piteous sobs that haunt his dreams. How he fears the advent of those dreams. The weight of his actions fester inside him like a tumour, its malignancy made flesh in this realm. The man deserves everything he gets.”

Fletcher gave the elf a dubious look. “He deserves...? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Have we not already established that I am not Fenris? I am you. Somewhere in your heart you believe this templar should suffer.”

“No… that’s not right. He was doing his duty. He seemed quite sad about it.”

“Do you believe it ‘right’ that the templars subject you to this trial? How does resisting one or more demons now provide surety against possession in the future? It doesn’t. What is the point of it?”

“Whether there’s a point or not, I’ve got to do it,” Fletcher said simply. “Why are you even here if you don’t agree with the Harrowing?”

“I have already explained this. _You_ made the choice to bring me here, whether you were conscious of it or not. Now you are faced with another choice. Make it the right one, for your sake… and Fenris’s.”

There was a blinding flash and Fletcher shielded his eyes against it. When he was eventually able to look, Fenris was gone. “Shit,” he muttered. “Okay, now what do I do?”

“You already know the answer to that,” said a voice from behind him. “Stop procrastinating and get on with it!”

“Will you people… _things_ stop doing that?” He turned around, coming face-to-face with Willoughby. Fletcher immediately jumped back, hands held out in front of him. “Tell me what you are. Now!”

“You’re not very bright, are you? I’m obviously not your enemy.”

“What are you supposed to be, then? A spirit? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Have I lied to you so far?”

Fletcher took a moment to think about that. “I don’t think so, but you hurt my arm. Since when do benevolent spirits hurt people?”

Willoughby gave a slightly unnerving smile. “I’m not Compassion, nor am I Wisdom. They don’t hurt people but they don’t get a fat lot done, either. Had I not stimulated you with pain, you would have surrendered yourself to Inertia. Pain is _good_. _”_

Fletcher’s breathing quickened and he continued to back away. “Don’t come any closer!”

“You fear me? Excellent!” Willoughby threw his head back and cackled. “That means you’re present! At last!”

“You’re no spirit! Spirits don’t act like this!”

“And how many spirits have _you_ met, hm? You mortals are so narrow-minded. Should I be sitting on a cloud, all serene and floaty, with pretty lights fluttering around my head as a divine choir sings like angels in the background? Guess again! I can’t abide that inane rubbish! There are many varieties of spirits and demons. The one _you_ defeated was Inertia. A rather crude subspecies of Sloth, sent in the guise of your sister.”

“Wait… what do you mean, ‘I’ defeated it? When did I do that?”

“It only takes a simple gesture to reject or accept. Your gesture was waking up and walking away. I won’t take credit for the arm-grabbing part of it, though—I’m not Pride. Wretched thing, that.”

“Then tell me what you _are._ Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because you need to find me. Besides, if I told you, would you believe me?”

“I need to _find_ you? What kind of metaphysical crap is that?” Fletcher increased the distance between them, although Willoughby made no advances towards him. “I know what you are. You’re a Hunger Demon. You wanted to take me away from Sloth, Inertia, whatever—and what? Consume me? I’m not your bloody plaything!”

Willoughby shook his head and looked at Fletcher like he was stupid. “And who told you that? The one who bangs on about choice all the time? While simultaneously robbing _you_ of choice? Telling you that you’re one and the same, while espousing opinions diametrically opposed to your own? Answer me this, then, clever one—”

“Not another riddle!”

“Not a riddle, no, although to one of your limited intellect… let’s call it a statement, then. _‘I do not deny the Maker, nor do you. Only His first children do that’_. Work _that_ one out, genius.”

“Who are you talking about? You? Or is this some imaginary person? Everyone speaks gibberish here!”

Willoughby made a morose moaning sound. “Why do I even bother? If you find me, let me know. I’ve places to be. But remember what I said and use your sodding brain for once.”

“Wait!” For the second time, Fletcher had to shield his eyes as Willoughby—or whatever it was—vanished in a blaze of light. “Great. Now I’m back where I started.” Fletcher sank into one of the chairs Fenris had created… or claimed Fletcher had. “Right. The Maker’s first children are demons, according to the Chantry. Inertia denied the Maker, so it was a demon. Fine. Willoughby hasn’t, but then neither has Fenris… I think. Willoughby might be lying. I’ve heard plenty of people in the physical world say the Maker doesn’t exist and _they’re_ not demons. But I’m not in the physical world, am I?”

Utterly fed up of this realm and everything in it, Fletcher stood up, determined to solve the riddle… and preferably not get possessed and slain in the process. “Fenris? Are you there?”

This time, the elf appeared in front of him, instantly becoming solid. “Hungry?”

“No, not particularly.”

“That makes a change.” A large wooden banqueting table materialised in the centre of the room, complete with set places, cutlery and candelabra.

“Oh, I suppose I conjured that up myself, did I?” Fletcher asked with scorn in his voice.

“Apparently so. Something from home you're missing, perhaps? As you are no closer to unravelling the mysteries of this realm, I thought we might spend some time together. And I promise not to assault or shout at you as others might.” Fenris tilted his head and looked at Fletcher in an affectionate way. “Would you care to dine with me, Lux Mea?”

Placed on his guard, Fletcher stayed put.  “I’m fine where I am, thanks. You go ahead.”

“Your choice.”

“Yes, there’s always a choice. So you keep saying.” Fletcher watched as Fenris sat at the table, unfolding a napkin. Fletcher then stared at the elf’s plate, imagining a sumptuous roast chicken breast with vegetables, smothered with gravy.

“Delicious. Thank you.” Fenris lifted his knife and fork and began to tuck in to the summoned food. “Are you certain you won’t join me?”

“Do you believe in the Maker?”

“Hm?” Fenris dabbed his mouth with the napkin and swallowed. “He who abandoned us? Why should I give Him the time of day? Wait. I’m talking as if He actually exists. Could the Maker give us this fine feast?” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Maker! A nice red would go nicely with this meal. Would You mind awfully? No? Well, thanks for nothing.”

“Who are you really?” Fletcher asked warily. “What are you? You say this is no one’s domain and I can create anything I like, but it’s you, isn’t it? You’re inside my head. You made the chairs appear. You made the food appear, because this is _your_ domain. No, you haven’t grabbed me or yelled at me, but you _have_ lied to me. You want something. What is it?”

Fenris appeared confused, though in an exaggerated way. “Want? I want nothing. Why would I? I can, as you have so cleverly surmised, summon anything I wish—because those things are also what _you_ wish for. We are one. All I _want,_ if anything, is to share the munificence. I’m giving you a simple choice.”

“Choice. Is that your name? I’ve never heard of a Spirit of Choice.”

Fenris laid down his utensils. “Still you persist with your narrow vision. We both have the choice to be anything we like. And we can ‘be’ those things together.”

“I don’t think so.  Willoughby?” Fletcher looked around for an exit, gasping when a translucent door appeared to his right.

“You want to leave and be shouted at by that brutish creature? I’m not going to stop you. But consider this: when you wake up, Fenris—the real Fenris—will quite probably be dead, or on his way back to Minrathous. Why go through all that tedious mourning when you can live here with him forever? Stay here… and I will give you everything you’ve ever wished for.”

Fletcher shook his head, his eyes hard. “You almost had me at one point. But you’ve shown your hand too early, demon. I reject anything you offer. Go! Begone!”

Fenris looked around and patted down his arms. “It would seem I’m still here. Fancy that.” He placed a hand next to his ear and appeared to listen. “Somewhere in the physical world, a prone mage starts to twitch violently in his sleep. The templar assigned to slay him holds his sword ready, a bead of sweat trickling down his back.” He threw his napkin down and sat back. “I already own you, Fletcher. All it takes is a simple gesture to accept… like sitting down with me, which you did earlier. The question is, do you step through that door to meet a brutal and horrific end? Or do you sit down and enjoy the meal we made together? And we can make something else together afterwards. Oh, yes.”

“I don’t believe you. I sat down with Inertia and she didn’t possess me. You’re lying!” Fletcher moved towards the door but then the entire room changed, reflecting his and Carver’s shared bedroom in Lothering. Only this time there was one bed: a luxurious four-poster one, complete with silk drapes, velvet coverlet and Fenris, arms arranged above his head, wearing nothing but a salacious smile.

“What are you doing?” Fletcher demanded. “Put some bloody clothes on!”

“Quiet!” hissed Fenris, listening intently. “Is that…?”

“Fletcher Hawke, get your arse out of bed before I tan it seven shades of red, you workshy layabout!” a voice boomed from downstairs. “And never mind your clucking, woman! You knew I was a bit of rough when you married me, and you love it!”

There was an indulgent laugh: Leandra’s. “Really, Malcolm. Not in front of—”

“Father, you’re so embarrassing! I’m going out!”

Fletcher moved to the window, watching as a teenage Carver left the house, heading in the direction of the Bradshaws’.

“Off to see your friend, Dalton,” the demon said. “You can have both of us, you know. At the same time, if you like. The more the merrier.”

Ignoring Choice, Fletcher smiled as a red-headed woman rode past the house on a horse. “Aveline. Of _course_ she’s here. It’s perfect.”

“She’s the local constable, married to one of the templars. Everyone you’ve ever loved and lost is right here. This is a perfect recreation of Lothering. Only, the Blight will never touch _this_ Lothering, and nobody will ever die… including your precious Fenris.”

“There’s old Barlin,” Fletcher said, pointing out of the window. “Off to hunt his spiders.” He turned and faced the demon, his head filled with pleasant thoughts. “This brings back memories. This is a perfect copy of my old home?”

The demon nodded. “Perfect in every detail, according to your memories. Well, except for the bed. And me. But your parents know and accept me. Even Carver does.  He's actually nice here.”

“And that’s really my father downstairs?”

“Go and see for yourself! I’ll be waiting.” The demon waggled its eyebrows suggestively. “And then I’ll give you your choice. I’ll give you everything, my pet. My munificence knows no bounds. All you have to do is… give yourself to me.” It patted the bed.

“I think I know what choice I’ll be making. But wait until I come back.”

“Oh, I will, Fletcher dear.” The demon lay back on the bed, stretching its naked torso.

Fletcher stomped down the creaky wooden stairs, finding his mother seated in an old but comfy armchair, doing needlework. And there, in front of her, hands on hips, legs spread, was Malcolm… bathed in sweat, fresh from working in the fields.

“You’d think a herd of baby elephants lived up there!” he scolded his son. “And what do you think you’re wearing?” Fletcher glanced down at his robe and grinned. “Might as well put a sign above our door—’Templars! Get your apostates here while they’re fresh!’”

Fletcher rushed to Malcolm, throwing his arms around the larger man’s neck, breathing in the smell of earth, sweat and liniment he missed so much. “I love you, Father.”

“Get off me, you daft sod!” Malcolm shoved his son away and playfully punched him on the arm. “Now get up those stairs and put something suitable on. And tell that elf he’s joining us in the fields today, it’s high time he earned his keep around here.”

Fletcher headed for the stairs, but first turned back, feeling not sad but grateful. “I really do love you. I didn’t tell you often enough. And I know you never said it in so many words… but we were your everything. I know that.”

“Up!” Malcolm pointed a meaty arm towards the ceiling. “And don’t come down until you at least resemble a man!”

“I’m going. I’ll see you… again.”

Fletcher took a few steadying breaths and headed back up the stairs, making for the bedroom, a glassy appearance to his eyes.

“Enjoy your little reunion, did you?” asked the demon, but before he could utter another word, Fletcher was on top of him, his hands around his throat. “Fletcher! What are you—ack!”

“I once knew someone who could assume Fenris’s form,” Fletcher snarled as he increased the pressure on the elf’s throat. “It used to upset me, but the more she did it, the less I cared. There’s only one Fenris I care about, and it’s the _real_ one. You’re nothing but a shell.”

“Stop! It-it hurtsssss! Gyah! Fletch—! I c-can’t—!”

“You think you can take me away from him with _this_ shit? How _dare_ you dangle all the people I care about in front of me like fucking carrots! Gunh!” Fletcher pushed down with all his might, his face turning red as the demon’s legs thrashed beneath him, its fingers clawing at his hands. “You think you _know_ me? You think I can’t kill Fenris, watch him die in agony? Well, you’re wrong! Because you’re... not... _him!”_

The demon’s assumed form convulsed as Fletcher’s thumbs crushed its windpipe, bloody spittle spraying out of its mouth as its foul life ebbed away, a cacophony of harsh quacking accompanying its demise.

“I’ve made my choice! Get out of my head!”

The bed and floor disappeared from beneath Fletcher, and he was in freefall.

_So you did find me! You’re a plucky one, aren’t you? I might look in on you from time to time..._

He knew nothing more until the sound of faint chatter and footsteps reached his ears.

“Brother? I think… I think he’s waking up!”

“Hawke? Are you with us?”

Fletcher opened his eyes, rubbing the crusts of sleep off them. His mouth was bone dry, his bladder full to bursting, his stomach felt like his throat had been cut, and oh, the headache… he felt like crap, but this was _real._

“Sit up slowly,” said Bethany, assisting the groggy Fletcher as he hauled himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I do wish you weren’t here, but it’s so good to see you, Brother!”

“Likewise, Sis.” They embraced, both sighing into each other. Fletcher never wanted to let her go, but there was something important he needed to do. “Sorry, Beth, I really need a wee.”

“You know the way,” said Smyth, who was standing by the door. “And you can go on your own this time… Mage.”

Fletcher examined his hands, which no longer bore shackles. He looked up at Willoughby first, then Smyth, and finally settled on Willoughby again.

“Why are you looking at us like that?” Smyth asked. “Oh, wait… which one of us was the demon, then? It’s all right. We’re used to it.”

“You weren’t demons, but Willoughby was a benevolent spirit, I think.”

“What kind?” asked Willoughby.

“I don’t know. It never said. Look, I’ve really got to…”

Smyth stepped away from the door as Fletcher rushed past. “When you’ve been, the first enchanter wants to see you. We’ll walk you there.”

“But I’m starving!” Fletcher said from inside the latrine. "Ah... Ahhhhhhhhhhh!"

“He made me a cup of tea when I went to see him,” Bethany called out, “and he had some nice biscuits, too. I had eight, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.”

They waited for Fletcher to emerge, and the templars wasted no time in whisking him off to Orsino’s office, promising Bethany she would see him later.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher was very pleased that he was also offered tea and biscuits by Orsino. He was halfway through his second cup when the elven mage dropped the smalltalk and moved onto weightier topics.

“Tell me about your Harrowing, Fletcher. How did you find it?”

“It was… weird.”

Orsino chuckled. “If only I’d saved a copper for every time I’ve heard that. Would you like to talk about your experience? If not, I understand. Not everyone does.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Fletcher sighed. “There were two demons… Inertia, and a second one who might have been called Choice. I rejected Inertia and killed Choice.”

“Oh?” Orsino arched an eyebrow. “Fascinating. And did a spirit come to your aid? They often do.”

“Yes, but I don’t know what it was a spirit _of._ I thought it was a demon at first—it certainly didn’t act like a spirit. It hurt me, and was quite impatient. But it intervened and helped me against Inertia. It kept its distance from Choice, though. Choice was very cunning and powerful. It wanted me to stay with it forever, and offered me a dream life in return.”

“So what made you reject its offer? It couldn’t have been easy to turn down.”

“It made me angry,” Fletcher said quietly. “The demon recreated people… good people, ones I love, and my old home, which is now gone. I felt like they’d been polluted, tarnished, by its touch. The dead should rest, not be toys in a demon’s playground.” He looked up at the first enchanter. “Do you think it was a Desire Demon?”

“Almost certainly.” Orsino sipped at his tea. “But let us return to the spirit that aided you. It’s a misconception that benevolent spirits are docile. Compassion, Wisdom, certainly, but spirits of Valor, Command and even Purpose might endorse or employ violence to meet an end. By the same token, some demons are non-confrontational and charming, but _their_ motivation is always to acquire a host in order to interact with our world—or to gain a spark of the divine, as the Chant would have us believe. Spirits aren’t interested in such things because they already have that spark. Tell me, Fletcher—what did the spirit _give_ you?”

“It gave me… focus. It hurt me and startled me, but that was exactly what I needed to shake off Inertia. But, as I said, it stayed away from Choice, although by then I was more alert and able to think for myself. It said I needed to find ‘it’, referring to itself. What kind of spirit would that be?”

Orsino’s eyes lit up. “Well, how _very_ interesting! A spirit that aids you directly against Sloth, while keeping its distance from Desire? What is the antithesis of Sloth, Fletcher? What walks a similar path to Desire, though seeks an alternative destination?”

“The antithesis of Sloth?” Fletcher’s brow creased. “Action? Motivation?” His face slackened, then, his eyes widening as the answer came to him. “That’s it! It-it said I needed to find it! And when I killed Choice it spoke to me! It said ‘so you finally found me!’” I found _Purpose!_ Now it makes sense!”

Orsino gave Fletcher a proud smile and poured them another cup of tea. “Purpose is an unusual spirit to encounter. In fact, it’s been several years since I last heard of Purpose aiding a mage through their Harrowing… or at least it would have been, had your own sister not also encountered it during _her_ Harrowing last month.”

“Really?” Fletcher would have jumped up and down in excitement, had he not been seated. “How about that! I wonder if it means anything?”

“It _could_ mean that this particular Spirit of Purpose is starting to take an interest in our world, which means it may be on the verge of becoming corrupted. Or it could mean something else entirely.”

“Like what?”

“Without meaning to insult you, neither you or your sister are remarkable in any way, certainly not enough for a spirit to single you out. Why, then, was such a rare spirit drawn to you both? Two people from the same family?”

“Coincidence, maybe?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences when it comes to the Fade and its inhabitants. Do you know where spirits originate from?”

“Um… I don’t know that much about them, but true spirits aren’t ghosts of the dead, as some people believe. They’re an idea, or a memory, or an emotion, reflected in the Fade. That’s what I’ve read, anyway.”

The first enchanter nodded. “Indeed, but have you considered _where_ those ideas, memories and emotions come from?” He stood up and moved to a large bookshelf, taking a tome from it. “I want you to read this, particularly chapters six through ten.” He gave the book to Fletcher and sat down.

Fletcher read the cover. “‘Spiritus Exposita'? Is this written in Tevene?”

“It is, but there’s a Thedosian translation inside. The author postulates that when certain people die—if they’re the embodiment of a virtue, such as faith, or were experiencing a strong enough emotion at the moment of death—a remnant of them is left in the Fade before they’re called to the Maker’s side. That remnant attracts energies and, given enough time, a spirit or demon may be born of it.”

“How much time?”

“Several ages or a few seconds… who can say? Time does not have the same meaning in the dream realm as it does in the physical one. That said, the vigorous methods Purpose employed during your Harrowing would suggest it’s a young spirit, one that hasn’t been in the Fade for long, with threads still tying it to its former persona.”

“You mean it might have come from someone who died recently? Someone who knew me and Beth?”

“This is pure speculation on my part, you understand.”

“But?”

“But… read the book. See what opinions, if any, you form. Then come back to me, and we’ll discuss it further.”

“Do you think those spirits remember their loved ones?” asked Fletcher eagerly. “This Purpose… it knew my name, but didn’t seem to know anything else about me.”

“The spirit you met may not possess memories of you and Bethany, but for some reason it was drawn to you both and sought to protect you. But I don’t want to impress _my_ opinions upon you. Read the book, discuss it with Bethany, and form your own.”

“I will.” Fletcher fell quiet and considered the contents of his teacup.

“Perhaps you and your sister would be interested in exploring this further still? We could travel the Fade together, see if we can make contact with your spirit. The fact it spoke to you _after_ you’d vanquished Choice could be construed as a declaration of its interest in you.”

Fletcher almost dropped his cup into his lap. “Why would it be interested in me?”

“We should exercise caution here, for the reasons I’ve already stated—we could be dealing with a spirit on the verge of ‘turning’, but we can take steps to protect ourselves. How about we discuss it tomorrow? For the remainder of today, take a walk around, familiarise yourself with the place, rest and read the book. Have you been shown your quarters?”

“You mean the WCR?”

“No. You no longer reside there.” Orsino stood up, and Fletcher immediately followed. “I’ve assigned you quarters not far from your sister’s. They’re modest, but comfortable enough. Come, I’ll show you. On the way there, I’ll explain the daily routine...”

“Woah!” Fletcher lurched forward, grabbing Orsino’s desk as magical energy surged into him. “What was that? I feel like… like a lightning rod!”

“That, my friend, is thirty or forty mages casting in unison.” Orsino moved to his side, smiling. “Primal classes have just begun. We don’t get many apostates here, and I forget how their first time must feel. You’ll learn to tune it out after a while, but it won’t hurt you. Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, thank you!” Fletcher caught his breath and began to follow Orsino out of the office. Before they left, Fletcher halted. “First Enchanter? May I… I’m not sure whether this concerns you or Meredith, but something’s bothering me.”

“What is it, Fletcher?”

The mage lowered his voice. “One of the templars, Knight-Lieutenant Willoughby. He was part of my ‘Welcoming Committee’.”

“Ah. Willoughby.” Orsino nodded and sighed. “Did he treat you appropriately?”

“He was fine with me, but I think he might be struggling with something. I heard the altercation concerning… Williams? About Ackerly? Willoughby reacted to it quite strongly. Was he the one…?”

“Yes, he was,” Orsino confirmed, “and I’m sorry you heard that. It’s to your credit you did not allow it to unnerve you before your own Harrowing.”

“Choice told me something about Willoughby,” Fletcher said, causing Orsino to frown in concern. “It told me he’s broken inside because he murdered a mage in the Maker’s name.”

Orsino scoffed. “The demon couldn’t possibly have known that. It obviously read your thoughts. You _did_ figure out that Willoughby was selected to slay Ackerly, after all.”

“But that’s not how _I_ feel. I don’t believe Willoughby _murdered_ Ackerly. He was doing his duty, like you said at the time.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

Fletcher dropped his voice to a whisper. “Although the Chantry refuses to acknowledge it, you and I know _everyone_ is visited by demons from time to time, but only mages remember the encounter. Non-mages might wake up in a bad mood, for example, without knowing why. Choice told me Willoughby is having nightmares, and fears going to sleep. It might have read my thoughts, but I didn't know that.”

“You believe Willoughby is being visited?” Orsino brought a hand to his chin. “Yes, I see what you’re getting at. I will look into this but won’t involve the templars at this time. They tend to overreact in matters such as this. Thank you for telling me.”

“Were _you_ there? At Ackerly’s Harrowing?”

“Yes.  I attend every one.”

“What actually happened?”

“Forgive me, but I must protect Ackerly’s memory and reputation, as I would have protected yours.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.” Fletcher cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you cope? When the worst happens?”

Momentarily, Orsino appeared troubled. “What the templars did for him was kinder than the alternative. That knowledge is how I cope.”

“And what about Williams? How’s he?”

“He’s fine now, but you can ask him yourself tomorrow. He’ll be mentoring you for as long as you’re here. Fletcher… do you intend to tell others of your unique circumstances? That you won’t be here on a permanent basis?”

Fletcher shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’ll tell Bethany, though. She’ll be happy for me.”

“For what it’s worth, I agree with your decision. But... onto happier subjects. You are now Mage Hawke, or at least one of them. I look forward to seeing the templars’ faces when they call one of you, only for two to come running.” He offered his hand to Fletcher. “Welcome to the Circle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Choice' is loosely based on Imshael, a Desire Demon encountered at Suledin Keep in DA: Inquisition. Although clearly a demon, it refers to itself as a Spirit of Choice.


	125. The Healer who Harms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And you didn't think this relevant to our discussion? What more are you hiding from me, I wonder?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome and an enormous thank-you to my new beta reader, Xizor! Your help and encouragement has been invaluable! Check out Xizor's tumblr page at https://xiz0r.tumblr.com/ filled with Dragon Age goodies and some excellent original artwork. :)

**The Gallows**

Orsino had been right about Fletcher’s new quarters: they were indeed modest, and in dire need of some silks or flowers in order to brighten them up. Even a daffodil in a jam jar would be an improvement. Mage Hawke took a walk around his dwellings (which were barely large enough to squeeze a bed, small trunk and wardrobe into), as he formulated ways to make it the envy of the Circle. 

Doing so kept his mind mostly off other things, although those other things were always there, lurking in the background. What he couldn’t ignore, however, were the butterflies that seemed to have taken permanent residence in his stomach. Where was Fenris right at this moment? What was he doing, thinking, feeling? Why the bloody hell had Fletcher been born a mage, of all things? Why couldn’t he be a fearless, muscular warrior who could grab his sword and take care of that bastard up in the mountains?

Was he still up in the mountains?

Fletcher stuffed his hands into the pockets of his new Mage’s robe, which was as drab and useless as he felt. Everyone he’d seen at breakfast had congratulated him on passing his Harrowing (even a few templars!) but what good was that? Nothing had changed. He was still Fletcher Hawke, he was still a mage, and he was still stuck in this place. Exactly when he didn’t want to be.

“You look as happy as I feel.”

Fletcher looked up as a middle-aged elf wearing a very elaborate robe strolled in through the doorway (mage quarters didn’t have doors). “Oh, hello. My name’s Fletcher. I’m new here.”

“Yes, I know.” The elf folded his arms and looked the human up and down. “Fresh from the Harrowing Chamber and raring to go, eh?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Not exactly. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m waiting for Enchanter Williams. I don’t suppose…?”

“You suppose correctly. That’s me. I was due to become senior enchanter, but it looks like that’s out of the window for the time being.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Williams gave Fletcher a stern look. “I’m told you heard my little outburst in the courtyard, so don’t pretend you didn’t. Senior enchanters are supposed to be serene and wise and all that shit. I wasn’t exactly that, was I?”

“I’m sorry,” Fletcher said. “I’m sorry you lost your friend as well.”

“He wasn’t just my friend. He was…” Williams shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Oh. I see,” Fletcher said sadly.

“No, you _don’t_ see. I know what you’re thinking. For your information, I’m nearly fifty and he was nineteen. He was like a son to me. But I don’t know why I’m explaining that to you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Fletcher said in a defensive tone. “I was just trying to commiserate with you.”

“Why? You didn’t know Ackerly and you don’t know me. Why does everyone feel the need to say ‘sorry’? What good will that do?”

Fletcher gawked at the elf for a second and then huffed. “You know what? Forget I said anything. Whatever you’re here for let’s get it out of the way fast. You clearly don’t want to be here.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Williams slipped a small fruit knife out of his belt, causing Fletcher to inhale sharply. “I’m told you’re a healer. So let’s see how well you heal.”

“What are you doing?” Fletcher watched in alarm as Williams carved a deep scratch along his forearm, holding it up as blood began to seep through to the surface of his skin. “You… you want me to heal that?”

“Unless you want me to bleed to death, if you could find the time I’d appreciate it.”

“Do I need to wait for a templar?”

Williams sighed in impatience. “We’re in the Circle. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are templars everywhere. I’m bleeding, by the way.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you to slice yourself up, did I?” Trying to be understanding of Williams’s recent loss, Fletcher held the man’s arm, slowing his breathing to aid his concentration. He willed the wound to close, a sphere of white light appearing around it as the flesh began to knit together.

With the spell complete, Williams examined Fletcher’s handiwork, shaking his head. “That’s pretty sloppy, isn’t it? You’ve left a mark, and it’s stinging.” He then healed the wound himself, leaving no trace it was ever there. “Now let’s see your barrier.”

Fletcher watched Williams warily, feeling increasingly offended by the man’s manner. “I can’t do barriers.”

“You what?” Williams gawked at Fletcher in disbelief. “Did anyone actually teach you magic? Because I’ve never met a healer who can’t erect a barrier.”

Fletcher took a step closer to the elf, his shoulders squared. “My father taught me. He’s dead, so I’d think very carefully about the next thing you say. I can summon fire as well.”

“Oh! He has a bit of a spark in him!” mocked Williams.

“Oh! I thought he was just grieving but he is a sardonic prick after all!” Williams raised an eyebrow as Fletcher drew a slow breath, calming himself. “Do you want to teach me or not?”

“I haven’t really been given a choice in the matter.”

“That makes two of us, doesn’t it? Isn’t there anyone nicer than you?”

“Oh, there are plenty. But they didn’t get lumped with the apostate, did they?” Williams pursed his lips. “Well, you’re too old now to ever effectively create a barrier. Come with me. We’ll look at your fire spells under more controlled conditions.”

They proceeded to a large room where the Primal mages were. Under the supervision of Senior Enchanter Tammy, Fletcher cast his repertoire of fire spells while Williams watched from the sidelines. Once finished, she spoke to both men. 

“I can see why your healing’s not up to much,” Tammy said to Fletcher. “You’re not a healer.”

“Yes, I am!” he protested. “I can do rejuvenation, I can do examinations, I’ve healed broken bones and treated infections and concussions!”

“You can’t do barriers, though,” interrupted Williams.

Fletcher gave him a severe look before addressing Tammy again. “As I was saying, I even delivered a baby in Lothering once and healed the mother afterwards! What’s that if not healing?”

“No, what I mean is, you weren’t born a healer,” Tammy said. “Your fireball’s pretty powerful for an apostate’s, your flame enchantment and heating spells are almost perfect, they just need a bit of refinement. The elements come naturally to you, whereas healing doesn’t. You’re a battlemage—like your sister.”

“That explains it,” Williams said to Fletcher. “I assume your father also trained your sister?”

“He… he did.” Crestfallen, Fletcher blew out a breath. “I asked Father to teach me his healing spells when I was little because I wanted to be like him. I wasn’t very good at most of them but I picked a few up. But Father insisted I worked on my offensive skills. He always said I was best with fire. Does this mean I’ll never be a good healer? It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

“I understand,” Tammy said, “but we can make you a good battlemage as opposed to a mediocre healer. You’d be squandering your talents to throw yourself into healing if you’re not cut out for it. I noticed your mana deployment’s all over the place. Primal spells are a huge drain on you because you’ve never developed them properly. With the correct tuition we can remedy that, but your healing spells will suffer for it. You can’t do everything.”

“But…” Fletcher fell silent, a wrinkle forming on his brow as he considered his upcoming apprenticeship with Sam. How long could he get away with being mediocre? What if he had a patient with life-threatening injuries he couldn’t fix? What if he knew a better healer would have been able to save them? Should he even be practising healing at all? “But I know someone… he’s a fantastic healer, and he can do primals as well. His mana pool’s about four times larger than mine. Can’t I be like that? Can’t I do both? He can!”

“Are you talking about Enchanter Verus at the Keep?” Williams asked. 

“No, not him.”

“Then this ‘someone’ obviously had a Circle education from a young age,” guessed Williams. “You can’t tell me another lifelong apostate has a mana pool that large.”

“I’m not an apostate any more.” Fletcher turned away from them, crossed his arms, and proceeded to sulk.

Williams let out a soft sigh. “Thank you, Senior Enchanter. If Fletcher wants to be a healer, then we’ll make the best of what we’ve got. I could do with a challenge.”

Fletcher looked over his shoulder, his hangdog expression almost comical. “You mean… you’d still tutor me?”

“Like I said, I don’t have a choice in the matter, but I’ll make a semi-decent healer of you yet.”

“But I thought I was already a semi-decent healer.”

Williams shook his head. “Nowhere near. But we’re still going to develop your primal skills. Any good healer needs to be able to channel lightning and ice, and it looks like you won’t have much trouble with either. In fact...” He held his chin and studied his protégé. “You _could_ potentially have better life-saving skills than some healers because of your affinity with Primals.”

“Wha… honestly?” Fletcher turned around, tears springing to his eyes as his fears dissolved. 

“Oh, Maker, don’t tell me you’re a crier,” complained Williams, turning to Tammy. “Would you be willing to work with us on this?”

She nodded. “I’ll need to alter my schedule, but I can fit you in this afternoon. Let’s say four bells. I’ll inform Orsino of the change of plan. In the meantime, I suggest you go back to basics with the healing. But don’t tire him out.” 

Williams turned to Fletcher. “Most apostates we get in here think they already know everything, but at least you’ve admitted you’re crap. That’s half the battle won.”

“You don’t beat about the bush, do you?” Fletcher said.

“How are you going to learn anything if I give you a pat on the head and say how great you are when you’re not? You’re not great. You’re not even average. But if you’re prepared to put the work in—and this is going to be hard work—we might see results. Can you read and write? Do arithmetic?”

“Of course.”

“That’s something, then. Maybe you won’t be such a dead loss after all.” Williams walked off and Fletcher followed, his cheeks burning.

“Are you going to be like this all the time?”

Williams halted and waited for Fletcher to catch up. “Like…?”

“I know you’re upset about Ackerly,” Fletcher said, “and I’m trying to be respectful of that—”

“Yes, I heard that when you called me a ‘sardonic prick’.”

“You are a sardonic prick,” a passing mage commented, not looking back as Williams’s eyes followed her.

“Well, guess what?” Fletcher went on, his voice rough. “You don’t need to keep telling me how crap I am, because I already know! Ask anyone who knows me, I’ve never denied it! I can even laugh about it, but you’re just being nasty for no reason! You don’t know anything about me, my life outside the Circle or what I’ve got on my mind. Other people besides you have problems and worries, you know!” Fletcher flounced off, not actually sure where he was going. 

“That’s the wrong way.” Williams sighed as Fletcher turned around, his face like thunder. “We’re going to the library.”

“I know where that is!” Fletcher altered his course and continued walking. “See? The stupid apostate _can_ remember things!”

Williams moved to Fletcher’s side and they walked together. A charged and awkward silence followed, which was eventually broken by Williams. “You’ve done one thing I approve of today.”

Fletcher affected a bored expression. “Just the one? How nice of you to throw me a bone.”

“You didn’t stare at me and say, ‘Ooh, you’re an elf! Isn’t it marvellous that they let you people in here? Not that I disapprove, of course not! I’m no racist! Are you a servant here or one of the kitchen staff?’ and blah blah blah.”

Fletcher halted. “Someone actually said that to you?”

“More than one. I don’t even care anymore, but I do notice when someone doesn’t say it. So thanks.”

Fletcher shrugged and kept walking.

“I’m... sorry,” Williams mumbled, sounding like the words had been ripped out of him. Fletcher once again stopped and turned around, but his expression was hard.

“Oh, that sounded genuine. What exactly are you sorry for? Do you even know?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Williams, moving to Fletcher’s side. “For being a sardonic prick.” He blew out a breath. “You haven’t exactly caught me at my best today.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to be here,” the elf confessed, “but this is your first full day here. You’re missing home, loved ones… I shouldn’t be so hard on you.”

Fletcher was still smarting from Williams’s remarks but he didn’t want to make an enemy of the man who was apparently going to be his mentor. He reluctantly offered his hand to the elf. “How about we start again?”

“I don’t think I’ll shake your hand just yet. You’re such a terrible healer I’m afraid you’ll injure me,” Williams said with a deadpan expression.

Fletcher retracted his hand. “Wouldn’t that make me a reverse healer? Is there such a thing?”

Williams nodded. “You might be the very first one in history. I could write a paper… this is how I’ll get the senior enchanter post.”

“Can that be my title?” Fletcher said cautiously, hoping to wrangle a smile out of the saturnine elf, who appeared to possess a bone-dry sense of humour. “Reverse Healer Hawke?”

They continued on their way. “Hm. Do you know any Arcanum? No, I don’t suppose you would. How about Tevene?”

“I know a bit of Tevene, but, ah... that’s for the ears of one person only, and it’s certainly not you.”

“Oh. Better I don’t ask, then. I was thinking that the Tevene version might sound better: Medico Nocet, the healer who harms. Unfortunately for you, everyone here can speak Tevene to some degree.”

“I don’t care! I love it!” Fletcher puffed his chest out. “Medico Nocet Hawke.”

The elf’s expression turned pensive and there was a pause before he replied. “Just bear with me for a while, all right? I didn’t want another apprentice so soon and yes, I’m angry about it, but it’s not your fault, is it? Maybe this will take my mind off things.” He looked at Fletcher. “Do you have any family? You mentioned having something on your mind.”

“I do, and I can’t do a damn thing about it in here.”

They reached the library and loitered outside. “Is this anything to do with the person you speak Tevene to?” asked Williams.

Fletcher frowned. “They don’t tell you much in here, do they? You _are_ aware that Kirkwall has a champion?”

“Of course I am. He’s a former slave from…” Williams grimaced as the penny dropped. “Tevinter. You know him, then?”

“I speak Tevene to him, remember? The kind that’s not for your ears? Take your time.”

“Oh… you’re… you mean you and him are…?”

Fletcher crossed his arms, smirking. “I’d say that reaction is the equivalent of your ‘Oooh! They have elves here!’ thing.”

“You have a point. I was brought here when I was six, raised here, and it’s all rather… sheltered.” They entered the library together. “Now I know why you didn’t think me a servant.”

“Oh, I thought it, I just don’t say it out loud any more. My life wouldn’t be worth living if Fenris found out.”

Williams glanced at Fletcher, unsure whether he was joking or not. “Fenris?”

“The Champion of Kirkwall to the likes of you.” A slow grin formed on Fletcher’s face.

Williams almost smiled back, but couldn’t quite manage it. Still, Fletcher felt he’d chipped away a little of the elf’s hard shell. He’d certainly had plenty of practice at that with Fenris.

“So what’s this problem you mentioned?” Williams said as they sat together at a small table. “Something’s happening on the outside?”

“We’re not friendly enough for me to tell you about that yet,” said Fletcher evenly, “but if you’re a bit nicer I might think about it.”

“Well, I might think about being nicer to you, then. Might.”

“Don’t do me any favours.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’m going to teach you your tables. I’ll drill them into you so hard you’ll be reciting them in your sleep.”

“Tables?” 

“The Primal elemental tables. You do know what the four elements are, don’t you?”

Fletcher laughed. “Of course I do! You want me to remember a table containing four items? That won’t take long.”

Williams shook his head in pity. “Can you tell me how many Maether units one of your fireballs costs?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s a unit of mana expenditure used in the Circle. To calculate the cost to your own individual mana pool--and in your case, we’re talking small--we need to take into account your general health, age, sex, disposition, heart rate and, of course, your staff. Then we need to look at the last spell you cast, its echo, and any interaction between that and your next spell. Then we examine where your natural affinity lies… in your case, it’s fire. Which means that usually, but not always, your frost will be weak. There’s another table for that.”

“How many tables are we talking about?” Fletcher asked in mild terror. “Do I really need to know all that?”

“Of course you do. You don’t have much mana to work with in the first place. Once you know these tables, you’ll be making precise calculations without thinking about it while you cast. Which means you’ll be able to get more spells out of your mana pool… thus encouraging it to expand. At the moment, yours is stagnating.”

“Stagnating… pool… I see what you did there.”

“It wasn’t bad, was it? As for the number of tables, there are six-”

Fletcher nodded to himself. “I think I can manage six.”

“Please, let me finish. There are six regular tables and fourteen irregular ones. Then there are the eight Orsino tables, after our first enchanter decided there were more irregular-ish ones, but ones that didn’t quite meet the irregulars’ criteria.”

Fletcher stared at him, his mouth slack. “You’re… you’re joking with me, aren’t you? This is some kind of initiation, isn’t it? You’re going to send me off for a rubber crystal or a frozen fire scroll or something in a minute, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

Williams’s mouth bent into a smirk. “Would you believe me if I told you frozen fire actually exists?”

Fletcher sat back, crossing his arms. “Nope.”

“You really believe it doesn’t exist?”

“Just get on with the sodding tables,” Fletcher said, prompting the closest thing he’d seen to a smile from his new mentor.

**Vinmark Mountain Pass**

Zevran continued up the Pass alone for more more than half an hour, glancing back now and then in the hope of seeing Nathaniel, but the warden was an expert at concealing himself… if he had indeed followed behind as promised.

Zevran recited the ‘script’ taught to him by Varric in his head as he walked along. Most of the information he was to give Danarius was true and accurate, but some details had been changed to throw the magister off. 

The only problem was, if Varric had an information network, a powerful magister was bound to have the same. Zevran hoped the script would prove convincing, as he didn’t fancy a one-way trip to Minrathous in shackles.

Before long he spotted two pitiful-looking figures further ahead. They were both elves, both male, and they shared the same blank yet haunted facial expressions. Zevran noted to his astonishment that neither wore furs or protective clothing of any kind, and that they were barefoot. In the snow!

Remembering it was not his place to judge, he girded himself and approached them. It wasn’t until he was closer to them that he noticed both elves were not only slender, in keeping with their kind, but emaciated. What meagre clothing they were wearing was hanging off them. Zevran also noted a network of scars criss-crossing each elf’s arms.

Once again, he reminded himself he was there not to invest himself emotionally, but to do a job--one he was being paid handsomely for.

“You are Danarius’s people, yes?” he asked the hollow-cheeked pair.

“Come with us,” one of them said. They both turned away and started walking. As Zevran followed, he wondered why there had been no questions as to his identity. Was Danarius so arrogant, so sure of himself, that he’d allow just anyone into his fold? Or did his slaves not care enough for their own--or their master’s--safety to ask?

As he rounded a high snowbank, his breath was almost stolen away by the revolting spectacle ahead. A pavilion of blue and white silk had been erected on a large square mostly cleared of snow, which housed plump cushions, a padded bedroll, and a small table holding platters of delicacies and jewelled goblets. 

Zevran enjoyed beautiful things, but which of the poor bastards scattered around this camp--if it could be called that--had had to carry them? There were only two horses, and if Zevran knew anything of Tevinter horses, they were not built for draught work. Why would they need to be, when the Imperium was replete with slaves?

Speaking of slaves, there were at least a dozen here (all as poorly dressed for the climate as his escorts had been), but Danarius’s head bodyguard--as described in detail by Varric--was nowhere to be seen.

At the centre of it all was a man fitting Danarius’s description, seated in an ornate and heavy-looking chair--a chair!--and swathed in furs. The two slaves that had accompanied Zevran immediately knelt either side of Danarius, awaiting their master’s next whim.

Without missing a step, Zevran strode forward, bending into a sweeping bow as he stopped a respectful distance away from his employer.

“Hail, Magister Danarius. I am Zevran Aranai. I bring tidings from Kirkwall, and will relay them at your command.” He straightened up, his hands folded behind his back.

Danarius sized up his visitor with a lingering stare before waving a hand at the slaves either side of him. “Go and warm yourselves by the fire.” They thanked him effusively, pathetically grateful for their master’s benevolence. The aging magister then turned his attention to Zevran. “Well met, Zevran Arainai. How was your journey? Did you traverse the mountain alone?”

“I did not,” answered Zevran truthfully, “although my companion is a mere guide. I am no mountaineer. He awaits me in the foothills. Our business is not his affair.”

Danarius nodded his approval. “I knew this, of course. I am gratified you have chosen to deal with me in an honest manner. It would have been a shame for such a... comely elf to meet his demise before we became better acquainted.”

Zevran involuntarily dug his fingers into his palms for a second, but smiled. “You flatter me.”

“And why not?” Danarius rose, sweeping his robe and heavy furs aside. “Come, join me for refreshments.”

“You are too kind.” Zevran followed Danarius into the pavilion, where he sat upon a pile of cushions along with his host, feeling relieved his legs were not on display today.

After eating, drinking and small talk were done, Danarius came right to the point. “Tell me what you know of Fenris.”

Zevran dabbed his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat. “There is much to tell. He has made quite a name for himself in Kirkwall.”

“Oh?” Danarius said in surprise, although Zevran suspected he was already aware of Fenris’s status. “Do share.”

“He is enlisted in the city guard, where he has attained the rank of sergeant. Not only that, but he defeated an enemy of the city quite recently, and is held in high esteem as the city’s champion.”

Danarius shook his head, tutting to himself. “An elven slave of all things, champion of the fine city of Kirkwall?”

“I realise it sounds rather far-fetched,” Zevran began.

“On the contrary, I have no reason to doubt you. Fenris was always destined for great things… but in _my_ service. It seems the lad’s got rather ahead of himself, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I have no feelings on the matter, Magister. I am here to report, not to form opinions. The only opinion of import here is yours.”

Danarius’s eyes crinkled. “Well said. I find I’m quite warming to you. Now tell me of Fenris’s associates, friends… possible lovers. Where does he reside? Where does he spend his free time?”

“He resides in the city Keep, along with his fellow guards, but is often seen about town. He frequents several establishments in Hightown. I have taken the liberty of preparing a list for your convenience.” Zevran produced a folded note, which he passed to Danarius. “He has few close friends. From what I’ve heard he’s somewhat insular, but counts the captain of the guard among one of his inner circle, as it were. And yes, there is a lover.”

At this, Danarius’s expression hardened. “Whom?”

Zevran pushed a few loose strands of his hair away from his face as the wind picked up. Danarius clapped his hands together and, in an instant, six slaves appeared outside the pavilion.

“Bring some furs,” he ordered them, “and close the drapes. My guest is not as comfortable as he should be.”

Zevran began to protest. “Oh, really, there is no need.”

“I insist. Tevinter hospitality is the envy of the civilised world. You’ll have some more wine, of course.”

“I usually prefer to keep a clear head while I’m working,” Zevran said, but Danarius did not seem pleased at this. “Although… in this case I will make an exception. Thank you.”

“A word of advice,” Danarius warned, “do not snub your host’s graciousness. In Tevinter such churlish behaviour would be an outrage, especially coming from an elf.” His expression changed, then, a warm smile appearing. “But of course, you did not know that. I forgive you.”

Zevran let out a slightly nervous laugh. “Once again, you have my thanks.” 

Both men held their goblets up as a slave filled them, and waited for their furs. Danarius draped his across his legs and invited Zevran to do the same. Then the slaves undid the ties holding the pavilion drapes open and made themselves scarce.

“Now we may enjoy privacy as well as warmth,” Danarius said, settling down among the cushions. “Continue.”

Zevran took a sip of wine, feeling slightly uneasy, though he couldn’t say why. “An apostate by the name of Hawke. He owns an estate in Hightown.”

“An apostate who owns an estate in the most affluent quarter of Kirkwall?” Danarius said with scorn. “In Tevinter such a thing would be commonplace, but in the Free Marches? Is he not known to the templars?”

“He is, but I hear he has an arrangement with them. He goes one way, they look the other. And let us not forget that Fenris curries favour with the elite of Kirkwall society. I assume this extends to Hawke.”

“‘Curries favour with the elite’. What a preposterous notion.” Sounding angry, Danarius finished his wine and placed his goblet down. “Do you know where this estate is?”

“I have been inside it, in fact. Gaining entry was not difficult. On the list I prepared for you, there are details of both Fenris’s and Hawke’s movements, although Hawke’s can be erratic. Fenris works a rolling three-week rota of shifts in various places. He always has a partner accompanying him.”

Danarius appeared to think for a moment. “Who else resides at Hawke’s estate?”

“I’m certain there are servants, but I have not been able to ascertain numbers so far. On the night I infiltrated the mansion, Fenris and Hawke were there along with the captain of the guard. They play cards on Tuesday and Friday nights. I did not see anyone else, although that does not mean there _is_ no-one else.”

“You saw them with your own eyes?”

“I saw Fenris and the captain enter. Once inside and upstairs, I could hear their conversation, though it was muffled. I heard three voices and no others.”

“Tell me what you know of Varric Tethras,” Danarius said out of the blue.

Maintaining his composure, Zevran inclined his head. “You are well-informed. He is more a friend of Hawke’s than Fenris’s, but if you consider it significant I will tell you what I can. He’s a dwarf of good character but... dubious morals who lives in Lowtown. He has many connections and contacts. As a guardsman, Fenris would likely not mix with him socially, but I’m sure their paths have crossed due to the connection with Hawke.”

“Is Fenris aware of my journey here?”

“Anything is possible,” said Zevran with a shrug. “I have not spoken personally with Fenris or had the chance to establish relationships with the principal players. Given more time, this could be accomplished.”

“So you haven’t spoken with Varric at any time?” Danarius demanded, his voice taking on a hostile timbre. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, I… I did not say that, Magister. I have spoken to him here and there, in passing, you understand.”

“And you didn’t think this relevant to our discussion? What more are you hiding from me, I wonder?”

Adrenaline began to trickle into Zevran’s stomach but he was well-practiced at hiding his fear and displayed no outward signs. He fixed a charming smile in place. “Forgive me, it was not my intention to deceive you. I should have been clearer. Varric Tethras knows everyone. He has passed the time of day with me… four, five times. He is the type to walk up to strangers in the street and wring their life story out of them without revealing a shred of his own business. We discussed naught but the weather and the price of fish. As I said, I do not believe him to be closely acquainted with Fenris, but there has not been sufficient time to determine that with certainty.”

A delighted, almost proud, smile came to Danarius’s face and he reached up, patting Zevran’s cheek. “Glad I am to hear that you have made friends during your stay in Kirkwall.” His hand rested there a second too long before he removed it.

Disquieted by the old man’s mood shifts, Zevran remembered Nathaniel’s earlier words, suspecting that Danarius was indeed a very dangerous man. He also began to suspect Danarius hadn’t believed a word he’d said so far.

“You have done well. I’m quite pleased with you.” Danarius reached under one of the cushions to his side, producing a pouch of monies, which he passed to Zevran. He sidled a little nearer to the elf. “Now come closer, pretty elf. There is one more thing you might do for me before we discuss our plan of action.”

**Viscount’s Keep, Steward Bran’s chambers**

Fenris loathed Consortium meetings at the best of times, but today not only was he bored out of his mind, but felt as though a hole had been ripped through his belly.

And that hole was Fletcher-shaped.

Each meeting so far had been made bearable by the knowledge that Fletcher would be waiting at home afterwards. Fletcher had taken to leaving him a bottle of wine, a tasty snack and a note in the kitchen. These notes would usually praise Fenris’s looks or character, but in a cheeky way so as not to make Fenris cringe. They also included a footnote stating that Fletcher was awaiting him in the parlour/library/bedroom whenever Fenris was ready to deal with people again.

Fenris would smile, sit down and eat his snack in peace, loving his man more and more with each word of the note he read. On his favourite note, Fletcher had written: _When you’re ready, I’ll be upstairs covered in dulce de leche. Bring a spoon because crevices._

He hadn’t been joking, either.

Today there would be no snack, no note, no handsome mage covered in sweet, sticky sauce. Fenris had lost his Lux Mea, and he was to blame. He knew it was for the greater good, but that knowledge did nothing to ease the tight knot of guilt and emptiness at his core.

Maker, the _emptiness_ he’d experienced during the night. How huge the bed had seemed, how silent it was, how vulnerable he’d felt upon waking. There had been a split-second of comfort and ease before he’d remembered… Fletcher was not there.

Remembered that Fletcher may, at this very moment, be dead by a templar’s sword, swathed in a chantry robe on a cold slab.

Alone. Having died hating Fenris for betraying him.

“Champion?”

“What?” His reply had been more abrupt than intended. Not that he cared, but he realised quickly he’d better save face. Without knowing who’d even hailed him, he inhaled sharply. “Forgive me. I… did not sleep well last night.”

“Understandable,” said Donnic, seated to his right. “Steward Bran asked if you agree that we should begin without Knight-Captain Cullen?”

At the same moment, the doors to Bran’s chambers were opened, Cullen striding in. “Please forgive my tardiness, Steward, everyone. There was a matter at the Circle requiring my attention.”

“I trust it was resolved to your satisfaction?” Bran asked.

“It was, thank you.” Cullen walked to his chair but on the way he bent close to Fenris. “Hawke passed his Harrowing,” he uttered before taking his seat.

An audible sigh was heard and Fenris was observed covering his eyes with one hand. Bran was starting to get a measure of their city’s saviour, and decided not to call attention to it--or the quick, whispered conversation between him and Captain Hendyr.

“To business, then,” Bran said. “Magistrate Vanard, I believe you wish to start proceedings?”

“Indeed I do. I have been approached by two members of this consortium, seeking my advice on a civil matter.”

Donnic butted in. “Let’s not mince words, Magistrate. It was me and Cullen. We’re after a yea or nay, nothing more.”

“As you wish.” Vanard elegantly crossed one leg over the other. “Regarding your original inquiry regarding the legality of taking a taskforce into the mountains with the express purpose of arresting, or slaying, a citizen of the Tevinter Imperium, the answer is an unequivocal ‘nay’”. 

Donnic’s response was no surprise to anyone. “So we’ve got to wait until he tries to kill or capture the Champion--the man who saved this entire _city_ \--before we can act? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. The laws of this land cannot be ignored or circumvented simply because they are inconvenient. Magister Danarius has committed no crime. You and the knight-captain have provided me with a great deal of anecdotes and circumstantial evidence against this man, but none are admissible in my court or any other in the Free Marches.” 

Cullen then spoke up. “Fair enough, but this man is a known apostate and maleficar. By setting foot in the Free Marches he has declared his intentions. It is the sworn duty of the Templar Order to capture and detain him. The laws of the land you speak of do not apply here.”

“I agree with the knight-captain,” said the Grand Cleric. “This man poses a grave danger to the people of Kirkwall. Even if his sole intention is to capture the Champion, which we cannot allow, there will be casualties. I have heard he travels with slaves who will serve to provide him with blood, not to mention the guards and templars who may be harmed in the attempt to stop him. This can all be avoided by taking action now.”

“I’m afraid agreeing doesn’t make the proposals any more legal,” Vanard said. “Magister Danarius is a citizen of Tevinter and is therefore a free mage. He is _not_ an apostate. He has the right to enter the Free Marches without impediment. He also has the right to… and I appreciate this is an unfortunate choice of words… reclaim his property. That right, however, will prove his undoing.”

“In what way?” Donnic demanded.

“Once he makes a move to forcefully remove the Champion from Kirkwall, he will be contravening our own laws which prohibit slavery and abduction. You are then free to arrest him, Captain. He will face justice in the law courts.”

“The law courts?” Donnic said in disbelief. “Are you out of your fucki—”

“That will be quite enough, Captain!” Bran exclaimed. “This is a consortium of Kirkwall’s leaders, not a bawdy house!”

Donnic blew out a breath and pushed his jaw forward. “I apologise,” he said reluctantly and without sincerity.

“I’m in complete agreement with Captain Hendyr,” Cullen said. “The only justice Danarius’s kind understands or merits is a final one.”

“You are advocating murder, Knight-Captain,” the magistrate said. 

“Am I? What about other apostates or maleficars the templars have been forced to kill? Would you call that murder? Because we’ve had to take that very action before, and there has been no word from the magistrate’s office. Why is Danarius different?”

“And did those slain mages hail from Tevinter where the term ‘apostate’ is meaningless? Did you go after them intending to kill them before all other avenues were exhausted?”

“No,” Cullen was forced to concede. 

“Champion,” Elthina said in sympathetic tones, “you have remained silent on the matter so far. Your opinion must surely carry the most weight.”

All eyes turned to Fenris, making him feel hemmed in. “I… no longer care. I’m sorry.” He pushed himself up and went for the doors.

“Fenris—”

“Champion, please.”

Donnic and Elthina shot out of their chairs, but so did Cullen. “Let me go after him,” the templar captain said to them both. “I know what troubles him.”

“All right,” Donnic agreed. He watched Cullen leave before closing the doors and continuing with the meeting.

Cullen followed the elf and his dwarven escorts discreetly, only speeding up once they were outside the main doors of the Keep. “Fenris,” he said, relieved when the Champion halted and slowly turned around, his shoulders and arms rigid. Cullen walked up to him. “May I call you Fenris?”

“Of course you may. It’s my name.” Fenris’s tone was as flat and lifeless as his eyes, which were fixed on one of the far walls of the VIscount’s Walk.

Fenris’s dwarven guards stepped aside, giving them some privacy, but remained vigilant.

”I spoke to Hawke yesterday before his Harrowing,” Cullen began. “He wanted you to know he was sorry for absconding. He agreed it was a reckless act, one that must have caused you untold worry and unrest.”

Fenris looked at Cullen. “How is he? Does he know? Is he… angry?”

Cullen shook his head. “No. He spoke with me privately and guessed the information leading to his capture had come from you. He expected it and doesn’t blame you for your actions.”

“He… doesn’t blame me?”

“Not at all. The only feelings he’s experiencing are embarrassment and guilt, which he’ll get over in due time. He’s fine.”

Fenris’s body seemed to melt, his shoulders and arms dropping after being freed from an unseen weight. He closed his eyes and nodded.

“Now that he is Harrowed, he’s allowed to receive visitors,” Cullen said. “A visit from you would be beneficial… to both of you.”

Fenris shook his head. “I don’t think I can face him.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but with the current danger… there may not be further opportunities. You should visit him. If you wish, we can travel to the Gallows together after the meeting.”

The elf looked up at the new dwarven-made doors to the Keep. “I don’t know if… I don’t wish to go back inside. I don’t know _what_ I want to do.”

“I’ll tell the Consortium you’re ill. I’m sure your captain will be able to read between the lines. Take a stroll and get some air. I’ll be back shortly.” Cullen turned towards the Keep entrance but halted when Fenris spoke again.

“You’re going to tell them I’m ill? It’s my understanding that templars are not permitted to lie.”

“We’re not. And I won’t be. Not all ailments are visible to the naked eye.”

Fenris watched him enter the Keep, never feeling more alone or out-of-sorts. Then a tiny sensation deep in the pit of his stomach brought a hesitant, unbidden smile to his face.

He was excited.

He walked over to the Keep’s stone steps and sat upon the top one, waiting for Cullen to return.

**Vinmark Mountains Foothills**

Zevran spent the entirety of his trip down the Pass feeling as though he was about to be shot in the back. To his credit he didn’t once look over his shoulder, but by the time he found Nathaniel, his neck and head were hurting through tension and the cold.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Nathaniel remarked in faint amusement, his smirk fading when there was no witty comeback.

“He knows far more than we thought,” Zevran said, practically snatching Nathaniel’s proffered waterskin from him. “Either that, or he is an accomplished actor.”

“Then it’s as I said it would be.”

Zevran threw his head back and drank most of the remaining brandy-laced milk before handing it back to Nathaniel and wiping his mouth. “Yes, you are correct as always. How gratifying that must be for you.”

Nathaniel watched the unusually tetchy elf approach the small fire he’d lit, where he squatted to warm his hands. “I take it meeting Danarius wasn’t a pleasant experience?”

“Twice in a row! Your astuteness knows no bounds.” Zevran stood up and spoke without looking at his companion. “Are you ready to depart? I need a bath. Preferably in boiling lye.”

Nathaniel moved to the fire and kicked snow over it. “Don’t tell me you had sex with him.”

“That depends on your definition of… never mind.” Zevran let out a long sigh. “He made it quite clear to me that he could fuck me just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“And did he?”

“No.” Zevran finally turned to Nathaniel. “I have met some interesting people in my time, even evil people. But him? He is like… picture a kindly grandfather who reads stories at bedtime and bounces you on his knee. Then one day you walk out in the sun with him and notice he casts no shadow. Imagine how that realisation would make you feel, the exact emotion, the sensation of the walls closing in around you. That is precisely how he made me feel. My skin is crawling.”

Nathaniel again offered his waterskin to Zevran. “You can finish that off if you like. I have some cheese and apples left as well.”

The elf shook his head. “No. I… let us return. I have more to tell you.”

“Fine.” Nathaniel gathered his small amount of belongings and started walking after Zevran. “So what else did he say to you?”

Zevran halted and waited for the warden to catch him up. “He has given me a job… one that requires my skills as an assassin.”

“Let me guess. Hawke.”

“No. That would be too simple, too predictable. He wants Varric eliminated. I am then to report back to him so we might discuss his plan of action, whatever that entails.”

Nathaniel positioned himself in front of Zevran and crossed his arms. “I thought I made it clear that Varric was not to be discussed during your cosy little chat.”

“Danarius was the one who asked me of Varric,” said Zevran in annoyance, jabbing a thumb against his chest. “He knew his name and I am not entirely certain he believed me when I attempted to play down Varric’s relationship with Fenris. Like I said, the old gillipollas* knows more than we first suspected.”

Nathaniel turned away slightly, betraying no emotion as he considered their next move. After a minute or two of thought, he spoke. “So he wants you to kill Varric? Then that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

Nathaniel continued on his way, leaving Zevran speechless and immobile for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gillipollas=wanker, arsehole.


	126. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You must be strong, Lux Mea. You have always been the stronger of the two of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, xiz0r, for your input into, and enthusiasm for, this chapter, as well as your dedication to Fletcher!
> 
> Semi-explicit sex scene in this chapter, so here's a NSFW disclaimer.

**The Gallows, Library**

Fletcher met all the requirements of any newly-Harrowed mage learning their tables: a hunched back, an expression veering between furious concentration and downright bewilderment, as well as the slowly drooping head which quickly snapped up following a poke in the back from a passing senior enchanter. Bastards.

“Ooh, I remember those,” said a sympathetic voice from behind him. “You poor thing.”

“Beth!” A joyful smile sprang to Fletcher’s face and he leapt up, grabbing his sister by the arms before hesitating. “Uh… am I allowed to hug you?”

“Of course you are! It’s not like we’re trying to smuggle magic in our pockets, is it?”

Fletcher pulled his sister close, appreciating how lucky he was to have a family member in here--most of the Gallows mages weren’t so lucky. “Are you working in here today?” he asked as he stepped back.

She sat at his table and waited for him to join her. “No, I just fancied a stroll. Thought I’d find you in here. This is where I spent most of my first few weeks.”

“And you had to learn these tables, too?” She nodded. _“How?”_ he asked. “They don’t make bloody sense!”

“They will, I promise.” She reached for his book, turning to a particular page. “Learn this one first. It’s the hardest one of the lot. The others will seem so much easier once you’ve got the hang of this one.”

He looked unenthusiastic but nodded. “Thanks, Sis. I’ll try.”

“So I hear you’re really a battlemage,” she said, _“and_ you’re being mentored by Rhys Williams?”

“That’s right, and he’s very generously going to make me an _average_ healer as opposed to a _shit_ one.”

“How are you getting on with him?”

He glanced around and shrugged. “He’s all right. A bit prickly, but… I suppose I am, too.”

She smiled at her brother. “Stick with him. He’s one of the best healers here. The only reason he hasn’t progressed to senior enchanter or higher is because he’s a Libertarian.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, hasn’t anyone approached you to join their fraternity yet? The Libertarians believe in autonomous rule, without Chantry involvement. After what happened at Kinloch Hold, the templars are very wary of them.”

Fletcher leaned in closer to Beth and lowered his voice. “You mean Uldred? Anders told me about him. Was he a Libertarian?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean Williams is going to turn into an abomination or start torturing templars. Uldred was insane, end of story. I doubt the templars see it that way, though.”

“Sis,” Fletcher warned, “I don’t want you getting involved with any fraternities, you hear me? Just keep your head down and be a good little mage.”

“Oh, I’ve missed my protective big brother.” She squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested in politics.”

“Hawke!” one of the templars at the library entrance called out. “Visitor!”

“Which Hawke?” Bethany called in reply.

The templar’s eyes darted between the two of them. “The fat one.”

“Hey! You’re a fine one to talk!” Fletcher exclaimed, noticing that the stockily-built knight was laughing.

“No, son. Pure muscle, this.” The templar rapped his breastplate. His partner, to the other side of the doors, snorted.

“They’re not all bad in here,” Beth whispered as Fletcher stood up. “It’s probably Mother and Varric. Tell them I’ll see them tomorrow.”

“I will.” He leaned down, kissing her cheek. “Meet me for lunch?”

“I’ll be there! Have a good visit!”

He waved at her as he left the library, a templar escort falling into line next to him. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Ser…?” he asked the helmed man. “Or have I? I can’t tell who you are under there.”

A quiet sigh came from the templar as they rounded a corner. “We’ve met before, Hawke.”

Fletcher’s stomach knotted as he heard Anders’s voice. “Ruben?”

“Yes, and I’d appreciate it if we don’t advertise the fact we’re acquainted.”

“Of course. I’m still allowed to talk to you, though, aren’t I?”

Ruben glanced around, seeing no-one about. “Keep this somewhere safe until you’re alone. _Don’t_ show it to anyone else and dispose of it once you’ve read it.” He slipped a folded note into one of Fletcher’s pockets. “This didn’t come from me. Understand?”

Fletcher nodded once, keeping his eyes dead ahead as they resumed their walk, passing another templar escorting a mage. “Understood.”

Before long, they reached one of the visiting rooms. Ruben had a brief discussion with the templar stationed outside before departing without a second glance at Fletcher.

“Come on then, Hawke.” The templar opened the door to the room. Fletcher plastered a grin across his face, expecting Leandra or Varric.

Fenris slowly rose from his seat at the table, his eyes averted, his gauntleted hands clawing the edge of the wooden table.

“Fen.” A breath rushed out of Fletcher’s lungs as two hearts pounded in a beautiful synergy of sorrow and wretched hope. “You came.”

“Normally you get an hour, but the knight-captain said you’re to have as long as you need. One time only,” the templar told them.

“No,” Fenris protested weakly, “I do not want special treatment.”

“Yes he _does,_ and he’s very grateful. Thank you, Ser Knight,” Fletcher said.

The templar nodded. “As this is your first time, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that casting is forbidden during visits.” His eyes moved back and forth between the lovers, who were gawking at each other, chests heaving. “I’ll be right outside. And, um… keep the noise down.”

“Right. Thanks again,” called Fletcher as the door was closed. He bit his lip, turning around to face Fenris, who was frozen with self-doubt and shame, a terrible conflict playing out in his posture and on his brow.

But, Maker, he was _here._

Fletcher rushed at him, sweeping one arm around his waist and the other supporting his bottom, lifting him clean off the floor. Fenris briefly resisted but then relaxed against the mage, wrapping his legs around Fletcher’s hips.

“Fen, I’m sorry,” Fletcher breathed against the elf’s neck, holding him in a crushing embrace. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been such an idiot. I _love_ you and the thought of causing you pain and worry… Maker, it’s so good to see you. I didn’t think you’d come. I’ve missed you.” He closed his eyes, losing himself to Fenris’s warmth and smell. “I’ve _missed_ you.”

Fenris clung on tightly, his nose pressed into the crown of Fletcher’s head, the dam of his will barely holding back the tsunami inside him. He wanted to weep, he wanted to pound this daft, reckless mage with his fists while at the same time crying at the top of his voice that without Fletcher’s love, laughter and yes--his daft, reckless nature--Fenris’s life and heart would be a black void, a place where light would never again enter.

How he loved this man. No matter what fate awaited Fenris, Fletcher was safe and protected from Danarius’s loathsome influence. Even if Fletcher resented him, Fenris could at least take comfort from that.

Fletcher could feel Fenris’s stilted breathing, and waited while they held each other, giving Fenris time to stem the tide and compose himself. “I don’t want to let you go,” Fletcher said tenderly after a minute or two, “but my arms are aching.”

Fenris body was jolted by a tiny spasm of laughter before he was set down, his eyes fixed on Fletcher’s chest. “I... love you, Lux Mea,” he whispered, his voice dangerously close to breaking, “but look what I’ve done to you. Can you ever forgive me?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Fletcher touched Fenris’s chin but the elf refused to look up. _“I'm_ the one—”

“I had to keep you safe.” Fenris paused and swallowed hard. “You are the only… the _only_ thing… I…” He shook his head, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “I cannot--will not--be responsible for you being taken from this world. You are too good a man. You are _everything_ to me. Do you understand? _”_

His chin started to wobble but Fletcher had moved in silently, breathing _I love you_ into the elf’s mouth as he held Fenris’s lips with his own in a still, languid kiss so gentle it almost wasn’t happening. Neither of them moved for a moment, and then Fletcher clasped the back of the elf’s head, deepening the kiss.

Fenris responded like a man deprived of water, Fletcher’s touch his oasis, the only sustenance he needed. Fletcher still loved him. Fletcher had _forgiven_ him. The tsunami rose inside him again and swept him forward, driving Fletcher hard against the wall.

Fenris grabbed the collar of Fletcher’s fancy blue robe and pulled him down, a ragged moan torn from him when Fletcher eagerly responded. He was steered back against the small table, both men’s lungs about to burst, both aching for each other, their semi-hard cocks pressing together through their clothing, gently at first and then with more urgency.

Without breaking their kiss, Fenris hurriedly tugged off his gauntlets and threw them to the floor, hitching Fletcher’s robe up, his fingers digging into Fletcher’s hips as he clawed at his undergarments.

“Fen,” Fletcher gasped, tearing his mouth away from the elf’s, quickly looking over his shoulder at the door.

“I _need_ you.” Fenris moved one hand to Fletcher’s bottom, pulling him closer and grinding against him, his other hand moving up to grab a fistful of Fletcher’s hair. He yanked the mage’s head back, his mouth hot and hungry against Fletcher’s neck, his teeth nipping and sucking the aching flesh beneath.

“M-Maker!” Fletcher bit his bottom lip hard to stifle his cry, only to have his breath stolen away again when Fenris’s lips slid up his jaw, crashing against his lips.

Suddenly inflamed, and no longer caring who was on the other side of the door, Fletcher swept Fenris up and waddled to the wall, his smalls around his ankles, and set him down before clumsily unlacing the elf’s breeches.

“We’re going to get caught,” Fletcher said, half gasping, half-laughing, but the elf was deadly serious.

“Let them catch us. See if I care.”

With an anguished expression on his face, Fletcher freed Fenris’s cock and they came together against the wall, locked in a deep, consuming kiss that drove all conscious thought from their heads.

They were no longer in a pokey stone-walled room with dilapidated table and chairs; they were in their bedchamber, their refuge from the outside world, and they-- _only_ they--existed.

The thought that this may be their final time together, _ever,_ only served to ignite their desperation for each other. Buttocks were slapped and grabbed, hair was pulled, hands fumbled to grasp burgeoning body parts when friction wasn’t enough.

This was no tender exploration of each other: it was a frantic, emotion-fuelled release. Their feelings for each other were tender and pure enough, and they would explore those feelings at another time and place… if the Maker smiled upon them.

In case He didn’t, though, this was all they had. And it didn’t take long.

They clung to each other, not caring what they looked like or who might walk in, until their breathing had slowed. Then they helped each other to dress and look reasonably presentable, although Fletcher’s robe was badly creased.

“You dropped something.” Fenris bent down and picked up a sealed letter, passing it to the mage.

“Uh…” Fletcher gulped and turned the letter over in his hands. “I thought… when they said I had a visitor, I mean…” He sighed. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I intended to give this to Mother or Varric to pass on to you. I wasn’t sure if you were going to visit me after… considering how stupid I was.”

Fenris took the letter, an uncertain look on his face. “Should I read this now?”

“No, I don’t want you to do that. It’s… for later, when you’re alone.”

“Oh. I see.” With a heavy frown, Fenris slipped the letter inside one of his vambraces. “Thank you.”

They stood together in awkward silence, both men having so much to say but not quite knowing how to say it. Sex came easily to them, but now they’d satisfied their baser urges, there was the emotional side of their situation to address… and neither man wanted to be the one to instigate a conversation that may prove distressing for the other:

“ _Is Danarius here yet, Fen?”_

“ _Yes, thank you for reminding me. By the way, neither the city guard nor the templars can touch him. I'm alone out there. Good luck sleeping tonight.”_

“Sit… sit down.” Fletcher pulled one of the chairs out and waited until the elf had taken a seat. He then pulled the other chair alongside, sitting as close to Fenris as he could. He moved one of his rather sticky hands to cover Fenris’s. “Do you think the nice templar will bring us some rosewater to clean our hands with?”

Remembering their first coupling in the Deep Roads, Fenris smiled, though it didn’t quite show in his voice. “Are you not carrying some with you?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly expect what just happened. But you’re right, it was remiss of me.”

Fenris stroked one of Fletcher’s fingers with his thumb, all too aware of the pressure and pain each of them were feeling.

Both men knew this could be goodbye.

In that regard, Fenris felt slightly more at peace, because he knew Fletcher would be safe no matter what. Fletcher, though, was locked away from the outside world, hearing only unreliable snippets of what was going on in Kirkwall.

Here, he had the chance to hear the latest news from the horse’s mouth… but couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. He wanted to know how close Danarius was, but at the same time that thought terrified him. The closer Danarius came to Kirkwall, the further away Fenris seemed, even though he was seated right next to him.

Similarly, Fenris was bursting to know how life in the Circle was, if Fletcher had settled in, made friends… but how would making small talk about that make everything better? How would it help them sleep at night?

They exhaled together and looked at each other. Fletcher winked and brought Fenris’s hand up to his mouth to kiss, while the elf kept a death grip on his beloved’s large, slightly hairy one.

Fletcher laid Fenris’s hand on the table.

They exhaled again.

“I like your new robe,” Fenris commented inanely. “The colour suits you. Teal, isn’t it?”

“I prefer ‘peacock blue’, but yes, I suppose it’s teal. Mother bought it for me. Do you really like it?”

The elf nodded. “I really like it. Especially the button detail on the cuffs.” He grimaced a little, realising he _was_ making small talk. He reached into one of his pockets. “Donnic, Varric and I have arranged a game this evening. I have the cards with me.” He placed the deck tidily down and nudged it so it lined up with the edge of the table. “I… wish you could also be there.”

“Fenris,” Fletcher said seriously, “I want you to represent the Hawke family and humiliate the shit out of them.”

Finally, a genuine smile lit up the elf’s face. “I’ll beat them in your name.” He paused, his smile fading. “Our name.” He picked up the deck of cards. “Would you care to…?”

“Oh, need some practice, do you?”

“Always.”

“Anything to help an amateur player.” Fletcher leaned in and kissed Fenris’s cheek. “You deal.”

**Cellar, the Hanged Man**

“So tell me why we can’t have this meeting in my office?” Donnic asked Varric and Nathaniel before pointing at Zevran. “And what’s _he_ doing here?”

“There are compelling reasons for the subterfuge,” Nathaniel replied. “First, and most importantly, we can’t have the captain of the guard seen with a person of Zevran Arainai’s reputation and standing. Second, the Champion and the men in this room are the only people I’m willing to trust at this point.”

“I’m sorry, we’re _trusting_ the assassin now?” Donnic demanded. “This man broke into Hawke’s home, made idiots of my guards and is being _paid_ by the man who wants Fenris dead! The only reason I agreed not to lock him up is because he might prove useful in getting information out of Danarius. As far as I’m concerned, that arrangement’s over. So I’ll ask again. Why is he still here?”

“Zevran can still be of use,” Nathaniel said. “At any rate, his loyalty was to Danarius’s purse, not Danarius himself. Their meeting was not a pleasant one and I believe Zevran’s life is now in danger.”

“That’s not our problem. Get into bed with the devil, expect to be burned.”

“Captain,” Varric said, for once forgoing his habitual use of _Grizzly._ “Give him a chance. He seems… a decent enough person. As assassins go, anyway.”

“I do not expect you to believe me,” Zevran said to Donnic, “but I want no further part of Danarius’s schemes. The man is repugnant. And, as the handsome warden said, I’m certain he will kill or enslave me once my service to him is concluded.”

Donnic stared at the Antivan, his lip curling in disgust. “So you’re with us, but only to save your own skin. Why am I not surprised?”

Zevran shrugged. “Does it matter? The outcome is the same, no?”

Nathaniel then spoke. “Zevran has agreed to report to Danarius for a second time, a dire personal risk. So let’s give him the benefit of the doubt… for now.”

“Fine. For now.” Donnic crossed his arms. “I’m listening. What did the bastard have to say, then?”

“First of all, did your appeal to the city magistrate bear fruit?”

One of Donnic’s nostrils twitched at the question. “He told me _and_ the templars that we can’t touch Danarius until he commits a crime. A Free Marches crime. Because apparently he’s _not_ an apostate.”

“As I suspected. Still, it was worth a try.” Nathaniel took a slow walk around the cellar, hands folded behind his back. “I’ll come to the point. Danarius wants Varric dead.”

“Me?” the dwarf exclaimed. “How does he even know who I am?”

“He needed no help from me, I assure you,” said Zevran. “He knew of you. He also asked if Fenris knew of his imminent arrival. His questions were too shrewd to be guesses.”

“But what good is killing Varric going to do?” Donnic asked. “Surely someone like Danarius would have expected us to do our homework?”

Nathaniel responded, addressing Varric. “Danarius knows, as we planned, that Hawke is Fenris’s lover. He already knows who _you_ are. In order to play down your relationship with Fenris, Zevran revealed--in innocence, I accept--your close relationship with Hawke. This is Danarius’s way of getting to Hawke through you. He’s marking his territory like a dog.”

Donnic let out a harsh breath and leaned against a supporting pillar. “Well, as annoying as Varric can be, we can’t kill him.” He winked at the dwarf. “The magistrate would never agree to that.”

“Can’t we?” Nathaniel said. “Why do you think I’ve gathered you here? If we’re going to do this, and do it convincingly, there must be as few people involved as possible.”

“Assisting to plan my own death?” Varric shook his head. “Now _there’s_ a twist I never saw coming.”

“What have you got in mind?” Donnic asked Nathaniel.

“This is where I’ll need your help, Captain, but none of your guards can be involved.”

“Why not?”

“Because, as I said, there are few people I’m willing to trust outside this room, and your guards aren’t included. _Someone_ relayed Danarius’s information to him. Zevran here is a former Crow who fell at the first hurdle because he’s conspicuously an Antivan elf. There’s someone out there who is not what they appear to be. And they have the freedom of the city.”

“He’s got a point,” Varric conceded. “My information network’s pretty extensive. If Danarius had sought information along the Imperial Highway, that information would have been blocked. I had no reports from my contacts in Tantervale or along the border stating that any such enquiries had been made.”

Nathaniel nodded. “So we’re looking at either another external source, like Zevran, or someone who resides here permanently. A recent arrival, perhaps. But we don’t have time to root them out. The reality is, we need to stage Varric’s death to maintain Zevran's cover. And we need to make it look good.”

Donnic thought about that for a minute. “What if he’s murdered in his room, say in his sleep? We can contain it to the Hanged Man and only a couple of the guards need be involved. Ones I trust implicitly.”

“No, that won’t work,” Nathaniel said. _“You_ may trust your guards, but I don’t.”

“So who’s going to ‘find’ Varric, then? The captain of the guard and one of his friends? That’s too convenient. Danarius will smell a rat.”

“Hey,” Varric said to Nathaniel, “we can tell my friends that this isn’t real, right?”

“I’m afraid we can’t. The Champion, Hawke _and_ his sister need to believe you’re dead.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Donnic interrupted.

“I agree!” said Varric. “I don’t think you realise how much of a knife-edge Fenris is teetering on. His former master is within throwing distance _and_ he’s just had his boyfriend captured by the templars in order to protect him. He’s already acting like the world’s about to end. One more piece of bad news may push him over the edge.”

“That’s regrettable,” Nathaniel began, “but we need the reactions of your friends to be authentic.”

“ _Regrettable?”_ Donnic stepped up to Nathaniel, stopping a foot away from him. “You really are a cold-hearted bastard, aren’t you?”

“Hey!” Varric squeezed himself between the two of them, looking up at Donnic. “Listen. Your methods may be different, but we’re all on the same side, right? If it wasn’t for Nathaniel, we’d be up to our necks right now. He’s a warden. He didn’t need to do any of this. There’s got to be some middle ground we can reach here.”

Donnic scrubbed his face with his hands and exhaled through them while Zevran watched the exchange with interest. “You’re right,” Donnic said, uncovering his face. “Nathaniel, I’m sorry. We’d be in all kinds of shit without you. You’re all right as far as cold-hearted bastards go.”

Nathaniel smiled wryly. “If you have suggestions, Captain, I’m willing to entertain them.”

“I can help with a part of it,” Varric said. “I’ll go see Ma Hawke and tell her what’s what. She can visit the Gallows and tell her children that as soon as they leave that room, they’ve got to act like I died. For a few days, at least. I agree with the need for secrecy. This mole of Danarius’s could be someone from the Gallows for all we know. The templars come and go, and even some of the mages are allowed onto the mainland.”

Nathaniel brought a hand to his chin. “Would there be any templars present during this visit? Do you believe Hawke and his sister _could_ pull off a genuine reaction?”

“Sure they could. And whenever I’ve been to visit, there’s always a templar stationed outside, but they can’t hear what’s being said in the room.”

“As for Fenris,” Donnic cut in, “I’ll speak to him in private. He won’t even need to act the part--at the moment, he’s miserable as sin as it is. They can do this, Nathaniel. I know you’re being completely objective here and we need that, but these people are my friends.”

“If you care,” Zevran said, raising an arm, “you have my vote.”

“All we need, then, is someone who’ll work with us and ‘discover’ Varric,” Nathaniel said. “Someone who knows him, and could provide a plausible reaction. It needs to be someone close to Hawke or the Champion--someone whose trustworthiness is beyond reproach, and who would be genuinely distressed upon discovering Varric had been slain.”

“Ma Hawke would be perfect, if she agrees,” Varric said. “We visit her daughter together in the Gallows, and now Hawke’s in there, uh, Hawke the son, I mean, those visits will be more frequent.”

“Go on,” Nathaniel said, interested.

“I always call for her and we head to the docks together. Everyone knows that. What if one morning I didn’t show up? She might come looking for me. She’s staying at her brother’s place, which isn’t far from the Hanged Man. That’s plausible, right?”

“But is she fully aware of the Champion’s situation?” Nathaniel asked. “From what I’ve heard, Hawke doesn’t like to volunteer information. This is going to be a lot for a woman of mature years to take in.”

“She knows everything,” said Varric. “Hawke kept things quiet at first like he usually does, but once the captain recommended she stay with her brother for her own safety, he had to come clean. She was pretty shocked, but said if there was anything she could do to help…”

The warden nodded as he listened to the dwarf. “Would she be willing to go along with the ruse, though?”

“Maybe. She’s pretty much adopted Fenris as another son. If it helps him, I doubt much arm-twisting will be needed. I’ll go visit her when we’re done here, see if she’s on board.”

Nathaniel sighed. “I’m not completely happy about this, but I did say I was willing to meet you in the middle.” He addressed Donnic. “If we do it this way, your men _will_ need to be involved. We can explain the lack of a funeral because Varric’s a dwarf, but he’ll need to go into hiding, as will Zevran. We need it to be known that the last person to see Varric alive was an Antivan elf, who has presumably gone on the run.”

“I’ll involve my trusted lieutenants only,” Donnic replied. “I’ve known them for years. They’re Marchers to the core and very protective of Fenris. They don’t even know Varric that well. I’ll put them on patrol in Lowtown on the day, but I’ll split them up so they don’t both conveniently happen to be around at the same time.”

Nathaniel watched the captain for a moment before nodding. “All right. We’ll do it your way. All we need, then, is somewhere secure to hide Zevran and Varric.”

“I know just the place,” Varric said, “but I need to be there when we kick that magister bastard’s ass back to Tevinter. I’ll be coming out of hiding for that, plan or not.”

“That can be arranged,” said Nathaniel. “Go and ask Hawke’s mother if she’s willing to work with us. If so, we’ll finalise the details.”

**The Gallows**

Neither man knew how long their game had gone on for, but eleven hands had been played, the longest session either had participated in. Fletcher had won three of those hands, his assertions that Fenris had let him win refuted each time by the elf.

Very little conversation had been had, both men content (resigned) to simply spend time together without raising the spectre of Danarius.

“One more hand?” Fletcher said, shuffling the cards. “Do you… do you need a drink or anything? I’m sure the templars will bring you something if you ask.”

“I’m fine, but thank you. I would enjoy another hand.”

“Another chance to thrash me, you mean,” Fletcher said with a smile that was somewhat forced.

Fenris chuckled, a hollow sound that didn’t trouble his rounded shoulders to shake. “Of course.”

“Time’s up,” someone said from outside the door. “I’m coming in, so make sure you’re decent in there.”

Fletcher’s stomach twisted and he shot up from his chair, while Fenris remained seated, his eyes closed. Neither of them wanted to say goodbye, but one of them was at least prepared.

As soon as the door was opened, Fletcher started berating the templar who entered. “Your mate told us we could have as long as we liked! The knight-captain said so! Go and ask him if you don’t believe me!”

“Yes, I know all that, but you’ve been in here three hours, it’s shift changeover and visiting time is over,” the templar said. “You’ve got to go back. I don’t make the rules, I just do what I’m told, same as you.”

“But…” Fletcher ventured a panicked look at Fenris, who was slowly rising from his seat. “Please, just give us a few more minutes.”

“I can’t do that, Hawke. You’ve had long enough. Come on, I’ll be put on report if we don’t get a move on.”

“Ser Knight,” Fenris said respectfully, “I would be grateful if you would grant us a further moment of privacy. I will speak with your knight-commander if necessary to ensure there will be no reprisals. I assure you I will not make a habit of this.”

The templar started to say something but paused and sighed. “Yes, Champion. Make it quick. Please.”

“Thank you,” Fenris said with a bow as the door was closed.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Fletcher said. “I know you hate the thought of using your title for—”

“Has to be good for something, doesn’t it?”

They were standing a few feet apart, looking into each other’s eyes, still not knowing what to say. “I’m not ready for this,” Fletcher blurted out, his breathing quickening when Fenris stepped closer, cupping the mage’s face with his hands. “There’s so much I need to say, but… but I… don’t know how to.”

Fenris bestowed a kind smile upon his lover. “I will return tomorrow, if I am able.”

“But you won’t, will you? I’ve… I’ve got a feeling.” Fletcher pressed a hand to his abdomen, his bottom lip quivering. “Fen, I don’t want to…”

“Hush.” Fenris kept a hold of Fletcher’s face and brought him close so their noses were touching. “You must be strong, Lux Mea. You have always been the stronger of the two of us.”

“What? I’m… Fenris, I’m not, I’m really—”

“You have no idea what you’re capable of.” Fenris stroked Fletcher’s cheeks with his thumbs. “You have it within you to rise above everything. You are the sun, brilliant and warm. Wherever you go, there is light. I carry that light inside me and it will protect me from whatever darkness awaits. Thanks to you, nothing can touch me.”

He pressed his lips against Fletcher’s, clutching the mage’s face so hard he feared he’d leave bruises, and then stepped back before hurriedly opening the door and leaving.

“Don’t… don’t go,” whispered Fletcher, one arm outstretched to meet nothing but air. “I don’t know what I’ll do without…”

There was a loud sigh and the templar stepped into the visiting room. “Let’s go, Hawke,” he said quietly. “Walk behind me.”

The templars were accustomed to emotional scenes at visiting time. They were also acutely aware of the potential dangers such upset could bring. A distressed mage was at greater risk of being preyed upon by demons, and was more likely to make a deal with one of them or even become possessed. Although Fletcher was displaying no external signs of distress, his mana field was fluctuating wildly, something the templars _could_ sense.

Fletcher didn’t remember much of the walk back to his quarters, but somewhere along the way another templar joined his escort, both knights flanking their charge as he trudged wordlessly behind and between them.

When they arrived at Fletcher’s quarters, the newcomer (who Fletcher recognised as Ser Mattis) stationed himself outside, while the other templar waited as Fletcher slumped upon his bed, his arms hanging limply between his legs.

“I’m to give you this.” The templar passed a small drawstring bag to him.

Fletcher looked up and took the bag. “What’s this?”

“The Champion asked me to give it to you when he was gone. You’re to open it when you’re alone.”

“Alone? That’s a laugh, isn’t it? One of you’s waiting outside, and there’s no door! In what parallel universe do you call that alone?”

“You and your visitor have been given special treatment today,” the templar warned, “so moaning about how unfair everything is won’t make you any friends. Everyone’s in the same boat here.”

“ _You’re_ not.” Fletcher rubbed his forehead hard. Normally he’d apologise for being such an unreasonable shit, but he wasn’t in the mood for reasonable.

“So when do I get visits from _my_ family? I’ll tell you when. Never.”

Fletcher watched as the templar departed, feeling worse than he did before, if that was even possible. He hung his head and looked at the bag, its drawstring tied into a perfect bow. “I’ll bet you spent ages on that,” he mumbled, his heart seizing up when his fingers traced a small circular shape through the bag. “What? No… no, you _can’t_ have! Please!”

He almost tore the bag open in his panic, his breath held and his entire body locking up when he found a tiny, handwritten note and a ring.

Fenris’s Ring of No Significance Whatsoever.

“Why would you…?” Fletcher was gasping for breath, his eyes brimming with tears as he hastily opened the note.

_Take care of this for me. And never let your light go out, Lux Mea. I love you and I always will._

“No! No, you can’t do this to me!” Fletcher sprang up, the note and ring held tightly in a bunched fist, and immediately ran into Ser Mattis, who’d positioned himself in the doorway.

“Hawke, I can see you’re upset, but you’ve got to stay here. Now let’s—”

“Out of my way! You’ve got to bring the Champion back! He’s… he’s made a mistake!” Fletcher cried, unable to contain the deluge that spilled from his eyes, and attempted to push past Mattis, who shoved him inside his quarters and drew his sword. “What are you doing? I said get out of my way! I’m Harrowed, you idiot! I can go where I want!”

“Don’t make this difficult, Hawke. You need to calm down. Now _sit.”_ Ser Mattis pointed his weapon at Fletcher, who’d made no attempt to back down. “I need support here!” the templar yelled down the corridor.

“You don’t understand! He thinks he’s going to _die_! I need to talk to him! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any feelings at all?” Fletcher made a rush for the doorway but leapt aside when an enchanted sword was brought down to block his path, grazing his robe.

“This is your final warning! Don’t make me drain your mana! You really won’t like that! Now sit _down!”_

Fletcher wailed, wrapping his arms around himself, his face contorting into a blotchy, tear-soaked mask of pain. “He can’t _do_ this to me!” He started to sob, strings of snot bursting from his nose, and stomped over to the bed before throwing himself upon it, curling into the foetal position and crushing the bag, ring and note against his face. “Get out of my fucking room!” he screamed, not even knowing if anyone was still in it.

“Go and fetch Orsino,” Mattis said to one of his colleagues, who’d arrived to help him. “He’s unstable and I don’t want to leave him unsupervised. I was going to drain his mana, but...”

“Drain it anyway. We can’t take any chances, especially now you-know-who’s getting his captaincy back.”

Both men stepped outside but Mattis quickly peered into the quarters, keeping his voice low. “Oh, come on, he’s just whimpering on the bed. What harm’s he going to do?”

“Do you want to be the one to tell the Champion his boyfriend’s been given the brand, then? We all know how much Alrik likes his Tranquils. Hawke was an apostate for a long time and now he’s being ‘disruptive’. He’s Alrik’s demographic.”

“Fine.” With a sigh, Mattis stepped into Fletcher’s quarters and raised one of his hands, white light streaming from it. “Sorry, Hawke. This is going to hurt.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a minute to admire this wonderful pencil drawing of Fletcher, courtesy of xiz0r! https://xiz0r.tumblr.com/post/162666572734/quick-sketch-of-fletcher-hawke-a-fenris-romancer


	127. Lyrium Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fenris?" Donnic lightly held the elf's arm, bringing his hand into the light. "Where's your ring? The one Hawke gave you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever wondered what Fletcher looks like, wonder no more! Xiz0r has produced a beautiful rendition of Fletcher and Fenris (NSFW) and has captured our mage perfectly! Please take a moment to appreciate it! Here's the link:
> 
> https://xiz0r.tumblr.com/post/163966013854/come-back-to-bed-love-i-miss-you-fletcher
> 
> Not only that, but she also drew an accompaniment piece for this chapter! Here you are, my lovely readers:
> 
> https://xiz0r.tumblr.com/post/164250811294/wicked-grace-game-among-friends-depiction-of-a
> 
> Thank you so much, Xiz0r, not only for these but for your beta and support!

** Lowtown, the following morning **

Leandra bade farewell to Gamlen and stepped out into the slums as she did each morning, although today she was alone. Varric had not called for her, which was unusual enough to prompt the Spencer twins--two little girls who had befriended Fletcher while he’d lived there--to ask why.

“You goin’ to visit Miss Bethany?” little Emily called from the bottom of the steps to their home.

Leandra smiled and approached them. “Indeed I am. Master Fletcher, too.”

“When’s ‘e comin’ back? We miss ‘im,” the little girl added glumly. “An’ where’s Varric? ‘E always gives us sweets.”

“He must have been held up,” Leandra said, her gut twisting: this ruse was going to involve lying to a lot of people, or at least being economical with the truth. She didn’t like the thought of that one bit, but if this whole convoluted plan benefited Fenris and helped keep him safe, then she would bear whatever discomfort she felt.

Fenris had saved her life, and had given her son his life back. In doing so, Fenris had faced far greater hardships than having to tell little white lies. It was time Leandra repaid the favour.

“Why don’t I see if I can pick something up from the market for you?” she offered, which seemed to placate the twins for the time being. 

She made her way through Lowtown, fielding the occasional query from passers-by as to Varric’s whereabouts; she’d given those people the same noncommittal answer each time.

Before long she arrived outside the Hanged Man. She smoothed her dress down, took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

It was early, so there were very few patrons there: just the usual drunks and dock workers who’d popped in for a quick drink before starting their shift. Corff was standing behind the bar, wiping the counter, while Nora sprinkled fresh sawdust on the newly-swept floor.

“Good morning, Ma Hawke,” Corff greeted her. “No Varric today?”

She approached the bar and looked around. “Actually, I was wondering if _you’d_ seen him. He’s late for our morning visit. It’s so unlike him. Is he ill or something?”

Corff shrugged. “Not that I know of, but I haven’t seen him since yestereve. I don’t even know if he’s here. You could try his room, I suppose.”

“Thank you, I’ll do that.” 

She walked past the seated workers, one or two of whom were polite enough to bid her good day. She replied in kind, her heart beating wildly as she neared the steps up to the private rooms. 

How she comported herself now was crucial to the plan, and she hoped her acting was up to snuff. She ascended the steps, venturing a quick glance over her shoulder, noticing Corff was watching her. Good. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to scream; perhaps she could simply run out of the room, catching his eye.

She moved to Varric’s door, which was slightly ajar. “Varric?” she called, “are you at home?” When no answer came, she looked back at Corff and shrugged in an exaggerated manner. She then knocked on the door and entered.

Nathaniel had done a good job: Varric was lying on his bed with a dagger (or at least the handle of a dagger) protruding out of his belly. He, the bed and the floor were covered in a sticky red substance which looked very much like blood.

“Oh!” she cried, staggering backwards out of the room until she slammed into the opposite wall. “Murder! Murder most foul! Someone help!” 

In a few blurred seconds the dock workers burst into Varric’s room, a deathly hush filling it as they stood gawking at the prone dwarf.

“Maker’s sake, fetch the city guard!” someone called out. It may have been Leandra, but everyone was too dazed to be sure.

“Yes, yes,” said Corff, bouncing in several different directions before he sped down the steps. 

“Spread out and search the rooms!” the foreman of the dock workers said. “Bastard might still be here!”

Leandra was led to a nearby table by Nora, who poured her a large measure of brandy. As the dock workers and occupants of each room spilled into the lounge, Lieutenant Hunter of the city guard entered (coincidentally, he’d been walking by when Corff stumbled out of the pub).

“Take a seat, gentlemen,” Hunter ordered, “no one’s to leave or enter here until we have things under control. Lawrence,” he said to the foreman, “go and find the Lowtown patrol, they’ll be nearby. Send them here. Then go to the docks and tell your gaffer your boys are going to be late. I’ll need you to return here straightaway for questioning. I’ll make it as quick as possible.”

“Right you are, Guardsman. I’ll find your patrol first.”

“Thanks. Corff, I need you to go outside again. The Hanged Man’s closed until further notice to everyone but the city guard.”

“Right.” Corff nodded rapidly. “Can I… can I take a drink with me? This has shaken me up something terrible.”

“Of course you can.”

Corff went to the bar and half-filled a tumbler with whiskey, taking it outside as he and Lawrence departed. Hunter waited until Lieutenant Grant (who by an astonishing coincidence also happened to be patrolling Lowtown) arrived and they entered Varric’s quarters together, closing the door and locking it.

“You can get up now,” Grant said quietly to the dwarf.

“Great. My back’s killing me.” Varric pushed himself up with a groan. “Did I ever tell you dwarves aren’t meant to lie flat? I told Nathaniel, but oh no, he had to make this convincing.”

“The blood’s pretty realistic. What is it?”

“Flour, water and powdered cinnabar. Don’t touch it. It’s toxic when ingested.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on eating it.”

Hunter held a finger to his lips and pressed his ear against the door. “Footsteps. I daresay they want to know what’s happening.” He flung open the door, finding a shocked-looking dock worker leaping away. He stepped out, closing the door. “Can I help you?”

“S-sorry, Guardsman! I didn’t mean nothing! Thing is, we all know Varric and… this is awful. Just awful. If you guards need any help finding who did this, say the word.”

“Let’s go back to the Lounge and establish everyone’s movements and alibis,” Hunter said loudly for Grant and Varric’s benefit. “I know you men, so this won’t take long. Just a formality.”

Inside the room, Grant pulled up a chair and sat down, tapping his pipe against one of its legs. “Need any tobacco while you wait?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Not at all.”

Grant went to the fireplace and used one of the candles atop it to light his pipe, taking a few puffs from it. “Ma Hawke did a grand job. Everyone’s convinced this is real. We’ll make sure the whole of Lowtown and Hightown knows before lunch. You just need to wait a bit longer while we get the pub emptied. Then we can move you.”

“Ma Hawke’s still going to tell the Hawke siblings it’s not real though, right?”

“Yes, she’s going to the Gallows as planned. We’ll send someone along with her to make it look good.”

“And what about Blondie? Did anyone tell him?”

“Blondie?”

Varric hopped off the bed and grabbed a piece of paper from his bureau. “I need you to take a message to Lirene’s. Don’t let her see it. Ask for… uh… what are your feelings on apostates?”

Grant frowned. “I don’t have any feelings on apostates. They stay out of my business, I’ll stay out of theirs.”

Varric inked his quill and started scribbling. “Well, good. If Blondie hears I’m dead and doesn’t know it’s fake, he’ll find some way to blame the templars and wind up blowing up the chantry or some crazy shit.”

“Excuse me? ‘Blowing up’? Is this someone I need to be aware of?”

“Ah, it was just a figure of speech.” Varric finished his note, wafted it through the air and blew on it before folding it and handing it to Grant. “Tell Lirene this is for Anders’s eyes only. _Don’t_ tell her what’s on it. She’s a gossip.”

“Anders. Got it.” Grant pocketed the note. “I’ll give him this first and then I’ll tell her the news-- _our_ version of the news. If she’s a gossip then it’ll spread even faster.”

Varric then slapped his forehead. “Daisy, Choirboy! How could I be so… wait there a sec. I need more paper.”

** The Gallows **

Fletcher awoke after lunch feeling like he’d been arse-fucked by a dragon. He liked dragons a lot, but not _that_ much.

After struggling with the simple act of raising his head off the pillow, he’d remembered the note Ser Ruben had passed to him. First checking that his templar guards had, in fact gone (because why would they need to guard a mage with no mana?), and after relieving himself in his chamber pot, he sat upon the bed, unfolded the note and proceeded to read it:

_Hawke,_

_I know I’m the last person you want to hear from but please hear me out. Just read this once and destroy it as soon as you can._

_I’m sorry you got caught, but in a way I’m glad, too, because this is the perfect opportunity for you to discover the truth about life in the Circle. I hope you have a better experience than I did, but if you don’t, we can do something about it. You’re a popular man, well-thought of, and you have the Champion on your side. Yes, I said it. You and Fenris have the—_

“And there it is.” Fletcher screwed up the letter in his hand, anger rising inside him. “Didn’t take you long to mention the Champion, did it?” He pressed his palms together, willing fire to consume the letter. There was a brief spark which singed the paper slightly, a tiny tendril of smoke drifting upwards. “Shit! Bastard templars!”

“You called?”

Fletcher meshed his fingers together, concealing the crumpled letter, and turned his head. Standing in the doorway was Ser Mattis, the templar who’d abruptly drained his mana the night before. “What do you want?” Fletcher barked.

“Oh, you’re going to fit in well around here,” Mattis said good-naturedly. “I came to see how you were doing. You probably don’t feel too great. It’ll pass.”

Fletcher shook his head in disbelief, a contemptuous laugh leaving his mouth. “You do that to me and now you want to be my friend? You have no idea how I feel. Reading about it or hearing it from someone isn’t the same as experiencing it.”

Mattis glanced around, lowering his voice. “Look, I didn’t enjoy it, you know. But you were in danger of—”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough before. Piss off.”

Mattis raised an eyebrow, holding in a sigh. “All right, then. Your mentor’s on his way. Maybe you’ll listen to him.” Mattis waited until Enchanter Williams arrived, exchanging a brief nod with the elf before leaving.

“I heard the templars had to smite you last night,” Williams said, entering and sitting a few feet away from Fletcher on the foot of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Smite? Is that what it was?” 

Williams rolled his eyes in realisation. “Of course, you were a mature apostate. You’ve never experienced a smite before, have you? Not nice, is it?”

“But I thought smites were used as punishment, or to subdue dangerous mages?”

Williams nodded. “That’s exactly what they’re used for. What did you do?”

“Nothing! I was crying, that’s all! Since when has that been a crime?”

“Crying? Why?”

Fletcher moved the crumpled note, sat on it, and wrapped his arms around himself. “None of your business.”

Williams watched Fletcher for a moment, pursing his lips. “Okay, fair enough, but I need to know what happened. There must have been more to it than crying. Did you threaten the templars? Attack them?”

“What? No! I… I called Mattis an idiot and tried to push past him. He drew his sword. I backed off and went and laid on my bed. I was crying, but not because of the templars. Then I might have told him to fuck off. I swear to you that’s all that happened. How does that deserve a smiting? And why do I feel so… weightless? Dizzy? I’ve had my mana drained before, but I should have recovered by now.”

Williams stood up, moved to the doorway and looked up and down the corridor before returning to Fletcher. “Because the smite doesn’t only drain you--it physically hurts you, too. It’s not like being drained by another mage. It’ll take the best part of a day for your mana to regenerate.”

“But why? What did I do wrong? Am I not allowed to feel emotions in here?”

“It’s certainly starting to look that way.” Williams again moved to the doorway and leaned against the jamb, his shoulders falling as he sighed.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m hearing more and more accounts of mages being smited, smitten… however you say it. They’re mages who’ve done nothing except experience strong emotions. They’re being punished for that instead of being talked to, like it used to be. Remember when you heard me having a go at the templars in the courtyard because Ackerly failed his Harrowing? They drained me after that, too. And now you. I’m taking this to Orsino.”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble. I won’t be here…” Fletcher stopped himself before he revealed too much. “I don’t want to take this any further. It should be up to me if Orsino hears about it.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s where you’re wrong. Orsino has instructed all senior enchanters and mentors to inform him of incidents like this.” Williams returned to the bed where he sat down, this time a little closer to Fletcher. “Ser Mattis is a decent templar, one of the good ones. Six months ago he’d never have smited a mage for being upset. Something’s changed and we need to know what it is.”

Fletcher gave a sullen shrug, his head bowed. “You’re obviously not going to respect my wishes.”

“There’s more than just your wishes at stake here.” Williams was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “I want you to come to a meeting with me this afternoon.”

“One of your Libertarian meetings, you mean? Sorry. I’m not interested in bringing down the Chantry from within.”

“Oh come on, Fletcher, you’re an intelligent man. That’s not what the Libertarians stand for. We don’t want to do away with the Circles or let mages run around summoning demons. Who in their right mind wants that? We stand for autonomous rule without Chantry involvement. We _want_ the Circles, we just don’t want the templars. That doesn’t mean we wish them harm.”

“And what about Kinloch Hold? Uldred? One of yours, wasn’t he?”

“Shh!” Williams stood up, moving to the doorway to keep watch. “That madman? He set our movement back by about two ages! We were respected once. Even the templars conceded that some things needed to change. Then Uldred went and ruined it for us. Do you know how many people died at Kinloch Hold? Nearly two-hundred--mages, civilians and templars alike. Uldred may have called himself a Libertarian, but he wasn’t one of us, I promise you that.” 

“So how do you know someone else from your group isn’t going to go on a murderous rampage when they don’t get what they want? I’m not too fond of the templars at the moment, but that doesn’t mean I’m planning on turning into an abomination and slaughtering them all.”

Williams groaned softly. “There are no guarantees in life, are there? So no, I can’t promise that won’t happen again. I _can_ tell you that the group we have here is full of moderate people who are strongly against blood magic, even more so after what that maniac did. At least give us a chance. The fact is, you have a very powerful friend and ally in the—”

“No!” Fletcher shouted, his face flushing. “I’ve had enough of people thinking they can use me--use _him_ \--to get what they want! The Champion’s not for sale, and neither am I!”

“Calm down!” Williams craned his neck, looking out into the corridor. “I realise you’re not prepared to use the Champion in this way. I understand.” He walked back into the room, standing in front of the irate human. “The hard truth is, your association with the Champion means people will _listen_ to you. You may be able to do some good in here. Your Champion need never be involved, but we don’t have to volunteer that information to anyone else. Just think about it, all right? We’ll be in the senior enchanters’ common room at two bells.”

Fletcher folded his arms tighter around himself, feeling he was being manoeuvred like a chess piece. “I _might_. I’m not making any promises.” He pulled Anders’s note out from under his leg. “Before you go, I need you to destroy this for me. I can’t do it because I’ve no bloody mana.”

Williams took the note and scrunched it into a ball. Within seconds, smoking ash was falling through his fingers.

“You’re not even going to ask what it was?” Fletcher said in astonishment.

“You think you’re the first person in here to receive forbidden messages?” Williams chuckled and dusted his hands off. “You’re not going to be much good for anything today, so I suggest you rest and read a book. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

“Can’t I come with you?” asked Fletcher, a hint of panic in his voice. “I know I won’t be able to cast or concentrate on much…”

“Are you up to it? I mean physically?”

“I’ll manage. I… I need to be busy today.” Fletcher hauled himself up, taking a few seconds to find his equilibrium. “I’ll just watch what you’re doing, if that’s all right? I won’t get in your way, I promise.”

Williams nodded. “All right. Listen, Fletcher. I’m on your side, you know. If you need to talk about anything…”

“Can we go?”

“Indeed we can.” 

Checking that the leather cord holding Fenris’s ring was securely fastened around his neck, Fletcher followed Williams out, holding his churning belly.

** The Hawke Residence, later that evening **

On Donnic’s insistence, Fenris was now sleeping at the barracks for his own safety, but while the Hawke siblings were being held at the Chantry’s pleasure and Leandra was lodging at Gamlen’s, Fenris had taken it upon himself to oversee the running of the Hawke estate.

This meant liaising with Maggie the housekeeper as well as her husband Roy, who Leandra had recently employed as groundskeeper and handyman. Also, for Fletcher’s sake, Fenris had ensured Tufty and Sprinkles were being well-cared for. 

Donnic had considered dissuading Fenris from going anywhere near the house, but realised Hawke’s home was also Fenris’s home, and Hawke’s family was Fenris’s. He’d also considered holding their weekly card game in the barracks, but reasoned Fenris would be in danger wherever he was, and the Hawke estate was one of very few places where Fenris felt both comfortable _and_ in control.

He’d also noticed how subdued Fenris had been since his visit to the Gallows the day before, and wanted to keep things as normal as possible for his friend… while he still could.

One of the pieces of misinformation Zevran had fed Danarius concerned the timing of these card games: Zevran had stated that they were held bi-weekly on Tuesdays and Fridays, when in fact they always took place on Thursday evenings. 

With this in mind, their card games were arranged discreetly, only Donnic’s trusted lieutenants and the guards/templars posted to the Hawke estate informed of the arrangements. 

Donnic, Fenris and Nathaniel (who was filling in for the ‘deceased’ Varric) arrived at the house along with Fenris’s usual dwarven escort, Sergeant Vonim at its head. This escort would serve as reliefs for the guards already at the house, although the templars and mage posted there would not be relieved for another four hours, due to differing shift patterns between the two institutions.

The three friends waited while Vonim liaised with his men. Upon discovering nothing was amiss, he ordered the fresh guards to conduct a security check of the property.

Since Zevran’s incursion, two extra guards had been posted: one in the kitchen and a further one in the cellar to ensure all entry points were fully protected. Security was now watertight, but the diligent dwarven sergeant wasn’t about to let up.

“Couple of furry intruders in the cellar, but the nugs took care of ‘em,” he announced once the house had been thoroughly checked. “We let ‘em run around the place while the Champion’s not here. They can hear things we can’t.” He addressed Fenris. “Want us to round ‘em up before you go in? They’re upstairs somewhere.”

Fenris, who appeared to be in a world of his own, did a double-take at his colleague. “Uh, no. Thank you.”

“Right. Your housekeeper said she left you some food in the kitchen, and she lit fires and torches in the parlour for you guys and the master bedroom for the nugs.” He turned to Donnic. “All clear, then, Captain.”

“Good work, Sergeant. To your post.” 

Vonim bowed and walked off as Donnic, Fenris and Nathaniel entered the house. Nathaniel volunteered to fetch the food, while Fenris and Donnic went to the parlour and set up the table.

While they did this, Donnic attempted in vain to strike up a conversation with Fenris, who’d been unusually quiet (even by his standards) all day. It was while Fenris was removing the placemats from the table that Donnic noticed something unusual.

“Fenris?” he lightly held the elf's arm, bringing his hand into the light. “Where’s your ring? The one Hawke gave you?”

“Elsewhere… for safekeeping.” Fenris shrugged off Donnic’s hand as he finished his sentence, his voice lacking its usual gravelly timbre.

Donnic watched him for a moment, torn between keeping quiet or offering a shoulder. Eventually, his concern for his friend won out. “Is everything all right between you and Hawke? You can tell me to mind my own business if you w—”

“Don’t.” Fenris had his back to the captain, his hands tightly gripping the sides of a dining chair. “Not tonight. Tonight, I need to forget. For once in my fucking life, I _need_ to forget.” He looked over his shoulder, the dancing firelight highlighting fury and torment in his eyes. “Will you grant me this one, simple request or not?”

“Whatever you need, Fen.” Donnic’s stomach plummeted as the elf turned away from him. 

Nathaniel then entered, carrying a platter laden with goodies. “We’ve quite a selection here,” he began, pausing when he realised he’d walked in on something. He looked at Donnic. “Should I…?”

“Just put it over there.” Donnic pointed at the table. 

Nathaniel complied and exchanged a glance with Donnic. “Shall we get started? I’ll deal.” 

The trio sat down and made themselves comfortable, Nathaniel distributing the cards.

“Are we playing for money?” Donnic asked the other two. “Considering Sebastian isn’t here…”

Fenris reached for a small pouch that had been attached to his belt and threw it onto the table, the dull ringing sound it made indicating it was heavy. “We’re playing for money, yes.”

Donnic and Nathaniel resisted the temptation to react to Fenris’s unusual extravagance and placed their bets.

Surprisingly, Fenris lost the first round. Badly. Nathaniel gathered his winnings, feeling like he’d cheated, even though he hadn’t.

“Food, anyone?” Donnic said, hoping to cut through the murky atmosphere.

“No, thank you.” Fenris filled his tankard with wine before pushing the bottle towards his guests. “Help yourselves.”

Nathaniel poured himself a measure, passed the bottle to Donnic and started dealing again. “I’m fine for now. I’ll gladly partake of this fine vintage, though. My compliments.”

While the second hand was played out, it became apparent to Donnic that Nathaniel was observing Fenris, albeit discreetly. To the captain’s relief, Fenris seemed to relax somewhat, and even managed a smirk when he eventually won.

“Fenris always plays better when he’s had a few,” quipped Donnic, his heart lifting a little when the elf nodded in agreement. 

“Then we’ll have to keep our host away from the wine, lest he cleans house,” said Nathaniel with a smile. He frowned, then, and looked up at the ceiling. “I hear something. Scratching.”

“It’s the nugs.” His relaxed state broken, Fenris slapped his cards down, stood up and headed straight out of the room. “Excuse me.”

When he’d gone, Nathaniel rose from his chair and leaned on the table next to Donnic, his arms folded. “I’ve never seen a man more tightly wound.”

Donnic looked out into the hallway, ensuring their conversation was not overheard. “He’s been like this for a few days, but tonight… I think something’s happened with Hawke, but I’m not sure. He really doesn’t need one more thing on top of the rest of the shit he’s having to deal with.”

Nathaniel nodded. “I wonder if it’s healthy for him to be here? Although you know him better than I.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but he’s taken it upon himself to make sure everything’s as it should be for when Hawke and Leandra return. It gives him something else to think about.”

“Are you not keeping him busy enough at the barracks, then?”

“He’s got to have _some_ downtime, and he’s climbing the walls being cooped up. I’ve taken him off active duty for now and instead have him training the recruits. He enjoys it.”

Nathaniel also ventured a look into the hallway. “Why have you removed him from active duty? For his safety? For your men’s?”

“Yes, that, but…” Donnic sighed. “His performance is down. His concentration is poor and there have been mistakes in his reports. I haven’t had the heart to say anything, but—”

“Donnic!”

The panic and dread in Fenris’s muffled voice made Donnic leap up while Nathaniel pulled a dagger from his boot. 

“Fenris?” Donnic drew his sword and made for the stairs, Nathaniel hot on his tail. “Where are you?”

Nathaniel grabbed his arm. “He may not be able to answer,” he whispered.

The captain nodded once. “Stay here,” he mouthed as they were halfway up the stairs. “I need you to be ready… in case…”

“As you command.” The grim-faced warden readied his bow as the main door opened, Vonim stepping inside with his axe ready. Nathaniel hailed him and nocked an arrow as the dwarf moved to his side.

Donnic followed the landing and made straight for Fenris and Fletcher’s room, only recognising it from the faint glow of the fire within. He knew no one else could be in the house… didn’t he? He heard faint but heavy footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder, seeing Vonim a few feet away with axe in hand, having assumed an attack posture.

They exchanged a silent nod.

Donnic cautiously went to the ajar bedroom door, pushing it fully open with his sword and peering around the jamb.

Quickly, he thrust an open palm at Vonim. “Stand down, Sergeant. To the balcony and hold position.”

“Aye, Captain.” Vonim returned to the landing and wordlessly beckoned Nathaniel to him.

Sheathing his sword, Donnic stepped inside the bedroom, ignoring the nugs that sniffed and danced at his feet. “Fen? What’s wrong?”

Fenris was standing at the foot of the four-poster bed, his eyes glued to a piece of paper he was barely holding in a weak, trembling hand. His posture was odd, almost slovenly, like he’d had the will to live knocked out of him.

Fearing another wolf drawing had been left in the house, Donnic approached the elf, holding out a hand. “Give that to me and sit down.”

Fenris’s grip on it tightened. “No! It’s… it’s private. A letter from Fletcher.” 

Donnic noticed the sheer terror in the elf’s eyes and let go of the paper, but managed to get a look at it: on the back of the letter there _was_ a drawing, but not of a wolf. It was a crude illustration of a human male in a fancy blue robe.

“It’s me,” Nathaniel said, appearing in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

“Another sodding drawing,” Donnic said angrily, his concern over Fenris’s mental state growing. “This time it’s of a mage, I think. Let us see it, Fen. I swear we won’t read the letter.”

Nathaniel walked up to them and managed to finally prise the paper out of Fenris’s hand. The elf didn’t move a muscle, some unknown terrifying scenario playing out in his mind as Nathaniel spoke. “It is indeed a mage, one of the Tranquil judging from the mark on his forehead.” Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed, then, and he slowly looked up at Donnic. “This mage appears to resemble Hawke.”

“But he’s not Tranquil.” 

“Yet,” Nathaniel said in a weighty tone.

Donnic rushed to the door and closed it before turning and leaning against it, thunder on his brow. “The templars! It’s got to be one of the templars. There are always two of them posted outside. They’d have no reason to come in here, but I suppose they could have. Fenris? Does Hawke own a robe like the one in the drawing? Was he wearing it recently? I need to be sure before I go throwing accusations around.”

“Yes.” Fenris’s voice was as dead as the dreams and emotions of the Tranquil mage depicted in the drawing.

Donnic looked up and noticed Fenris’s eyes were now turned towards him, but were looking directly at the door. He stayed put. “Listen,” he said, “before we even get to who or how, this is nothing but an intimidation tactic. Here’s what we’re going to do. Nathaniel, you and the dwarves are going to escort Fenris to the barracks. I’m heading across the water to speak with Meredith and yes, I’ll find out if Hawke’s all right, but we know he will be. Do you both understand?”

Nathaniel gave a small nod. “Understood.”

“Fenris?” Donnic said in a stern tone.

“I understand,” the elf said in a maudlin drone that wouldn’t have convinced a village idiot.

Donnic and Nathaniel’s eyes met. They knew something was coming, but not what it was, when it would happen or how they could stop it.

“Sergeant,” Donnic said to Fenris, “you’ll go along with Vonim now. That’s an order.” Nathaniel moved to Fenris’s side as Donnic opened the door and walked out onto the landing, Vonim joining the threesome. Donnic then spoke to the dwarf. “You and your men are going to escort Sergeant Fenris to the barracks and hold him there until my return.”

Vonim cocked an eyebrow. “ _Hold_ him? What do you—”

“In a cell, if you have to. Something’s afoot. I have reason to believe the templars are somehow involved. Not a word to them, and do not deviate from your route. I need to be certain you understand my orders.”

“Completely, Captain.” Vonim walked up to the elf and loosed a sigh. “Fenris, come with me. Please.”

Fenris offered no resistance or argument and silently walked alongside Vonim as they descended the stairs.

“Do you think he’ll try something?” Nathaniel whispered to the guard-captain.

“His eyes… they’re completely blank. He can see something we can’t. He’s got tunnel vision. Hawke’s everything to him. If the templars--or whoever left that note--make real on their threat… well, let’s just say the Arishok made a costly mistake when he underestimated Fenris. People _will_ die. I don't know if I'll be able to save him from the noose if that happens.”

“I’d better follow him, then. I’d recommend you head straight for the docks and conduct your business at the Gallows. The placement of that note, here, tonight… I’m more and more convinced Danarius’s mole is someone close to Fenris, to us.”

“I agree, and I think it’s a templar. Fenris is being drawn to the Gallows. We can’t let that happen.” Donnic leaned against the balustrade and looked down into the hallway as Vonim and Fenris left the house. “I’ll head for the Gallows, but first I’ll make sure the house is secure. There are two templars outside. It could have been one of them for all we know. I’ll give them some flannel about Fenris being taken ill or something.”

“You’re the guard-captain. You don’t owe them an explanation.”

“True, but if one of them did fashion that drawing, I don’t want him or her knowing we’re onto them, nor do I want them getting inside again.”

The warden nodded his approval of the plan. “Need a hand?”

“No. Stay with Fenris. Nathaniel… _don’t_ let him out of your sight.”

Without another word, the warden started down the stairs.

“Maker, Aveline, I could do with you being here,” the captain said under his breath. “An avalanche up in the mountains would do very nicely about now, if you have the power.”

** East Hightown **

Fenris had followed his captain’s orders to the letter, allowing himself to be led by his dwarven escorts without raising a fuss. 

The moon was high and stark in the night sky, bathing Hightown in a wan, ghostly light. The shadows in corners and doorways were solid and absolute: perfectly secure niches for those lying in wait… or for hiding in.

Of the men escorting Fenris, only Sergeant Vonim knew him reasonably well, but Vonim was at the vanguard of their formation, his axe glittering in the moonlight. To the others Fenris appeared quite relaxed, but had they known him better they’d have observed the rigidity of his jaw, the chin pushed forward, the eyes darting here and there… the gauntleted hands formed into claws.

He was awaiting an opportunity, and before long he was granted one. The dwarf to his right, having relaxed his observations, reached up to scratch his face, momentarily obscuring his vision.

Fenris wasted no time in driving his elbow into the hapless dwarf’s cheek, using only as much force as was necessary. The sturdy guard didn’t fall as a human or elf might have, but stumbled, keeping his presence of mind long enough to extend a leg as Fenris vaulted over him. “Vonim!”

The elf tripped and fell forward, scrambling to his feet and sprinting away before any of the other dwarves could react.

“Son of a—!” Vonim cried, knowing pursuit of an elf on foot would be futile. “Spread out! _Captain! If you can hear me, he’s taken off!_ ”

Nathaniel, who’d been hiding nearby, ran after Fenris. Although the elf was swift, Nathaniel’s longer legs and greater muscle mass gave him the burst of power he needed. He knew threats would be a waste of time, so waited until he was less than six feet behind the elf and launched himself forward, managing to grab Fenris around the knees.

Both men crashed to the ground, landing in an unceremonious heap; but here, height and weight differences irrelevant, Fenris had the advantage due to his slender frame. He also wasn’t carrying a longbow. He wriggled out of Nathaniel’s grasp and crawled forward, only to be grabbed again.

In desperation, Nathaniel broke the silence he’d hoped to maintain. “This is what Danarius wants!” he hissed as Fenris managed to stand upright and take off again. “Listen to me!” shouted the rogue as he gave chase, “everything that’s happened tonight has been designed to isolate you! A trap has been laid and you’re walking into it!”

Fenris sped around a corner, pushing an empty, discarded barrel directly into Nathaniel’s path. The rogue managed to jump clear, but when he rounded the corner he skidded to a halt. 

Fenris was nowhere to be seen. 

Nathaniel looked left and right, the intuition he relied so heavily upon having deserted him. “Damn and blast it!”

Guessing Fenris’s momentum might have taken him down one of the right-hand alleys, he pulled a small flask from his hip pocket, one that would send Fenris to sleep… if he could catch him again.

He pushed the heel of his hand against his breastbone, then, grimacing at the unexpected tightness within his chest. He'd been running, yes, but not so hard as to induce a stitch. Deciding to get moving, he found his feet refused to budge--some unknown force was holding him in place. He looked down, noting with dismay that the edges of his griffon breastplate were illuminated by a pale blue light. “What—?”

It was then he felt a presence behind him.

“Don’t fight me. It will hurt more if you fight. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Ignoring the whispered instructions, Nathaniel again tried to move but then bent double, yelling as sudden, intense pain seized his heart. He fell to the ground, his mouth held open in a rictus of shock and agony.

“I’m sorry.”

Meanwhile Donnic, who’d scarcely heard Vonim’s call, had made for the source of the ruckus as quickly as his armour would allow.

“Man down! Man down!” he heard from nearby.

“Keep talking! It’s the captain! I need to know where you are!”

“North end of the underpass next to the chantry!”

“I’m coming!”

When he arrived he found three dwarves, one of whom was on the ground cradling Nathaniel’s head and patting his cheek, while the other two stood guard.

“What happened?” demanded Donnic, coming to kneel beside the rogue, who was slipping in and out of consciousness.

“I’m no healer,” said the dwarf tending to Nathaniel, “but I can’t make out any injuries or wounds. He keeps gasping and holding his chest. I think it’s his heart.”

“It can’t be his heart. He’s too young, too fit!” Donnic looked up at the other dwarves. “Send for the Steward’s healer! And bring as many men from the barracks as you can!”

“Vonim already took care of that, Captain,” said one of the standing dwarves, pointing ahead. “Healer’s coming.”

Samuel Verus and his templar guard, still in their nightclothes, arrived on the scene. Absolute silence was observed while Sam conducted his examination.

Donnic briefly diverted his attention to give orders to the reinforcements who then arrived from the Keep, directing them to block all exit points from Hightown, concentrating their efforts on the docks and the road to the Mountain Pass. When this was done, he returned to the mage. “Well?” he said as Nathaniel began to stir.

“It’s definitely his heart,” Sam confirmed, to Donnic’s consternation. “A minor infarct occurred, but thankfully—”

“A what? In plain language, man! We haven’t all night!”

“Part of his heart muscle has died. It’s not enough to cripple him, and he’ll recover with proper care, but Captain…” Sam stood up, his expression grim. “It didn’t occur naturally. There are traces of…” He shook his head.

“Magic?” 

“No, not magic. There’s a remnant of something like lyrium in the soft tissues, but it’s hardly there, more like an echo. It wasn’t a mage who did it, nor a templar--they would have left more tangible evidence of lyrium disposition.” He paused, licking his lips. “I hate to say it, but the only person capable of having done this is the Champion. Nathaniel’s injury would make sense, given the Champion’s unique powers.”

Donnic backpedalled a step, feeling like he’d been slapped across the face. “Fenris would never do this to a friend! He couldn’t have!”

“With respect, Captain, I heard your men talking. Didn’t the Champion attack one of his escorts in order to flee?”

“ _Attack’s_ a little strong,” said the dwarf to his left, touching his cheek. “Barely felt a thing.”

“At any rate, I don’t believe he intended to kill Nathaniel,” Sam went on. “The injury was very precise, meant to disable him. There’s no entrance or exit wound. I’m sorry, but I don’t see who else it could have been.”

“Wasn’t Fenris,” Nathaniel rasped from the ground. Donnic squatted down, straining to listen to the warden. “Fenris is gone, heading for the Gallows, I’d wager. But someone…” He gulped and caught his breath, pain etching deep lines into his brow. “Someone’s out there… has the same abilities... as Fenris.” He exhaled and closed his eyes, his strength leaving him.

Donnic quickly scanned his surroundings, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. “How can you know that for sure? Did you see his face?”

“Captain,” Sam warned, “he’s seriously ill. I don’t want him stressed or—”

“I need to know! Come on!” Donnic waited until the warden opened his eyes a crack. “Did you get a look at him? How do you know it wasn’t Fenris?”

Nathaniel frowned in furious concentration, taking a moment to answer. “Behind me. Didn’t see his face. Fenris was... ahead. Voice was different. Someone… younger.”

“Was it a vint? Did he have an accent?”

Nathaniel nodded, unable to speak further.

“That’s enough now, Captain!” Sam exclaimed. “No more questions!”

Donnic’s eyes locked with Sam’s, cold dread tickling up his spine. “The bastard’s been keeping us busy! Varric’s death, Zevran’s second trip up the mountain, everything… all devised to distract us from the fact Danarius is here, in Hightown! Get Nathaniel to the infirmary,” he ordered the mage, who nodded. “Tell Lieutenant Grant to co-ordinate with Vonim. You,” he said to Sam’s templar guard, “I’m going to the Gallows to bring some of your people here, despite the fact they let a _magister_ and his lackeys slip past us unnoticed! Where the hell are your patrols?”

“The same place yours are, Captain,” was the knight’s understandable response. “I don’t see your people doing anything but shouting, and you appear to have misplaced your Champion. Is that my fault?”

“What’s your name?” ordered Donnic in a belligerent tone, his distaste for the templars at its height.

“He doesn’t know about the patrols,” Sam said to Donnic, hoping to defuse the tension. “He’s posted to the Keep, remember? And forgive me for speaking my mind, but surely your place is here?”

The captain’s eyes lingered on the templar for a moment before he shook his head. “Meredith’s well-known for sending our people away with a flea in their ear. She won’t say ‘no’ to me unless she wants trouble. We need templars here, and we need them fast. I’m also going to check Hawke hasn’t been got at. There’s no way a rank-and-file guard would be allowed access at this hour.”

Satisfied, Sam nodded. “One more thing, Captain. Whoever did this to Nathaniel could easily have killed him, but didn’t. They must have known he’d be found, and the alarm raised. We need to be asking why.”

“Because _Fenris_ wasn’t Danarius’s bodyguard by choice, either. That’s why.” Donnic stared into space for a second, his nostrils flaring. “You men,” he said to the dwarves as he jogged away, “stay in pairs and don’t approach any lone elves except Sergeant Fenris! I want him found tonight, you hear me? Tonight!”


	128. Introspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What would your Maker have to say about all the lies I've just told?" Donnic said to Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another excellent drawing from Xizor, this time of Fletcher's newest friend, Enchanter Williams! https://xiz0r.tumblr.com/post/165904253824/enchanter-rhys-williams-from-per-ardua-ad-astra  
> Please take a moment to leave her a 'note' and show your support!
> 
> Xizor has very generously offered to take requests for PAAA characters. So if there's an OC (or a regular character) you'd like to see immortalised in a drawing, please leave a comment.
> 
> Thanks again, Xizor, and for your beta!

**Kirkwall Docks**

Donnic arrived at the dockside to find it swarming with highly-motivated guards questioning every dock worker, drunkard and prostitute they could find. Sadly, their efforts had been for naught, as no one had seen Fenris or any signs of suspicious activity (or so they’d claimed). 

After ascertaining this from a guardswoman who was part of the regular dockside patrol, he briskly walked to the quay with her, asking questions for the duration.

“If somehow he did show up here without anyone noticing,” the corporal told her captain, “he didn’t get the boat across--it’s outside the Gallows.”

“How do you know that? I can’t see it from here, it’s too dark.”

The guard pointed at a metal pole driven into the ground, a thick bundle of rags wrapped around its top. “Anyone wants to cross the water at night, they light this torch. If you’re lucky, someone in the Gallows will see you. Assuming they take any notice, that is.” She laid a hand on the makeshift torch. “It’s cold. No one’s called the boat tonight.”

“I doubt Fenris would have waited for it, anyway.” Donnic frowned, casting his eyes across the black expanse of water, which glinted with hints of silver as it caught the moonlight. His subordinate, however, was way ahead of him.

“He didn’t swim across,” she said. “The workers would have heard a splash, or at least noticed a disturbance on the water. They’re a superstitious lot. It’s rumoured a mage drowned here a few years ago during an escape attempt--there’d be a clamour if anything was seen swimming around during the night.”

“He’s not here, then,” Donnic said heavily, unwilling to turn his thoughts to the darker possibilities his statement had presented. “I need to get to the Gallows like yesterday.”

“Come with me, Captain.” The guardswoman descended some steps down to the slipway, smartly walking to a small cog-type vessel, which was being loaded with barrels by a six-strong crew. “Maurice,” she called out, waiting until the self-declared captain of the boat appeared, his eyes shining in the darkness, “I’m commandeering your boat. Guard business. You’ll have it returned—”

“Oh, no, Guardswoman, I can’t have that!” Maurice exclaimed. “We’ve answered all your lot’s questions, and that’s already put us late!”

“I'm not asking,” she said coolly.

He flung his hands above his head. “No, I’m sorry! I’ve got respect for you and all that, but this is valuable cargo!”

“Valuable, is it? I’m assuming you’ve paid export duty on it, then? Of course you have, and I’m sure an inspection will reveal all to be above board.” She tried not to laugh at the look of horror on Maurice’s face. “Let’s take a look at those barrels… and your books.”

The men loading the cargo froze for a second as they exchanged uncertain looks.

“N-now there’s no need for an inspection,” stammered Maurice. “Fine. We’ll take you across. But I’ll be seeing your captain about this. This is harassment!”

“Your complaint is duly noted,” Donnic said, stepping out from behind his colleague, “and now you’ll listen to me. When a member of the guard tells you to jump, you say ‘how high?’. Got it?”

“Shit! It’s the captain!” one of the workers hissed, almost dropping what he was holding.

“I couldn’t care less what you have in those barrels.” Donnic pointed across the water towards the Gallows. “Take me there. Now. I’ve no interest in a lecture on workers’ rights, so save it for someone who cares.”

“Y-yes, Captain!” Maurice nearly fell over in his rush to embark the vessel, yelling orders at his men to prepare for departure.

“You’re one of the new ones, aren’t you?” Donnic said quietly to the guardswoman. “What’s your name?”

She stood to attention. “Corporal Lewis, at your service.”

“You handled that well, Corporal. You’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“Understood, Captain,” she said with a slight smile.

“Carry on, then.” Not waiting for an invitation, he stepped aboard the boat. “You look ready enough,” he said to the crew. “Get this thing moving.”

On the way across, Donnic made it clear he didn’t want to enter into conversation with anyone, not that any of the crew wanted to anyway. He’d journeyed to the Gallows a few times during his tenure as a guard, and although the vessel he was sailing on was much swifter than the usual fishing boat, the journey seemed to be taking forever.

These were the times he hated being captain of the guard, because the buck stopped with him. They were also the times he missed Aveline the most. He could pull off bombast and belligerence pretty convincingly, but always felt like he was borrowing them from her. In his mind, she was still the captain. All he could do was imitate her… and he wasn’t sure he was doing a very good job of it.

The first crisis Kirkwall had faced during his captaincy resulted in the death of over forty of his men and women. He’d been to the one to declare Fenris the city’s new champion, with all the attention, fame and scrutiny it brought.

Why had he done that? Had he made Danarius’s task easier? Had he delivered his friend into his former master’s hands? Where the fuck had Fenris got to? Why had Donnic not frogmarched him to the Keep himself? 

_When_ was he going to start getting things right?

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” he yelled over his shoulder.

“Not unless you can turn the wind around, no!”

He grumbled something under his breath and rested his elbows against the rail, watching as the silhouette of the Gallows grew so slowly it could almost have been standing still.

When he hopped off the boat, he made straight for the two-man detail at the main gates, in no mood for templar bullshit. Someone had seen Hawke wearing that blue robe… someone who had access to the mainland, and the mansion. Who else could it have been but one of the templars?

“Who goes there?” called a distant voice from above, possibly a sentry.

“Captain of the guard. I’m approaching your men at the gate.”

There was a brief pause, during which Donnic noticed a slight movement to his upper right. “Proceed, Captain.”

The templars at the gate moved forward to meet him, holding their torches. “Captain Hendyr? What brings you here at this hour?”

“I need access to one of your Harrowed mages. I don’t have time to explain, but I have reason to believe he’s in danger. I’ll also need you to wake your knight-commander. Both matters are urgent.”

An almost-laugh burst out of one the templar’s mouths. “I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question.”

Donnic stepped up to the templar, his nose an inch away from the knight’s helm. “If you become the second person tonight to tell me I can’t do something, you’ll irritate me. You don’t want that.”

“We can’t disturb the knight-commander at the moment,” the templar’s colleague said. “She’s conducting a Harrowing.”

“Then get one of your captains! Maker’s breath, do you need me to tell you how to hold your cock when taking a piss?”

The templar’s entire body stiffened. “I can manage that quite well on my own, thank you. What is it you need? Whoever I bring, they’ll want to know.”

“You can tell them the captain of the Kirkwall guard is here and he needs someone who can make command decisions. I’m guessing that’s neither of you two. I strongly recommend you don’t keep me waiting any longer.”

One templar leaned in close to his colleague. “Best make it Cullen. We don’t want you-know-who involved in this.”

Donnic quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“You’ll have to wait here, Captain,” said the departing templar.

“I’ll wait… for a short time.” Donnic placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, his unnerving stare causing the remaining templar to look away.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher didn’t attend the Libertarians’ meeting that afternoon, but now, lying in bed and wide awake, he wished he had. He’d spent some of the day following Williams around, but he’d be buggered if he could remember what they’d done or talked about.

Williams, recognising how unfocused Fletcher was, had insisted he return to his quarters for a nap, thus missing the meeting. Fletcher had awoken shortly before the evening meal feeling more refreshed, but after eating he’d nodded off again.

It was now well into the night. As he’d spent most of the day sleeping and his mana had finally regenerated, he couldn’t sleep. When he closed his eyes he saw Fenris, and his stomach quivered--but it wasn’t the good kind of quivering, the kind Fletcher felt when Fenris’s fingertips glanced over his shoulder blades or when the elf gave Fletcher one of his secret smiles. This was the bad kind of quivering, the type that makes one feel sick.

He’d been in the Circle for all of three days, and he hated it already. He hated that he’d cried in front of a templar, hated that being smited had messed him up for an entire day. He hated the food here, the routine and monotony, the way the senior enchanters lorded around the place. He detested the stupid tables he was supposed to learn, the fact his sister was only a short distance away but he couldn’t talk to her--not _really_ talk to her--and that experiencing strong emotions might result in punishment.

Most of all, he hated that he couldn’t protect Fenris.

Lying in bed on his side, he clutched the ring on the cord around his neck, laughing bitterly at the thought. How would he have protected Fenris if he _wasn’t_ in the Circle? By confronting Danarius wearing a poncy robe and a daft grin while munching on a rack of ribs? What other redeeming qualities did he have? What bloody use was he at all?

He held his breath upon hearing footfalls along the corridor. Two sets, both booted. Templars who were bored enough to actually undertake a patrol, perhaps? Or had one of them sensed his mood and was coming to smite him for a second time?

The footfalls stopped directly outside his quarters. He held his breath again, wondering if he could convincingly pretend to be asleep.

“Hawke, are you awake?”

Fletcher had never moved so quickly in his life. He tumbled out of bed, not remembering whether he was naked or not (thankfully, he wasn’t). He sprang to his feet, his heart going like a shagging rabbit’s hindquarters. “Donnic! What, what, what!” He grabbed the captain’s arms. “What is it? Tell me!”

“Calm down, Hawke. Everything’s all right,” Donnic said, alarmed at the state Fletcher was in, as Cullen also entered the quarters.

“Is it Fenris? Please tell me! What are you doing here? Is it Mother?”

“As you can see,” Cullen said, “he is definitely _not_ Tranquil.”

“Tranquil?” Fletcher’s grip on Donnic loosened. “What… what’s going on?”

Donnic groaned. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I didn’t mean to panic you. There was… a potential threat made against you. I had to investigate. It was a red herring, as I suspected.”

Poor Fletcher gawked at the two captains, completely lost, his mouth moving but no sounds coming out of it.

“Sit down, Mage Hawke,” Cullen said. “Clearly, your loss of mana is still adversely affecting you.”

“Loss of mana?” Donnic questioned, his head snapping in Cullen’s direction.

“Forgive me, Guard-Captain, but that’s Gallows business and not relevant to your investigation.”

“Just tell me what’s going on!” Fletcher blurted out. “Is Fenris all right or not?”

“He’s fine,” said Donnic with an utterly false smile. “I really am sorry about all this. Are _you_ going to be all right?”

“No, the captain of the guard doesn’t just show up in a mage’s quarters at… three? Four bells in the morning? Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Tell me the truth!”

“All that’s happened is that a half-baked threat was made against you. I knew it would amount to nothing, but I’m doing my job and investigating. I can see you’re safe, so now I can go about my business. And before you ask, no other guard would have been allowed in here so early in the morning, so it had to be me.”

Fletcher looked at the guard-captain uncertainly. “If you’re lying to me, Donnic…”

“I’m not.”

“And does Fenris know about this threat?” Fletcher’s face dropped. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? He _does_ know! Where… where is he?”

“No, he doesn’t know,” Donnic said with rising impatience, mostly at the fact Fletcher wasn’t falling for his story, “and he’s at the Keep. Now that I’ve seen you with my own eyes, I can tell him about the threat, and that you’re safe. Now I need to go, Hawke. I don’t have time to argue with you.”

“Why don’t you have time? What’s so urgent at this time in the morning?”

“Mage Hawke,” Cullen interjected, “even the captain of the guard needs to sleep, as do I. As do you. Do you intend to squabble all night over nothing?”

“Something’s not right here,” Fletcher stated, his jaw set hard.

“Then kindly debate your suspicions internally,” Cullen replied. “Captain Hendyr, if you’ll follow me.”

Fletcher reached around his neck and removed the cord holding the ring. “Donnic, wait! I want you to give this to Fenris. Tell him… tell him he needs to keep it for when I make him my husband. Or w-when he makes me his. I… I don’t know. So long as it happens.”

Cullen sighed and left the room.

Donnic pushed the ring back into Fletcher’s hands. “You can give it to him yourself the next time you see him.”

“But I don’t know when that will be. Have you heard anything? About Danarius? Anything at all?”

“Fenris is safe, that’s all you need to concern yourself with. Let me worry about Danarius, all right?”

Fletcher grabbed one of Donnic’s gauntlets, pressing the ring into it. “You have to give him this to prove that you’ve seen me, you know, when you tell him about the threat? He won’t believe you otherwise. He’ll run off and come looking for me. Please, just… just take it.”

“All right.” Donnic’s mouth was dry, his throat tight, as he accepted the ring. “I need to go. Look after yourself. And please, try not to worry.”

“Keep him safe,” Fletcher whispered, his eyes lowering. “I don’t know how I’ll… if anything happens…”

The frailty of Hawke’s voice pierced Donnic’s heart, reminding him of what he, too, had lost. “I will.” 

“Swear it to me.” Fletcher’s voice was strained and desperate.

“I swear it to you. Now I really have to go. I’ll see you soon.” Without another word, Donnic turned and left Fletcher staring at his empty palm.

On their way to Cullen’s office, a lone templar spoke with the knight-captain, confirming that a dozen of their number had taken the boat to the mainland, and that a further four were preparing to leave. Cullen thanked the templar before sending him on his way.

They entered the office, Donnic sitting when invited to do so, his elbows resting on his knees as he slouched, examining his fingernails. “What would your Maker have to say about all the lies I've just told?” he said to Cullen, who’d remained standing.

“I believe He’d understand. The Maker knows there are no absolutes. Preventing an emotionally fragile man from reaching breaking point is not an action He would condemn.” He watched as Donnic pinched the bridge of his nose, his brow heavy and lined. “Drink?”

Donnic looked up through bloodshot eyes. “Are you even allowed to drink, or are we talking tea here?”

“We’re permitted a moderate amount of wine with meals. Guests, on the other hand…” Cullen ducked beneath his desk, returning with a simple bottle containing dark golden liquid, which he passed to Donnic.

“Thanks. Do you have a mug?”

“No, but don’t worry about it.”

Donnic pulled the stopper out of the bottle and drank from it, not caring what it contained. He sat back and exhaled, the burning sensation that travelled down his gullet providing a temporary catharsis. He set the bottle down, pushing it towards Cullen. 

“Donnic,” Cullen said, dispensing with rank for once. “I know you came here to speak with Meredith, and I agree that this matter is serious enough to warrant her attention. But… I have a request to make of you.”

“Oh?”

Cullen put the bottle away and sat down. “Allow me to conduct the investigation. And… do not ask why.”

Donnic’s expression was hard as he watched the templar captain. “I respect your rank, and you as a man. But I’m going to need some kind of explanation. Someone in your Order gained unauthorised access to the Champion’s bedchamber and made a provocative, serious threat against someone very close to him. It’s a given that Fenris would make a break for the Gallows upon finding it. Anyone with half a brain knows that. Fenris is now missing, presumed captured or dead. So you’re going to explain to me why I shouldn’t take this to the very top. I haven’t ruled out informing the Grand Cleric.”

“That’s not unreasonable.” Cullen sighed, a small frown forming. “Do you trust me?”

“You’re about the _only_ templar I trust right now. But I’m conducting an investigation of my own, and I won’t suffer obstacles. Put a brick wall in front of me, and I’ll punch my way through it. That’s not a threat to your person, by the way.”

“I know.” Cullen blew out a breath. “I fear I cannot say too much, but there are varying methods of command style in institutions such as ours. Some methods may coax those who are fearful of speaking out to do so, while other methods may send those same people running for the hills.”

Donnic’s mouth twisted into a knowing grimace. “I get it. More flies with honey, eh?”

“Something like that, yes. This is merely… a hypothesis on command style, not a statement of fact.”

“Fine. Maybe with me punching holes in everything and you working the sidelines, we’ll get somewhere. But you need to find who’s behind this, Cullen, and fast. And I need an assurance from you that Hawke isn’t going to be dragged from his bed one night and a brand put on his head.”

At this, Cullen looked vaguely troubled. “Hawke is doing himself no favours, alas.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cullen crossed his arms, more a defensive action than a hostile one. “You saw him just now. He’s emotionally unstable, liable to jump at his own shadow.”

“Can you blame him?” Donnic said, his voice rising in volume. “The man he loves is in imminent danger of being killed or enslaved, and he can’t do a thing about it! He doesn’t even know Fenris is missing, and the imminent danger I spoke of may now be reality!”

Cullen unfolded his arms and held his hands up. “All I am saying is that whatever is causing Hawke’s unrest needs to be brought to a swift and final conclusion.”

“Or what?”

Cullen provided no answer, his expression closed.

“Hold on a minute,” Donnic said, “Hawke’s a Harrowed mage. I know the law. _Chantry_ law forbids Harrowed mages from undergoing the Rite of Tranquility.”

“Without good reason, yes, but the Rite is always at the knight-commander’s discretion. There have been exceptions.”

“What? So you’re telling me Hawke might be a prime candidate to be made an ‘exception’ of because he’s worried about a loved one?”

“No. There is a watch list of mages at risk, and Hawke is not yet on that list. I will warn you, however, that I can already see he is not the most resilient or... self-contained of men. He will have to learn temperance if he is to thrive here.”

“That’s not something that can easily be taught. I speak from personal experience.”

“I agree.” Cullen sat forward, his gaze intense. “Find the Champion quickly, Captain. If Danarius has indeed captured or harmed him, the templars and the guard can eliminate or apprehend him with the magistrate’s blessing.”

“Hang what the magistrate thinks. That Tevinter bastard signed his own death warrant the moment he set foot in my city.” Donnic stood up, Cullen following. “I’d better get back. Thank you for everything you’ve done. I understand that you have your duties, as I have mine.”

Cullen nodded, lowering his voice when he spoke. “I will keep a discreet eye on Hawke, but I can do little more than that. I cannot be seen to be partisan.”

Donnic reached for Cullen’s hand, firmly shaking it. “I won’t forget this. You’ve come through twice now, both here and during the qunari uprising.”

Cullen released Donnic’s hand. “I would travel to the mainland with you, but I doubt one more body will make a difference. I believe I will serve better by beginning my investigation without delay. I’ll start by compiling a list of all who have been assigned to Hawke’s estate and will take it from there. A light touch is required. I’ll leave the punching through walls to those who are best at it.”

They wished each other luck, Cullen adding the Maker’s blessing to his goodbye. 

When Donnic was escorted to the Gallows gates, he was surprised to find the cog he’d commandeered was still waiting for him. After a conversation with Maurice, it was agreed that Donnic would continue not to care what was in those barrels for tonight only, and they got underway.

~o~O~o~

The word ‘Tranquil’ had put the fear of the Maker into Fletcher. He knew he was not exactly the most composed of people, and a lack of that very quality was enough to place him at risk in a place such as this.

He couldn’t simply switch off his emotions, though, could he? And those emotions were telling him that something was very wrong.

Who had threatened to make Fletcher Tranquil, and why? Was it because he’d cried the other night? Did Donnic not even trust Cullen’s word, and had to see Fletcher with his own eyes? And why was Donnic in such a hurry to leave? Why couldn’t he look Fletcher in the eye?

Was Donnic lying to him about something? Was he trying to communicate something without the templars knowing about it? Or was Fletcher just a paranoid fool?

Fletcher was a born worrier, but stuck in here without Fenris to tell him he was being silly, the smallest thing seemed magnified and distorted. But the captain of the guard calling at three bells _wasn’t_ a small thing!

“Bethany,” he said under his breath. “She’ll tell me I’m being stupid.”

He left his quarters, first checking the corridor was clear, and headed for where his sister was sleeping.

Sleeping.

“Oh, you idiot.” He slumped against a wall and sighed. It was the middle of the night and he wasn’t about to wake Beth to tell her about his latest personal crisis. He may have been paranoid, but at least he wasn’t an inconsiderate arsehole.

“Is that you, Fletcher?”

Fletcher startled and clutched his chest, peering around a bend in the corridor to meet the eyes of his mentor, Mage Williams. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Williams moved to stand in front of Fletcher. “I heard footsteps and voices not long ago. That was what woke me. Please tell me they didn’t smite you again.”

A red flush rose up from Fletcher’s neck to stain his cheeks as he shook his head. 

“Fletcher, are you…?”

Fletcher pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, his voice unsteady when he spoke. “I need to talk to someone. Something’s wrong and no one will tell me what it is. But… never mind. You don’t like criers, do you?” He huffed and turned to walk away, but stopped when Williams touched his arm.

“If you’re going to cry, you’d better come and sit with me. The templars won’t smite you while I’m around, I promise you that.”

Fletcher uncovered his eyes. “What makes you think that?”

“Nothing. The templars don’t like witnesses, that’s all. If you’re with someone, they’ll call Orsino. If not, well, you know the rest.”

“And I thought _I_ was being paranoid.”

“Look, do you want to talk to someone or not? You may not like me, but I’m pretty much the only choice you have right now.”

“What?" Fletcher's cheeks looked as though they were about to combust. "You’re the one who doesn’t like _me_!”

“Where did you get that idea from? I’m a sardonic prick, remember? It was you who called me that, wasn’t it? I don’t like anyone!”

A lifeless snicker escaped Fletcher’s mouth. “And there I was thinking I was special.”

Williams shook his head. “I don’t know where you got that idea from, either, my little thundercloud. But I am your mentor, and I’m supposed to be ‘there’ for you, so I suppose you’d better come with me and tell me what’s going on. Old farts like me know quite a few things, you know. Maybe I can help.”

“I doubt it. Even I don’t know what’s wrong.” Fletcher was already walking along with Williams, although he wasn’t entirely aware of it. "Wait... what did you just call me?"

**Viscount’s Keep**

Lieutenant Grant was growing antsy as he paced the length of the balcony overlooking the lower level of the Keep. More and more of his men and women had reported back with absolutely nothing to tell him, and had consequently been sent away to look again.

One of the worst things about being deputy was that he was stuck with his thumbs up his backside while everyone else (including the captain) was actively looking for his friend. But someone had to stay behind to coordinate everything, and that someone, unfortunately, was him.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t found anything,” he said in irritation as a two-man patrol approached him. “I don’t want to hear that again, understand?”

The guards did the sensible thing and turned on their heels, making for the entrance doors.

Grant massaged his crinkled brow and looked around for something to kick, finding nothing.

“Hey!” 

Grant looked up to see an irate and half-dressed Darren Hunter rushing towards him.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Hunter demanded as he placed his bow on the floor and struggled to pull his leather tunic over his head.

“Because you’re not on duty.”

Hunter managed to squeeze his reddened face through the tight collar of the tunic. “Are you taking the piss? I only find out about this because I get up for a wee and overhear it second-hand? This is Fenris we’re talking about!”

“I need you to be rested,” Grant explained. “We’re going to need fresh people for the morning.”

“I’m a fucking scout! You should have woken all of us for a search-and-rescue!”

“We have plenty of scouts out there."

"You don't have mine out there, though, do you? They're all in bed! Do you want Fenris found or not?"

Stung by the implication that he wasn't doing his utmost to find Fenris, Grant dug a fisted hand into his hip. "You’ll remember who you’re talking to, Lieutenant.”

Hunter secured his bow to his back and slicked his hair into a ponytail. “Don’t get pulling rank on me! He’s my friend!”

“He’s mine, too! But having the entire guard half-dead through lack of sleep isn’t going to help him, is it?”

Hunter defiantly placed his own hands on his hips. “I’m not going back to bed. Do you really expect me to sleep now?”

“Fine! You can make yourself useful, then. You can deputise here while I—”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort! You’re the deputy, not me!”

Grant glanced around, ensuring none of their colleagues could hear the senior officers quarrelling. “You really like patrolling that Wall, don’t you? You’re a lieutenant now and you need to start acting like one.”

“The Wall? Is that the best you’ve got? I _live_ on the sodding Wall!” Hunter started to descend the nearest staircase. “I’m off.”

“Darren!” Grant squeezed in front of the younger man, blocking his path. “Fenris is gone. We’re not going to find him tonight.”

Hunter’s green eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

Grant sighed, again rubbing his forehead. “He’s no longer in Hightown. We’ve combed every inch of the place, more than once. We’ve even been down in the sewers. We limited access to Lowtown immediately and he’s not there, either. We will find him, but it’s the middle of the night and it’s raining. Even you won’t be able to track him until we have some light.”

“Raining? Oh… for fuck’s sake!” Hunter’s head fell back on his shoulders. When he straightened up, his eyes were moist and he was unable to meet Grant’s probing gaze. Instead, he eyed up one of the wooden balcony struts.

“If you’re thinking of kicking that, don’t bother,” Grant said, crossing his arms. “Was thinking about it myself earlier, until I remembered there’s iron rivets running through it. This is a caer, not a noble’s residence. Only thing you’ll break is your foot.”

Hunter pushed away from the balcony and continued down the stairs. “I don’t care if it’s raining. I may not be able to track, but I can be an extra body out there.”

“You stubborn… hold on, then, while I get my sword!”

Hunter waited on the stairs until Grant, helmed and armed, returned.

“Aren’t you supposed to stay here?” Hunter questioned as they continued.

Grant shrugged. “Officially, I’m not on duty, either.”

“Looks like I’ll be seeing you on the Wall, then.”

“Looks like you will.”

As they were walking across the lower level towards the open entrance doors, another two-man patrol raced in, both guardsmen dripping water all over the floor as they ran towards Grant.

“Have you found something?” Grant asked. One of the new arrivals leaned in very close and whispered in his ear. The veteran lieutenant’s expression darkened. “Where?”

“Lowtown, just off the market. Where that snake oil merchant has his stall.”

“I know the spot. All right, go and dry yourselves off.” Grant cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled up at the balcony: “Sam! Are you still tending to Nathaniel?”

A door on the upper level opened, and Enchanter Verus popped his head around the frame. “He’s stable for now, but I’d rather stay with him unless I’m needed. Is someone injured?”

Grant looked up at Sam and shook his head, but the look on his face conveyed a definite message.

“Oh. I see.” Sam disappeared inside the room for a moment before emerging with his templar guard. They went down the stairs and joined Grant and the others. “Can one of your people sit with Nathaniel in case he needs anything?”

Grant ordered a nearby guard to do that before they headed out.

Once they were clear of the Keep, Grant started talking. “An elf has been found dead. Obviously, it’s not Fenris. It’s not a local, judging by his clothing. We’re operating under the assumption that Danarius’s bodyguard was responsible for Nathaniel’s injuries, so it’s either him lying face-down, or he may have struck again.”

Sam was quick to respond. “If it _was_ the bodyguard who attacked Nathaniel, he didn’t do it with the intention of killing him. We’ve already established that, so please don’t jump to conclusions.”

“True,” Grant said, “but that doesn’t mean he’s _not_ capable of killing, especially if his master ordered it.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

While en route, Sam’s templar guard walked slightly ahead of the small group, his sword drawn, while Hunter tried without success to glean information from the environment. 

They were soaked through when they reached the small market area. They were hailed by the patrol there, who showed the group the prone body, which was lying at the foot of a flight of steps leading to a habitat on the edge of the market. The victim was barefoot, and was wearing a tunic and trousers, but had no other protection against the elements.

Sam got to work immediately, kneeling next to the unfortunate elf and conducting an examination as best he could in the rain and near-pitch darkness.

“It looks like he bled to death,” Sam said, his eyes closed as his fingers connected with the elf’s chest. “The rain’s washed the blood away, but there’s nowhere near a healthy amount in his body. Wait… hang on. Multiple fractures. Legs, arms, ribs. He’s… oh, what? Shit!”

“Sam?” asked Hunter, crouching next to him.

“He’s not dead!” the healer exclaimed, looking up at Grant. At the same moment, a hiss of air escaped the elf’s mouth in a weak, laboured exhalation.

Grant dropped to his haunches. “Revive him.”

Sam's expression of disbelief was not visible in the dark, but everyone knew it was there. “Absolutely not! His body has been smashed to pieces!”

“I understand that, and I’m not unsympathetic. But he’s our only lead. Wake him up. I’ll make it quick.”

Sam gently laid the elf’s head on the ground and stood up. “I’ve already seen a patient questioned too hard this evening. This man,” he pointed at the elf, “is broken! Do you understand? All you’ll get out of him are screams! Hasn’t he been through enough?”

“We can't afford to be sentimental,” Grant said, steel in his voice. “I’ll take responsibility if there are any consequences. Now do as I say.”

“I don’t think you’re listening to me! I said no!”

Grant had no more desire to see the elf suffer than Sam, but Fenris had vanished without a trace. A few seconds of pain in exchange for a clue seemed a fair price. “I said I'll make it quick! What do you think I am, a monster? Now I’m going to _ask_ you one more time, Enchanter. Next time it’ll be an order. If you disobey an order, we’re going to have problems.”

“How dare you threaten me!” Sam pointed at Grant. “You’ll stand down, Lieutenant, or I’ll relieve you of duty!”

“What? You can only do that on medical grounds! You’re overstepping the bounds of—”

“I can do it if I believe an officer has taken leave of his or her senses! Now desist and let me give this poor wretch some peace, or go back to the Keep and explain yourself to the captain! I won’t tell you again!”

“Come on,” Hunter whispered, nudging Grant’s arm, before pulling a knife from his belt. “I can do it fast, with no pain. Look at him. He can’t help us.”

Grant pursed his lips and pushed himself up, giving both men a black look. “Fine. Do it.”

“Help me, Sam.” Hunter cradled the elf’s head as the healer knelt next to him. “Maker, he’s so thin.”

“Sleep,” Sam murmured, moving a hand over and across the elf’s face. “Go to a better world than this one.”

Hunter positioned his knife in the hollow of one of the elf's prominent collarbones. In one fluid motion he drove the blade in, a horrible crunching sound accompanying the action, still keeping a hold of the elf’s head while he retracted the knife. Only the smallest amount of blood seeped out of the wound. “That’s it. He’s dead now,” Hunter said. Sam’s second examination confirmed this.

They all stood up as Sam’s templar guard commended the elf to the Maker. When that was finished, Grant let out a loud sigh and turned to Sam. “You were right to stop me. I apologise. I just… I don’t know.”

“I know it’s easy to lose perspective when it’s one of our own,” said Sam, “but we’re not animals. Now, I’ve ascertained a few things if you’d like to hear them.”

“Go ahead,” Grant said as Hunter moved away from the group, the rain having stopped.

“Well, he’s a slave, that’s clear. None of you can see it, but the magical aura coming off him is very strong.”

“He was a mage?” Grant asked.

“No, but the magic used on him recently and over the years leaves a trace. This elf was bled numerous times during his life. Look.” He held one of the elf’s arms up slightly, revealing a network of scars. “That was what ultimately killed him. He was used as a blood sacrifice.”

“Twisted magister bastard,” the templar muttered.

“Indeed,” Sam went on, “but my point is that this elf’s life force wouldn’t have been used for something like a simple fireball. When it comes to blood magic, a life usually equals a life.”

“So the elf was used for a spell that killed someone?” Grant asked. 

“Possibly, or something equally powerful. I think it’s safe to say that our magister was responsible for this. I’m also very confident that this isn’t the bodyguard. Poor sod wouldn’t have had much strength when he _was_ alive.”

“So what about the broken bones?" asked Grant. "An insurance policy to make sure he was dead? A bit sloppy for a magister, isn’t it?”

“Not in my experience,” the templar said. “Most of them wouldn’t have the conscience required to relieve their victims’ suffering once they’ve outlived their usefulness. I’m sorry to be graphic, but the magister’s demon could have broken his bones just for the hell of it. I saw it happen during a Harrowing once.”

“Or maybe the elf resisted,” Sam said. “I’m not sure which theory is worse. I suppose there’s no point speculating now.”

“I’ve found something,” Hunter called from across the square. Grant and the templar joined him, while Sam remained with the deceased elf. “Now that the rain’s stopped, I can see footprints along these cobbles.”

“How?” asked the templar with a frown. 

“We have oils in our skin. I can see vague outlines of unshod feet. I’m guessing they belong to our poor elf.” He stood up and addressed Grant. “I can tell you one thing--the elf didn’t walk over there. He was dragged. Where we’re standing, there was a disturbance, like something falling to the ground. My guess--and it’s a guess--is that the elf fell _here_ , not where we found him.”

“What would be the point of moving him?” demanded Grant.

“To throw us off the route Danarius was taking, maybe. He can make snow, can’t he? Who’s to say he wasn’t responsible for this downpour tonight? It’s washed away all traces of bootprints, but I can still detect bare feet while the ground’s wet. Once the sun comes up, the ground will dry and those footprints will vanish. I need to shut this part of town off completely while I get my regiment assembled. We need to move fast.”

“We can do that.” Grant beckoned to the templar, who followed him to join Sam and the dead elf. “Can you two get our friend back to the Keep and the mortuary?”

“I’ll carry him,” offered the templar.

“Good. Thank you for your help,” Grant said, his words mostly for Sam.

“What do you need me to do?” asked the mage. “I won’t be going to bed tonight, so do you want me to have one of your men rouse Hunter’s people?”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that. And would you leave a note for the captain, telling him where we are?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Look, Sam, about before…”

Sam laughed. “I’ve been serving the Kirkwall Guard for nearly thirty years, Lieutenant. Nothing fazes me anymore.” He looked down at the elf. “Well, almost nothing. That just isn’t right. How many more like him are we going to find?”

“We’ll catch the bastard,” said Grant, his stomach knotting as he thought of the kind of life Fenris used to lead. “Thanks again.”

“Got another set of footprints,” Hunter said from a short distance away. “They’re elven, but not the same as our late friend’s over there. I need this area cleared _now_. I can’t have these prints disturbed.”

Sam’s templar companion hauled the pathetically lightweight elf over his shoulder. “We’re going.”

“Be careful with him!” Hunter warned as templar and mage departed.

Grant came to stand next to him. “He’s dead, you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you!”

Grant motioned with his hand for Hunter to stand up. The younger rogue did so with a groan.

“I’m sorry. I was thinking…”

“That elf could easily have been Fenris.”

“Yeah.”

They walked to the nearest wall, which they leaned against, looking up at the starless sky. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” Grant complained. “Donnic should have made you deputy.”

“Oh, no you don’t! That would mean I’d have to deal with insubordinate little swines like me.” He turned to Grant, a faint, if strained, smile on his face. “You handled that very well, by the way.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you _did_ defy me now. Nobody else would have picked those footprints up.” Grant patted his hips with his hands. “Blast it. Just when I could do with a smoke. Forgot my bloody pipe, didn’t I? Do you have any booze on you?”

“No. I left in a hurry because _someone_ didn’t bother waking me.”

“You know,” Grant said, “if Fenris were here, he’d be giving us both that look of his, wouldn’t he?”

“Mm.” Hunter stared ahead, his eyes like glass. “I swear, if he’s done anything to Fenris…”

Grant knew it was pointless to spout platitudes at this stage, because he wasn’t sure _he_ would believe them, either. “I know.”

They waited in silence, not troubling the other with their thoughts, until Hunter’s people arrived.

**Unknown location**

The nobleman in a strange land kicked aside a small pebble and looked around, highly disappointed with his cave-like bedroom for the night. “Dear, oh dear. Everything is so brown here, isn’t it? No wonder the locals are so dull. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, can they?” he asked the smaller man to his right. 

“No, Master,” said Vionet.

“One of you,” Danarius pointed at the small group of elves, huddled in a corner, “build up the fire. It’s rather chilly in here.” He pulled his fur wrap up to his chin, as though to prove a point.

One of the nameless, faceless slaves (who didn’t have the luxury of a fur wrap) scurried forward and silently obeyed his master’s command while Danarius arranged his cushions--all brought here undercover, in the dead of night--in preparation for his night’s rest. He’d earned it, after all.

“Undress, Vionet,” commanded the magister. “You shall warm my weary bones tonight.”

“Yes, Master,” he answered without hesitation. “Master… please forgive my impertinence, but may I speak?”

“You may, although I may not reply. Well?”

Vionet lightly cleared his throat as he unbuckled his chest plate. “May I… may I take Fenris a blanket, or bring him closer to the fire? He does not appear well, and is shivering.” He hung his head. “Not that I would presume to anticipate your thoughts, Master.”

“Ah.” Danarius lightly caressed one of Vionet’s cheeks, nudging the elf’s head up. “Always so soft-hearted, my sweet. No, I don’t believe Fenris deserves a blanket, considering he spurned my hospitality for so long. Besides, he’s spent far too long in this ghastly place. It’s made him soft. If I am to return him to the position of Scutum Primus within my household, he must demonstrate mettle and fortitude. The shivering you speak of is for his own good.”

“My Master… am I to no longer hold the position?” Vionet dared to ask. “If I may serve you better, I would do so. You have but to name your whim.”

“Oh, you worry too much!” Danarius laughed heartily. “I shall have _two_ head bodyguards! Or one... I haven’t decided yet. It all depends on which of you pleases me the most during our journey home. If you please me equally, I will take both of you! Or perhaps I'll have you compete for the honour. Yes... that would prove _very_ entertaining.”

He left Vionet for a moment and walked up to Fenris, who was seated on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. “Dearest Wolf,” he said, squatting down, “why are you so quiet? Do you miss Hawke?”

Fenris raised his head a little, but did not look Danarius in the eye. “Forgive me, Master. I must have misheard you. I don’t know who… Hawke?... is. Again, I apologise.”

“Yes, you did mishear me, but I forgive you. Are you certain you don’t miss Hawke? Or Varric? Or Captain Hendyr? Are they not your friends?”

At that, Fenris appeared distressed, but his dull voice belied it. “I… I have failed you, Master. I did not understand the question. I have no friends. I need no one but you. Command me, and I will endeavour to make amends.”

“Oh, you will make amends, but not tonight. I’m so delighted you’ve returned to us, I will show you mercy for now.” 

Fenris slumped in relief. “Thank you, Master. I do not deserve such kindness.”

“No, you don’t, but I’m feeling generous of spirit. You are fortunate to have such a benevolent master.” Danarius turned his head and watched Vionet undress for a minute or two. Once the elf was almost naked, Danarius rose. “Now, Wolf, as you’ve been away for so long, Vionet is going to remind you of one of your duties. Be sure to watch very closely.”

Danarius started to unclasp his upper vestments, letting them fall into the waiting hands of a nameless slave. “Do make yourself comfortable, Vionet.”

“Thank you, Master.” Vionet walked to the pile of cushions and settled down on them, his eyes briefly meeting Fenris’s confused ones before both men averted their gazes.

“Remember, Wolf, you must watch everything.”

“Yes, Master.”

As Vionet felt the old man’s weight press down on him, he fixed his eyes on the stone ceiling, hoping against hope that someone had found the Fereldan with long, black hair who carried a bow.

The one he’d been commanded to kill… but hadn’t.


End file.
